The real front

Contents

CHAP. PAGE

Introduction ix

I. The Making of the First Canadians . 1

Introduction

ALL those wHo have come under the star- ^ shells of the firing-line, have touched the point where life is epic. Where the brazier fires burn at night along the shivering trenches existence may be bare of comfort, but it rings with loud adventure.

Unto our children's children, and beyond, the grayest lives lived in those trenches shall shine forth with colors of romance. It is well to read history in an arm-chair, but it is far better to make history under the blue. It was grand to live in the spacious days of good Queen Bess. But we need envy no past age, who have helped to make the history of this present.

Beyond the objective happenings, the author has tried to bring home some of those subjective facts, that will remain, when mere events have been forgotten.

The Real Front is a place where one is always face to face with the profundities of life. I was talking with a gray-bearded gentleman the other day and, speaking of a certain event, I said, "Of course, sir, only old men like yourself and I can appreciate such things/'

INTRODUCTION

He looked at me in a quizzical manner, and laughingly exclaimed, ''^\Tiat do you mean, my boy?"

"I mean," I answered, "that life is not measured by years, but by experiences, and in that sense I am your peer in age, for I have been on the Real Front; I have dwelt for months in the Temple of the Angels of Death."

My memories of France are like a vast kaleidoscope of pictures. In choosing the scenes which I have thrown again uix)n the screen I have sought for those that best set forth the Real Front, which is still so dimly apprehended by the folks at home.

Out of all the tragedy and sorrow of the trenches, the triumph of the soldierly spirit is the thing that rises, phoenix-like, from the ashes of this war. This triumph of the soldierly spirit is the greatest fact for me in all this conflict. There flashes before me a picture from Flanders, emblematic of the triumph of this spirit.

I am in Poperinghe behind the salient of Ypres. I am at dinner in an Esiaminet when down the road comes the shrill voice of the fife and drum. Every one springs to the window. Soldiers and ci^-ilians are all rushing for a glimpse as a regiment goes marching by. Months in France cannot dim the glory of this spectacle. Only those who have been there can fully appreciate such a sight.

A battalion of the Northumberland Fusileers

INTRODUCTION

is marching up from rest billets to do their stunt in the trenches. At the head of the column on his spirited charger is the colonel of the regiment. Behind the colonel marches a goat, the battalion mascot, led by the colonel's batman. Behind, at respective distances, come the companies, each led by its captain. Dogs without number follow faithfully at the heels of their chosen masters. Many of these dogs were possessed of happy homes, far iDehind the lines, but they fell in with Tommy, instinctively loved him, and forsook all to follow the hard fortunes of the Northumberlands.

Lewis machine-guns go by on hand-trucks. The Maxim guns follow with horses and limbers and regimental transport. At the end of the line are the traveling-kitchens, smoking and steaming, while the cooks prepare a meal to the tramp of the marching men.

The Tommies, as usual, are in gay humor, singing with the band, laughing at one another, flinging gibes to the crowd and kisses to madame and the two pretty Belgian girls in the Estaminet. Only here and there a grave young subaltern or the earnest-faced captain at the head of the last company call to mind the fact that many of these men will not come back.

Around the corner rattles the last transport, followed by the last attending dog. The fife and drums grow dim, and die away.

I was in Poperinghe again when that same gay

INTRODUCTION

battalion of Northumberlands came marching out. The fife and drums had come to play them back. The colonel of the gray and masterful face was gone. The company commander who marched behind him was gone. The company was a tattered remnant, led by a one-star subaltern. The other companies were also in tatters. I looked for the serious-faced young captain of the last company, but he was gone. Billy, the battalion mascot, was in the rear, and it was not the colonel's batman that led him.

Last week I saw that battalion pass, a thousand strong. Now, scarce two hundred were returning. But, unkempt, war-worn, and tattered as this remnant was, its spirit was unbroken. The band struck up the latest hit and every marching man joined merrily in the chorus. That was but an expression of the soldierly spirit which over every tragedy remained unconquered.

