Part 5

We had it pretty rough all the time on the Somme, and oftentimes when the rations did not get up from the divisional train, we had to lay back on the hard-tack, which looks like dog biscuits, and we thought one of these biscuits dipped in bacon grease was a great treat at that time.

I fought on the Somme through the summer of 1916, until the fall of the same year, and in the early part of the evening of November 9, as I was in horse lines of our battery, having a nice friendly game of "crown and anchor," the corporal of my section called me from my game (I was winning and did not like to leave the game) and said:

"McAvity, you will go up with rations to the battalion tonight. I think you had better leave about eight o'clock." Well, I went back to the game and played until eight, and then I started for the line. As we placed the rations over pack horses and started to plough through the mud, leading our horses, it was a case of ups and downs, stepping in a shell-hole here, and on a dead body there. Fritz was putting a lot of gas shells over, and it was getting late in the night and raining like Hell.

We had one of our boys up in the air by the concussion of a shell and he also lost his ration. At last we got to the battery. The gas shells still poured over and the major gave us orders to get back as quickly as possible after delivering the goods. I think we were about fifty yards away from the battery when a big shell burst, or at least a "Jack Johnson" as the boys call it. The boy behind me, the one who lost his ration, said to me:

"Mac, we had better hurry as it was pretty close," and let me tell you the next one that came over "got" both of us, killing him and wounding me severely. At 11.20 P.M. on the eve of November 9th, after spending nearly two years in hospital, I was discharged, May, 1918, in St. John, N. B., Canada.

HOSPITAL EXPERIENCE

BY GUNNER FREDERICK GERALD MC AVITY

BEING wounded on November 9th, my first stop was at a stationary hospital, Rouen, France. I had one operation there, and had some shrapnel removed from my body. One of the pieces was taken from my left shoulder; a nice-sized piece, which is shown in the photograph illustrating this story. When I came to, after being under the operation, I felt something hard on my shoulder. The nurse, seeing that I did not pay much attention to it, came to my bed and asked me if I did not want my souvenir, meaning my shrapnel. Well, as I was in great pain at that time, I did not prize it very much, but I value it quite a lot today.

After a few months in France, they moved me to a Red Cross hospital at Southampton, England, called Netley hospital. I had a long stretch of hospital life in Netley. When I was sailing from France to England, aboard the hospital ship, they asked me where I would like to go. Naturally, being a Canadian, and having no relatives over there, I promptly said, London, so I could meet some of my pals. When I got off the boat, and aboard the hospital train, I asked the orderly if I was near London, and he gave the answer: "Don't worry. You are not going to London. You are on your way to Netley, and will be there in ten minutes."

I was a little downhearted at first, but after a few weeks, I was satisfied with my treatment, which was the very best.

When I got my little lot of wounds, on the Somme, I also was exposed to gas shells, which left my stomach in such a condition that I could not eat for two months until after I had that sea voyage from France to Netley. The nurse there asked me if I would try a poached egg on toast, and that was my turning point. From that day until the day I was discharged I have not missed a meal, except after an operation.

I had nine operations altogether, eight in the Netley Hospital at Southampton, England. After the shrapnel was removed, the doctor found out that the bone in my shoulder was severely fractured, and I had four different operations, just to clean out the loose bone which was keeping my wound from healing. All the time I was in the hospital and even until three months ago my arm was completely paralyzed. But through the wonderful treatment they gave me I am very glad to say I have pretty good use of my left arm.

Another one of my large wounds was in my left thigh, where I lost about eight inches of flesh, from the knee up. I have had four operations on this limb. I lay for eight months in suspense, awaiting the official word, whether I would have to lose the left limb. I can honestly say I had a great deal of confidence in my surgeon, and one day he came to me and had a personal chat with me. He talked to me just like a father. He asked me if I thought I could stand another operation because he stated that I was in a pretty bad condition. I was very anxious to know his view on the subject as I put all confidence in him. I promptly asked him his decision, and he replied that he thought I could stand it. Knowing he thought I could pull through, it did not take me long to let him do anything to get me healed up.

The operation was performed and I had all the skin taken from my right thigh and grafted on the wound on the left. I can say it was a success, and after a few months I was able to get along on a cane. The doctor, seeing I was able to move about, had me sent to a Canadian Hospital so I could be boarded and sent to Canada.

I was in the Canadian hospital for about a month and was very anxious to see my native land again, when one day at noon the word came for me to pack up and get ready for the boat.

After nine days at sea on a hospital ship, with all lights aglow, at the time the Germans were sinking Red Cross ships, we pulled into Halifax, N. S., safe and sound. Here I was detailed off for a hospital, after I had my furlough, to visit my relatives.

