Into the Jaws of Death Part 7

The gun position that our two Stokes guns took over was in a big house, or rather behind it. The bas.e.m.e.nt of this house was propped up with mine timbers and steel props; this was to sustain the eight feet of concrete with reinforced steel that had been laid on the first floor.

It made a wonderful protection for our guns and also for ourselves.

The bas.e.m.e.nt contained box spring-beds and real mirrors, and we felt that we were very swell indeed. We kept most of our ammunition in the house, where it was always dry, and the way we hammered old Fritz wasn't slow. We fired from two to three hundred rounds daily and our carrying parties cussed us for firing so much. When not on the guns we spent our time in the bas.e.m.e.nt telling yarns and playing cards. We had a dandy officer; he had only just come out, but he was as keen as mustard. He insisted on living with us, and when we were firing he was right on the spot. Of course with our gun going so much of the time Fritzie came back with everything he had, but he never could find out where we really were. The greatest drawback to our new position was the lack of water. Before the Germans retired they had filled all the wells with barbed wire. The Germans tried to gas us out, and sometimes they would pelt us with gas sh.e.l.ls; all night long we had to sleep with our gas masks on. On the whole, our position here was much better than what we were used to, and we thoroughly enjoyed it, but after we had been here for a few days we were taken out on rest and then sent to another place.

This time we went in at Liever, and our positions here were h.e.l.lish. I don't know how we lived through it; we were there four days, and in that time our guns were either blown up or buried at least twice a day.

One night Tommy and I were lying in a hole that we had dug right beside our gun, and without letting us know, our fellows in the trenches sent over a cloud of gas. The Germans always bombarded where gas was sent over, and this was no exception to the rule. They started at once.

Tommy and I were lying in the most exposed part of the trench and Tommy was snoring, when with a crash the sh.e.l.ls began bursting over us. I wakened Tommy, for one gets so that he sleeps through everything, and we lay there wondering what would happen next. Suddenly, _bang_! a sh.e.l.l hit the side of the hole we were in and filled the hole with smoke and covered us with dirt. I said, "Come on, Tommy, let's go down the trench a bit where it isn't so blamed hot." "Naw," says Tommy, "it's a long chance on him hitting us again." The words were hardly out of his mouth, when crash came another sh.e.l.l and it buried us in dirt this time. We were just scrambling out and Tommy was ahead, when _bang_! another sh.e.l.l landed right in front of us. Tommy went still and I grabbed him. "Tommy, Tommy, have they got you, kid?" No answer, and I shook him again; he squirmed and started to swear, and I knew that he was all right. We scrambled out and were beating it down the trench when an officer came out of a dugout and asked us what was the matter. We told him and he said, "What size were the sh.e.l.ls that came over?" "Huh," said Tommy, "they was comin' too d.a.m.ned fast for me to measure 'em." The officer grinned, and we went on. At the end of four days we were relieved and sent back on rest.

After a few days they sent us back to Lens, and there was something doing every minute there this time. Our artillery was steadily bombarding the enemy's lines, and our boys were putting on raids almost every night. When a raid was being made our guns would throw bombs on either side of the sector attacked to prevent reinforcements coming up from the sides, then our artillery would put up a barrage behind the front line to keep back help from the supports, thus hemming them in on three sides with sh.e.l.l fire while our infantry attacked from the front.

A great many prisoners were taken in this way, but our losses were very light. Not long after this, on August the 18th, the 1st Division of Canadians made their big attack on Hill 70. At the same time our boys made an attack on the outskirts of Lens. The attack was a complete success, though afterwards the Germans made five successive counter-attacks and our losses were heavy. The slaughter in these counter-attacks was awful. I was in the reserve trenches at the time watching the prisoners and the wounded streaming past. Half of our Stokes gun battery was in reserve, and the other half in the firing-line. About noon the day after the first attack was made, word came out that one of our crew had caught it and asking for help and stretchers to carry out the wounded. So we made our way in through a perfect inferno and we found the crew--an officer and six men--all lying wounded in a dugout. We got busy and carried them out, and poor beggars, they got some awful b.u.mps as we stumbled along through the darkness, over dead bodies and through sh.e.l.l holes. We had just pa.s.sed safely through the barrage when gas sh.e.l.ls came over and we had to put masks on the wounded as well as on ourselves. We got them all to the dressing-station, but one of the boys died just after we got them in.

Poor Roy Taylor--he was marked for leave the next day.