Out of the mud and mire of Flanders, out of the winter's cold and rain, out of shell-swept trenches, out of holes in the ground where men live amidst blood and mire, where corpses are thickly strewn, out of all this woe and hardship comes the voice of Tommy, singing :

"Are we downhearted? No!"

This is the triumph of the soldierly spirit which is the goal of all America's new armies.

Arthur Hunt Chute.

January, 1918.

"np HERE she goes, Alf!" and with that ex-

-*■ clamation from a Garrison gunner the

peaceful Somme nightfall was rudely broken. A

moment before the white chalk rim of the horizon

was serene with the pink of twilight, and the

evening star was beginning to twinkle on a world

of stealing shadows; then with the roar of a giant

whiplash a sixty-pounder broke the stillness,

and like one voice a thousand guns burst forth.

Down the long black valley the eternal lightnings

leaped, and an endless ribbon of thunder rolled

up from the guns.

I reined in my horse for a moment beside a

group of gunners to watch the sky-line. At last

the "big push" had begun.

"Do you see them chaps, Alf.^^" burst out the

speaker of a moment before. "Them's the I 1

First Canoidians, the boys wlio 'eld the line at Ypres last year. They're one of the f oinest fighting divisions on the front, they're going over the top at the dawn, and may Gawd 'dp Fritz!"

These words from the unknown gunner stirred a warm pride within my breast, for I, too, was one of the First Canadians, and with a thrill I gazed upon the road, along which, like a mighty torrent, the regiments w^e moving iq> for the attack at the dawn.

"Who are you.^" I inquired of the passing

"The Seventh Batt;.:::" :::- British Columbia," came back the reply .

The kings of No Man's Land, and the pioneers of raii:::^. I mused.

A few moments later I inquired again. '' ' We're the Tenth Battalion, the White Ghurkas,*' answered a lusty voice.

Yes. Fritz knows your name and knows it well, I thought.

Each one of these names of the old First are names to conjure with on the British front to-day, and above the names of the regiments themselves. is the gathered ^ory of the division to which they belong, the First Canadiaos.

^^liat's in a name? scnne one has asked. Everything. There is no finer example of the potency of a name than that of the First Canadians. A short time ago that name was unknown in British mihtary annals. To-day it thrills with the love of strong men and the pride of heroes. It has become for our young Dominion a touchstone of loyalty, of valor, and of sacrifice.

Blood and iron, and fire and storm, were the components of the First Canadians. There were the swashbucklers, the Bismarckian apostles of war, old soldiers who lived in hopes of future battles, and there were also the irresistibles, young spirit -brothers of Lord Clive, who had been kicked out of the Old Country for the sake of the peace at home, boys who burst the confines of the parish and the kirk and scattered to the four winds of wide heaven. Blood and iron, and fire and storm, were the components of the First Canadians, elements of greatest promise and of gravest peril. None have written of the making of this force, but it is a story that richly deserves to be told, and as one of the camaraderie of old I have attempted the task.

On the 20th of August, 1914, I stood on the platform of a country railroad station in Nova Scotia. Suddenly the station-master announced, "Here comes yoiu* troop-train," and around the curve and down the track came a far-shining headlight,

In juiswer to the Ted list's signal to stop the

train began to slow down, amidst a loer ol jko-

testing steam. As the cars glided by I noticed

that each bore a huge insoqitian. On <Hie,

throng the moving Unr, I read, ''To hdl with

the Kaiser." The nest car idiich came to a

''That's the car for me," I said to

r'^^ my kit-bag on the fJatfoarm,

Just as I did so the docv burst

rrd-headed Scotchman from

i: : ziphasise the warmth ol his wdcome;,

_r by the nape of the nedk, and sent

ii a long car foil ol nproarioos

* egrees ol intoxicatian.

i '/: vdkres, engaged in aing-

?i: of givmg' me the

" 'Ere, 'ere! This won't 'arf do!" exclaimed a slirill - voiced cockney sergeant, of the Army Service corps, raising his diminutive body upon a seat to emphasize his authority. For one moment he stood erect, laying down the law from the seats of the mighty, then his dignity suddenly sputtered out and an Irishman rushed upon him, yelling:

*'Come to me, my darlint, we'll 'ere, 'ere ye."