After I had seen my people, and was exhausted from talking, and shaking hands with old acquaintances, I reported to hospital again in St. John, N. B., Canada, where I received electrical and massage treatment.

At that time I could not bend my knee, and my leg was stiff, but through the wonderful treatment, and my own will power, I finally got very good use of it before I got my discharge, May, 1918.

The original letter of the above photo was sent to Mrs. Hall, together with the Victoria Cross, from King George. This medal, the first Canadian Victoria Cross awarded in this War, was won by Sergeant Major F. W. Hall at Ypres, April 24, 1915, who was shortly afterwards killed in another attempt to bring in a wounded man under rifle and machine gun. The story of his two brothers appears in this book.

TWO YEARS AND A HALF OF WAR

BY SGT. F. R. MUIR, NO. 81611, 10TH BATT., C.E.F.

SIX months before war had been declared I left New York City for Winnipeg, Canada, to play at the Winnipeg Theater and remained there until war was an established fact. On August 6, 1914, I enlisted as an American and joined the 32nd Battalion, C.E.F. After about five months' training, my battalion was ready and eager for service. From Halifax, Nova Scotia, we set out on the former Red-Star liner _Vaderland_ bound for the battle grounds of Civilization, each and every boy of us keyed up to the highest pitch of patriotism. When we were three days at sea we ran out of cigarettes. A number of the boys had boxes of strong cigars with them and these they passed around quite generously. We smoked with the usual gusto and also the usual results. A ton of fish must have been fattened on food that was intended solely to strengthen us for the combat.

This experience, coupled with seasickness, made four of us refuse to wake up one morning, for which we were brought up before the major and sentenced to cleaning port-hole windows. We did not relish this labor and one port hole each was the extent of our efforts for half the day. In the afternoon we were set to peeling potatoes, cleaning the dishes and scrubbing the lower decks, which we finally accomplished after much pouting and grumbling.

As we neared the coast of Ireland the ships which comprised our convoy seemed to be making a bee line for any port they could reach. Word had been received that subs were in the vicinity and full steam ahead was the order of the day. The fact that our ship was the slowest tub of the bunch, making only about nine knots per hour, added darned little to our comfort. Finally after much excitement we docked at Queenstown. Major Ashton, in command of our battalion, had the gangplanks lowered and invited us out to a route march through the city. We aroused quite some enthusiasm and curiosity, as we were the first Canadian troops to ever land in Ireland. Our next stop was Liverpool and there the dinkey trains, which to us were a real joke in comparison to our own huge monsters at home, afforded us opportunity for funny comment. These trains are little bits of things and from fifteen to twenty men were crammed into a small compartment normally holding about ten. Several of us were unable to sit down all the way to London. The best feature of the train service was the fond good-byes, given us by the young ladies who usually gave them with a kiss, something that not many of us found fault with.

On our journey through London we were royally received by English Red Cross ladies who fed us with welcome lunches that sure did fill the vacuum beneath the belt. From Folkestone, fully equipped, we left for France. We knew we were going over to reinforce the gallant 10th Battalion, and this knowledge added to our good spirits. We were relieving real heroes and we knew it was up to us to "Carry on" as nobly as had our predecessors. Every mother's son of us was eager, yes, anxious, to start in on real action. Canada expected much from us, and we would not disappoint her. Arriving at Boulogne we were a bit peeved as we anticipated being received by enemy shell fire, but silence was the only reception we got.

Red Cross ambulances were arriving in countless numbers, bringing in the wounded, and this was our first glimpse of battle's havoc. This sort of took the heart out of us, but only for a few moments, for, with that scene, came a gritting of the teeth, and on each face could be seen a new-born determination to see this thing through to a successful conclusion.

After a night spent, tentless, in the pouring rain, covered only with straw and the mean, wet sky, we entrained for an unknown destination, and landed at Poppraine, which surely looked like an unknown destination, as it was a typical jerk-water village inhabited only by a few old men and women. Through this village we hiked and up a road leading to the front line trenches. This road had been shot full of shell-holes, which made walking very uncomfortable. The further on we walked, the nearer came "Fritzie's" forty-two centimeter shells, fired from the largest cannon ever known up to that time; the "Jack Johnsons" as they were called. We were kept busy dodging the shells that seemed to burst all around us, yet never hit us, but in our hearts and souls we realized that at last we were on speaking terms with Mr. Death himself; and this sobered us up some, you bet. 'Twas no unusual thing to feel your hair stand right up straight on end and hear your knees beat a tattoo as they knocked against each other. However, we soon overcame this feeling as the purpose of our mission dawned upon us. I had a good opportunity to observe how young fellows act when each knows that death may be his portion at any moment.

In a section composed of eight men I noticed that one was laughing as lightly as though he was safe and secure at home. Another was singing a crazy song and kept marching along defying death, or any other horror, that might overtake him. Still another took the matter so seriously as to walk along in a sort of semi-conscious daze, with a look of stupidity on his face, oblivious to all surroundings. There is the case of Private Fred Wheelhouse, a Canadian lad of about twenty-two years, who while walking under fire of the German guns kept on playing his mouth organ or harmonica until struck on the head by a piece of shrapnel which killed him instantly and spattered his brains upon his nearby comrades.

This was our first casualty and right then and there we solemnly swore that we would avenge him. On April 21, 1915, while awaiting orders in our reserve trenches two miles from the front line which was being held by the Canadian troops from the 1st, 2nd, 5th, and 8th battalions, the Germans let loose a heavy gas attack upon them. At that time the gas mask was hardly known, the men being equipped with small, inefficient respirators, and naturally the casualties were very heavy. As a result the men had to fall back, losing a lot of the lighter guns. This made necessary the use of the men in the reserve trenches, and an order was immediately issued that we "stand to" ready to take our places in a counter-attack which was to be launched in the morning.

Imagine, if you can, the feelings of the lads awaiting the rising of the sun which, probably, meant the last sunrise many of them would behold. The tortures of the death-house, I am sure, are mild when compared to those endured by the boys, in the tense hours prior to the attack; especially when one has to listen to the moaning of the wounded who are being carried back of the lines. It is far from encouraging, and it did not surprise me when, after going through a night like this, that each and every one of us became fatalists. At five-thirty in the morning, the time set for the attack, we received word to go, and, believe me, we were glad of it. I felt as though I was ready for death to end my anxiety, or else to fight it out, right on the spot, to a finish. Our officer, Lieutenant Ball, was the first to jump to the front. After a lusty "Come on, boys," he shot forward into the turmoil, caused by our heavy artillery, with a recklessness bordering on insanity. His action was an inspiring one and we boys were ready to follow him to Hell, if needs be.

In that charge I enjoyed the experience of getting my first German. I crashed into him, a big burly six-footer, and now that my wish to meet one had been gratified, and I stood before him, I did not know whether to shoot him, punch him, kick him or stick him as you would a pig. Not having much experience with the bayonet, I acted on impulse and rammed it right through his stomach. Oh, boy! What a squeal he let out. Putting my foot on his breast I pulled the bayonet from out his vitals, taking along with it his bowels. This nerved me, and I rushed forward like a raving maniac stopping for nothing. I plowed my way through them using first my butt and then the bayonet until I had rushed right into their second line, and, Holy Jerusalem!! right smack into a whole nest of them. We were proceeding rather methodically, in cleaning them out, when a shell from a "Jack Johnson" burst in the midst of our gallant little company, killing five outright and separating two from their legs and arms, I myself losing a leg and having my shoulder put out of commission. I was conscious all the time of what had happened, and managed to crawl into a shell-hole, and slap a bandage about my leg. With my shoulder I could do nothing and after lying exposed for two hours the company stretcher bearers picked me up, and carried me back to the dressing station. From there I was sent to No. 13 general hospital, Boulogne, but by the time I arrived, gangrene had set in, and the doctors there could do nothing for me. Again I was transferred, this time to London, and from there to Cambridge. A Doctor Cook, holding the rank of major, and from New York, announced he would cure me in two months. But the job was a more difficult one than he anticipated and six months was required ere I could walk again. During that time the leg had to be amputated to the knee. I was then discharged and received, from the Canadian Government, an artificial limb which I later discarded for a better one made in little old New York.

FROM ENGLAND TO FRANCE AND BACK

BY PVT. GEORGE OXTON, NO. 81680, 10TH BATT., C.E.F.

IT WAS the latter end of the month of April, 1915, that the 32nd Canadian Battalion received orders to embark from the port of Folkestone, on the south coast of England, for the western front.

By reason of the fact that the Canadians had suffered great losses at the first battle of Ypres, our order to leave England came at an hour's notice, but the regiment to a man was extremely anxious to get over, and get busy.

While we were on board, our time was occupied by assembling our new issue of Webb Equipment, which we had practically thrown at us, prior to leaving our huts at Risborough Barracks, Shorncliffe. Consequently some of us found we were short a portion of the accoutrement while others had parts to spare. Being sociable, we were all able to make a complete rigout.

The night was of the pitch-black sort, but, thanks to the science of navigation, and sea and air escort, we docked at Boulogne, France, safe and sound, but in a drizzly rain.