The next moment, howling and kicking, he made the most undignified passage of all down the long aisle. At the end he still yapped defiance.

"The gineral ain't finished his trip," some one announced. "He's got a return ticket." And with that the hapless cockney was started back, at the end of which his wind was completely knocked out, and, dead to the world, he was dumped into a berth.

Pandemonium was at its height when the door of the car burst open and a grizzled old Highlander, who proved to be the colonel, stood glaring at the wild men. A deathless silence ensued. The fiery and leonine Maclsaac took on the appearance of a wilted sunflower. For a short space the air cracked as the colonel laid down the law, and then he departed as suddenly as he had come.

A profound silence reigned for some time, and when mouth-organs and vocaKsts began to make the car melodious once more, one was conscious of a sober restraint. The colonel's presence, though unseen, was felt. That grizzled old warrior had merely impinged his personality upon this bear garden, and it had been transformed into the atmosphere of a Sabbath-school.

As the train roared on through the night the spirit of sleep began to steal over the car. Finally all seemed to be wrapped in slumber except myself and the little cockney sergeant, who had come to and was moaning as though in pain.

I approached him and inquired if I could do anything to put him at ease.

"Aw, it ain't the rough 'andling that's a-botherin' o' me, but oh, my Gawd, I was a-wonderin' 'ow I'd ever make sodjers out o' this mob from 'ell. It fair makes me groan, it does, to think o' what's ahead. I tell ye I've 'ad the 'andlin' o' rough stuff in me day. I've 'ammered the fear o' dooty into toughs from Mile End Road, and I've seen the sweepin's o' 'ell made into an harmy, and where there is 'ope I sees it, but Gawd bli' me, there's no 'ope for these Canoidians. Ye cawn't make an harmy out o' them. No, sez I, it cawn't be done."

I felt the cogency of the cockney's argument.

Here was a problem indeed, and for a long time I pondered the question, What kind of soldiers would these incorrigibles make? They might serve well in an irregular war, but ahead of us was scientific fighting. Could we produce an army adequate to such exacting tests? The grizzled old colonel at least cast a ray of light on the gloom. With masters of men like that we could do anything.

Next day the cockney sergeant had another grim reminder of a task beyond his power. The troop-train had stopped for a time in a French-Canadian town famous for its ardent intoxicant, known as "Whisky Blanc." The sergeant had stationed sentries at the doors of the car with strict orders to let no one out. Suddenly Red Maclsaac confronted him. The cockney attempted to block the passage, but the big Cape-Bretoner whisked him away like a fly, exclaiming: "Aw, git out o' me way, will ye? Ye give me a pain."

At the same time that Red and his boon companions were leaving by the door I noticed the clinking spurs of two Annapolis County light cavalrymen momentarily in midair as their owners dived through the window. The sergeant was quick in sending guards upon the trail and after a short time red-coated guards and guarded alike came reeling back in various degrees of intoxication, singing at the top of their voices, "Love me and the world is mine."

*'If it weren't for auld Colonel Donald Mac- Kenzie MacTavish in there," said a somber- \asaged Cape-Bretoner, "this menagerie would neffer arrive whateffer. But the auld boy would deliver the goods, neffer ye fear."

Thanks to the iron hand of Colonel MacTavish, the Nova Scotia contingent arrived, the New Brunswick contingent was arriving at the same time, and as the two mobs jSowed into each other the uproar and spontaneous rivalry engendered reminded one of a Harvard-Yale football game. Whatever the battles of the future might be, a dingdong scrap between Canada's two pro\^nces by the sea was imminent. Indeed, several couples were already stepping it out for a bonnie fight when they were suddenly paralyzed by the awful voice of MacTavish. Incorrigible spirits might be here, but with them was their master.

The place appointed for the gathering of the First Canadians was a beautiful plain under the shadow of the grim Laurent ian Mountains. Here, about an hour's distance by train from the historic gateway of Quebec, railway sidings had been built, and along that railway and over

THE MAKING OF THE FffiST CANADIANS

the sidings, like a ceaseless river, the troops of Canada's new army flowed in streams.