As long as I live, I'll never forget the peculiar odor that filled the air while marching up the long, steep, winding road that led from the docks to the camp. It seemed miles, and more miles, long, but thank goodness, we arrived at last, to spend our first night on damp ground, or I had better say cold mud. It's very true we had canvas over us, but I'm sure the tents had just been thrown up, for it was quite as dry outside as inside.

I had no sooner put my head on my knapsack when that poor miserable little bugler bellowed out his early morning song.

On April the 27th we entrained for parts unknown, at least we poor privates didn't know where we were bound for; probably our company commander knew, and, if he was in the humor, the sergeant-major might have known also.

After traveling all night and part of the next day, packed in cattle cars like the proverbial sardines, we arrived at Poperinghe. The name was the largest portion of the town that the German gunners saw fit to leave. Detraining here, we made a rapid march to within a mile of Ypres. Here we joined our respective regiments. I went to the 10th Battalion. It had then earned the name of the "Fighting Tenth."

This night we dug ourselves in, along two sides of a large field. Each man dug a shallow hole large enough to lie down comfortably in. Owing to my height I had to dig one at least six feet in length. I was wishing, at that particular time, that I happened to be that poor miserable little bugler, as he was a little more than five feet tall.

The next morning I, for one, was up before reveille. I found it much more comfortable walking round in the cool of the morning than lying in a mud hole with only a greatcoat within a mile of me. I imagine something always happened to those lovely army blankets, for they were generally conspicuous by their absence.

The evening of the 28th was reasonably fine when we answered roll call prior to going up the line. Here we found ourselves in the last line of reserves, the idea being to get used to the "heavies." At times the shells became far too familiar with us, consequently I lost some of my best pals. We spent a week like this on the Yser Canal bank, living like the old cave dwellers, only we were not there long enough, and it wasn't peaceful enough, to construct any labyrinths. Our work consisted of making shelters, after a "Jack Johnson" had obliterated them.

On the move again, this time to billets about seven miles south of Baieulle, it took a full night to march the distance, with full kit. The roads didn't appear to get any softer, as time went by, but still one heard the everlasting (Kipling's) boots, boots, boots. As we had ten minutes each hour to rest, I was absolutely unconscious for nine and a half minutes of that time.

On the nineteenth of May, we were on foot again. I had a feeling it would not be to the last line of reserves this time. Neither it was, for, by the next night, we were heading for the front line trenches, one mile east of the village of Festubert. At dusk we traversed communication trenches to our destination: the front line on the edge of No Man's Land. At last! After training and waiting for over seven months. We relieved the Berkshires and took up our posts along with the "Little Black Devils," as the 8th Battalion is called, in a trench which was only captured from the Germans the previous day. The portion of the trench we held was dug in a roadway, and being fairly high ground was comparatively dry. This speaks wonders for a trench, for we plodded through much mud and water to reach it. Every second man was detailed to mount guard, while the remainder fought for forty winks, then relieved guard. The first two nights were uneventful, though a heavy artillery duel was the standing program.

The third night, the twenty-first, we were not going to give "Fritzie" a chance to come across, but we were going to push him back. If a man tells you he was not nervous going "Over the Top" for the first time, he lies. I felt nervous, though I never confessed it, and I wager everyone else felt the same way, as we had to wait about two hours, after being told we were going over. At eight o'clock we were sent up to a small communication trench about half way across No Man's Land, on the side toward the enemy. It cut across diagonally. There was a good-sized gap, on which some snipers had their rifles trained. At this point, we lost a few of our company. It was a case of running the gauntlet for each man who passed it. All of us had to pass it three different times; for, in our first advance, the order was cancelled, so we had to return till later on.

About nine o'clock, at dusk, we finally went ahead to the end of the communication trench. Here we branched out on either side, and spread out in open order, to charge. By this time my nervousness had disappeared. My mind was set on the one object of getting someone--and I gripped my gun, and prayed for all the strength I could muster. With a wild cry of _"Lusitania,"_ we received the orders to go. All I could do was yell to the boys to give them "beans," for I was knocked down, and found my right leg was half blown off, just below the thigh. If the boys hadn't taken their objective that night, I should have been a prisoner, instead of a hospital case, for over twenty months, in England.

I'm just a plain buck private, Who fought with Canada's Sons, In a regiment of the Maple Leaf, That made it hot for the Huns.

I'm just a plain buck private, And fought on the side of right, To serve the world for democracy, And beat the Hunnish might.

I'm just a plain buck private, From the land of ice and snow, And gave all I could, for my country, To help to vanquish the Foe.

It was probably an hour or two after the advance that some of the men came to see what they could do for us. In my particular case the shrapnel, which had penetrated and completely shattered the right femur, had also numbed the nerves, therefore I was left conscious.

However, one of our battalion sergeants tied up the top of the leg for me with a length of cord, which I was always in the habit of carrying.