We were among the first to arrive, and found ourselves in a camp of only a few thousand, but day by day for the rest of the week the troops kept pouring in. Each day the white tents marched farther across the plain, and each night I watched the myriad lights of a great city twinkling farther and farther down into the long darkness of the valley.

At length thirty-three thousand men were gathered from the four winds of Canada. It was a moving sight to stand by the headquarters flagstaff by night, to look out upon the sea of camp-fires and far-shining lights; to hear the hum of its restless life and to breathe the air of vast adventure.

Val Cartier Camp in its early days reminded one of the gold cities of the West, of 'Frisco in '49, or of Dawson City in '98. Here was the same spontaneous and sudden springing up, and here was the same restless blood of a new country, bringing with it an air of imminence and adventure. One felt that the impatient populace of this tent-city would sooner set themselves to make history under the blue than to read it in an arm-chair.

What strange sights one beheld with the arriving of new contingents ! Perhaps it was a perfectly ordered and accoutred battalion like the Fifth Royal Scots of Montreal, a city battalion, marching like regulars, with kilts and pipes, or perhaps a rough-and-ready detachment of the Rocky Mountain Rangers, singing and marching nonchalantly along, accompanied by their mascot, the cub of a grizzly bear. One saw dismounted troops of Western horse, with broadbrimmed Stetsons and shirts of red and pink. Some regiments and some companies, even at the first appearance, were soldiers to the minute; others, to quote a contemptuous corporal of the Northwest Mounted Police, "were the last expiring sigh."

A majority of the First Canadians were from the Old Country. Many of these boys were ne'er-do-wells at home. One told me how the "Guv'nor" offered him "a fiver" and a secondclass ticket to the farthest side of the world, and he said, "I beat it for Vancouver Island." The errant ones who flee farthest from the Motherland in times of peace fly swiftest to her side in war. In the rancher's shack and in the miner's cabin the sweetest word of all is "England." The " Old Country," they call her in terms of endearment, and the love of strong men ever binds them to the lintels of their home land.

"Why did you come?" I inquired of one whose struggles to get back to civilization to join the army had been like Stanley's fight through the Dark Continent.

"I came," he replied, simply, "because I had to come."

There is a beautiful valley in the British Columbian mountains which, in the early autumn of 1914, was inhabited entirely by old army and navy officers. There were the golden fields and orchards, waiting for the harvest, but the call of war sounded in the mountain homes, and the men -folk left their harvests to pass untouched. Since then the women and children have departed, the place has become deserted, the winters and summers have come and gone, and the wilderness is closing in again on what was once a smiling valley.

The hopes and dreams were bidden a fond

farewell, but there was no repining. Only

one fear was heard in Val Cartier Camp,

and that was that the war might be over

before we got there. With headlong im-

petuousness these men had left all and come

to serve the Old Gray Mother. Not how

they fought, but the spirit in which they

came to fight, is the Empire's greatest glory.

Their Odyssey of Battle remains, a touchstone of British devotion, a proof of an empire tliat must endm'e.

Under the bhie September sky and the shadow of the Lam-entian Mountains the embryonic army passed its training. Xo 'varsity team out for the season's trophy vv-erc more keen than they. Rumors from far-off battle-fields stole into the camp and were Hstened to ^^th wistful yearning. Would we ever get there, too.^

Beside the headquarters flagstaff was a row of tents inhabited by deep-chested, bull-necked men, with mighty voices, upon whose breasts were the ribbons of many campaigns, and whose faces were bronzed by the suns and winds of all the world. These were the lion-tammg drill sergeants, the omnipotent creators of the First Canadians, the demigods that transformed a mob into a regiment, and out of a menagerie brought forth a di^'ision. The little cockney might have his doubts, but ^^ith Col. Donald MacKenzie MacTa^'ish for commanding officer, and Sergeant-Major Fury for instructor, I soon saw that all things were possible for us.

I had been promoted from the rank of a private to that of an officer, and in my new position, imfortunately, I missed the liu'id colors of the "Colonist Special for BerHn."

One day I again saw my friend. Red Maclsaac.

u

He was engaged at drill and, as usual, was in contentious mood. *'Wliat '11 I do that for?" he was expostulating.

"You'll do that because hit's horders," thundered Sergeant-Major Fury.

"Like hell I will," growled Maclsaac, flinging down his rifle to emphasize his independence.

When I beheld the invincible Cape-Bretoner a few moments later he was bearing a huge pack on his back, marching back and forth at the double, while the implacable Sergeant-Major Fury shot orders at him like a Maxim. "Left turn! . . . Pick hit hup, I say — pick hit hup, now. . . . About turn. . . . Quick, now. . . • Pick hit hup there."

Maclsaac was soaked with perspiration and his face was dark with shame and pain. But the countenance of the sergeant-major was a case of steel. Breaking incorrigibles was his profession.

When I again saw Red Maclsaac it was at a little village called Shrewton, on the fringes of Salisbury Plains. The Fifth Royal Highlanders were doing picket duty in the town that day, and as I passed an inn called the "Catherine Wheel," in company with my major, the corporal of the guard called his men smartly to attention and gave us a clean-cut, sharp salute. His every attitude was that of a true soldier.

"Fine smart soldiers, these Highlanders," said the major as we passed on; "perfect examples of discipline and soldierly spirit. Take that corporal, for instance."

"Yes, sir," I answered, looking back at the erstwhile Red Maclsaac, of the Colonists' Special for Berlin.

When on a dark cold night at the end of September we marched out of camp for the last time we had learned how to shoot and how to march with a pack, and had also acquired the elements of discipline. We had still need of a long schooling, but we had left the mob spirit far behind. There was a unity of company and regiment. It remained for General Alder son to teach us the unity of a brigade and of a whole division.

We embarked on our transport in the morning, and late in the afternoon began to steam slowly down the St. Lawrence. Behind us lay Quebec, the gray city set upon a rock, towering up with its ancient walls to the crowning citadel, where a British flag waved out against the sunset sky. These were the same ramparts that frowned upon the ships of Wolfe on a September long ago. But in this distant autumn twilight the scene was changed, and, like our mother, old Quebec smiled down upon us as we sailed away.

Gaspe Bay, an isolated estuary of the sea, presented a strange sight on the first morning of October, 1914. On shore the peaceful hills and white habitations of the French-Canadian farmers appeared as distant from the world as ever; but in the bay thirty-one great liners lay at anchor, while the entrance was guarded by a fleet of battle-ships and cruisers.

The time of our sailing was secret. After two days' wait the signal was given, and in column the New World armada passed out to sea. Once clear of the land, three separate columns were formed, moving abreast with a cruiser at the head of each column.

The trip across occupied fourteen days, and the transports were buffeted by more than one autumnal gale, but beyond a man falling overboard from one ship and being • picked up by the next there was no mishap. Our fleet arrived in the evening off Plymouth, and during the night pushed down the sound to the naval base at Devonport. In the morning we found our slate-gray liners anchored safely beside the gray bulldogs of the British Navy. Our demonstrative American cousins could not have given a wilder welcome than that which was vouchsafed to us by the warmhearted folk of Devon.

There followed a week of dizzy, lurid days for the two old naval towns. The gay riders of the West and the bonnie ne'er-do-wells had returned* and they celebrated in a fitting manner. One old Jack Tar said, laughingly, "It looks as though they had tm-ned the Zoological Gardens loose through the dock-yard gates." Kipling said that we painted Plymouth pink, but that is putting it mild. We painted Plymouth red, as red as Louse Town in Dawson City in '98.

Salisbury Plains will ever remain a nightmare for us. The few surviving veterans still in the front line speak of the Plains with greatest horror.

On Salisbury Plains, chastened by suffering, saddened by yearnings for home, wounded to the quick by misunderstandings with our English instructors, tortured by the vilest winter climate on earth, often prostrated by sickness of the body, or by deeper sickness of the spirit, out of all this man-breaking and heart-breaking we were being hammered and wrought into an army unit. Gustave Dore's flesh-creeping pictures of hell are like unto my memories of Salisbury Plains. But out of this kaleidoscope of tragedies, as out of hell fire, came an Iron Division for service in an Iron War.

From the joyous days of Plymouth we came to a bleak moorland miles removed from any city, where, from the middle of October to the following February, we learned our last lessons. It was pouring rain the night we arrived, and we hardly missed a day's rain from that time until our departure.

What a rude contrast from that wild send-off from Plymouth at midnight, with bands and cheering throngs and pretty girls, to the troop-train on the siding at Market Lavington at 3 A.M., our regiment beginning a ten-mile route march through the darkness and the rain to our distant camp. Daylight found us casting reproachful eyes on a sad and sodden landscape. The sweet dream of Plymouth had faded, and we struggled, wet and weary, with tents and guyropes.

Lieutenant-General Alderson was intrusted with the final task in the making of the First Canadians. A hard rider in the hunting-field, a keen sportsman, a deep student of military science, progressive in his views, firm in his discipline, broadened by a world-wide experience, and hardened by many campaigns. General Alderson was an ideal commander for Colonial troops.

General Alderson's headquarters were situated

2 17 in a small house known as the Woodcock Tavern in the heart of the moorlands. Outside in seas of mud the cars and horses of the headquarters staff came and went, while out over the desolate plains, miles apart, the camps of the different brigades stretched out their sodden tents, while the eternal winds and rains sw^ept over the downs.

Reveille on the plains w^as no gay greeting of the dawn, as at Val Cartier. Sad as a funeral note, over the patter of the rain and the sough of the winds, the imperious bugles called us to another dark-drab day. No matter how gloomily the day began, dinner always found us gay, masters of our spirits. Hard exercise and ceaseless training prevented repining, and brought forth strong bodies and brave spirits.

One day during an arduous maneuver in filthy weather General Alderson rode up and addressed our brigade.

"A soldier's life," he said, "is one of extreme hardship and privation." I remember how that saying came to me a week later, while our battalion was carrying out a scheme in night operations. I was stationed with my platoon on a high crest, with orders to await the arrival of the main body. From midnight until 3.30 A.M. I waited, crouching behind a hedge, while a hurricane lashed us with sheets of rain. It is no discredit to my Burberry to say that I was soaked to the skin. We marched back to camp, oozing and shivering, and, joining our damp blankets together, we lay on the sodden ground and were soon dead to the world. Next morning, needless to say, our knees were stiff, hence the immediate necessity of a long route march to work out chills and rheumatism.

Of course we were pioneers in that early winter of 1914, and as such we bore the hardships of inexperience and inadequate equipment. Despite our best efforts, an epidemic of spinal meningitis, due to the life that we were living, broke out in the camp. Those were the saddest, bluest days that I experienced in my two and a half years of soldiering. Every day I could look out of my tent into the melancholic blur of mist and rain and see the draped gun-carriage moving to the "Dead March" from Saul, while one battalion or another slowly followed their comrade to his grave.

One week we had seventeen deaths in our regiment. Last winter when I was on the Plains again for a short time, for practice on the artillery ranges, I took a pilgrimage to the Canadian Cemetery at Bulford Manor, where four hundred Canadians of the first division lie buried. These were our casualties in the bitterest fight that we ever fought.

There was a great deal of talk in those days about the Canadians' lack of discipline. I admit the charge, when we arrived in England, but under General Alderson we soon put that stigma under our feet.

Many wild tales are told of the exploits of our troops in London. A Canadian bought a shilling's worth of cigarettes in the Lester Lounge. He handed the waiter a one-pound note and waited for his change, which was not forthcoming. So he whipped out his six-shooter and proceeded to shoot the heels off the cockney waiter's shoes. The unsophisticated-looking Westerner promptly received his change, and when the police arrived on the scene no Canadians were to be found.

Much of the criticism that is meted out to us was due to the misunderstanding of opposite types. Englishmen could not see their time-honored traditions murdered by these "bally Colonials " without registering a kick. Old army officers were shocked at the sight of Canadian officers and rankers rolling about London arm in arm. These good English officers were unconscious of the fact that in Canada, before they donned the khaki, these two chaps were simply