The following night we went in again with our guns and our boys were billed for another attack. The gun I had charge of was supporting the 29th Battalion, while behind us in the trenches lay the 28th. My orders were to open fire at the same time that the artillery did, about 4 A.M., and my job was to blow out a blocked trench that led up to the German lines. This was to enable our boys to advance without losing many men. After doing this I was to keep on firing well in advance of our troops till I reached the limit of my range, and then go up the trench and place the gun in a spot that would cover a point from which a counter-attack might be expected. These were my orders, and I was given five men to help manage the gun. The Stokes gun will fire one hundred twelve-pound sh.e.l.ls in three minutes, if no time is lost with misfires. It takes two men to work the gun and one to hand up ammunition. I sent three men down the trench to be ready in case of need and the other two helped me. Exactly on the dot the artillery and our gun opened up, and for five minutes there was just the banging and flas.h.i.+ng of explosives all around. The Germans opened up their artillery and attacked at the same minute that our boys went over--and it was a real h.e.l.l. Of course I couldn't see what was going on--around us there was nothing but explosions and smoke. My three spare men were hit, but so far we had escaped. Some Germans were behind us, having worked their way around from the left, but we didn't know it. Finally one of the boys said, "Just five more sh.e.l.ls, Bobby," so I said, "All right, we'll save them, come along, and we'll pick out a new place for our gun." So, away we stumbled up the trench, half blinded by smoke and the concussion of the exploding sh.e.l.ls. As we went on in the trench leading to the German lines I began to wonder what had happened--dead Germans were lying in heaps--but we kept on, thinking that our attacking party were away ahead, when all at once we ran into a bunch of "square-heads." They were on the outside of the trench as well as the inside, and then started the d.a.m.nedest sc.r.a.p I was ever in.

Two of the boys were armed with rifle and bayonet, and I had a revolver. We shot those Fritzies just as fast as they stood up, and then they lay down and threw hand grenades at us. How we killed all those in the trench I don't know, things are hazy in my mind. Faces came and went, and it's like a horrible dream. The old fellow beside me gave a yell and dropped, hit in the back by a piece of one of the exploding grenades. I was out of ammunition and I flung my revolver at the nearest Fritzie, and thinks I, "It's all up now, and I don't care a d---- anyway." I tried to drag the old man into a dugout and I got him on the stairs, but he looked so bad that I laid him down and started cutting away at his tunic to find the wound. The Germans that were left started firing bombs at me, but they went over my head and down the stairs bursting on a pile of wounded below. All at once, one hit the roof of the dugout and dropped at my feet. It exploded and it was just as if some one had thrown a bucket of boiling water all over my legs. I put down my hand and my leg was full of holes and the blood was literally streaming from it. The pain was awful and I couldn't stand up any longer. I was half fainting, and I dropped into the dugout on a pile of writhing bodies. But I still had sense enough to know that if I stayed there the next bomb that came down those stairs would land on my back, so I managed to scramble off, and then I crawled along the dugout floor till I came to a table. It was black dark and I had to feel my way along. I pulled myself up on the table and started to bind up my leg, when along came one of our crew, Benson; he had bayoneted the man who was throwing bombs, and had come into the dugout by the other entrance. He helped me fix myself up and along came one of our own stretcher bearers. We called to him and he told us that the old 28th had come to our rescue and had chased the Germans out of the trench. The stretcher bearer was working like a hero, sorting out the wounded, binding them up and getting them ready to move. My old man had managed to get downstairs and he was calling, "Bobbie, Bobbie, come and help me." I told him that I couldn't go, for I was. .h.i.t myself.

The stretcher bearer lit some candles and we had a look around; one entrance of the dugout was blocked and the dead were lying everywhere.

Benson did his best to make me comfortable, but the bone was sticking out through the side of my leg and it was mighty sore. After awhile an officer of the 28th came down and said, "Sorry, boys, but we've got to drop back; the Germans are attacking heavily, and we are not strong enough to hold them here, we will have to leave you, but if you are here we will come back for you tomorrow morning." We groaned. I tried my best to get up the stairs, but after two or three attempts I had to give up. Benson had to go to help the boys hold the Fritzies in the next line of trenches. After awhile along came the Germans--the stretcher bearer saw them as they pa.s.sed the entrance. In the dugout we all kept as still as we could. There were thirty of us, all badly wounded, and caught like rats in a trap.

The Germans did not bother coming down, but they threw bombs in every time they pa.s.sed. These bombs killed a number of the boys and the smoke and gas almost choked the rest of us. This continued all day and all night. An Irishman with a leg and an arm broken was lying at my side; and he just lay there grinding his teeth and cursing the Germans.

Just after daybreak we heard a lot of bombs bursting in the trench above and we wondered what was happening. Soon we heard a footstep on the stairs and some one shouted, "Who's down there!" and one of our sergeants appeared with a bomb in his hand. "It's us!" we cried, and perhaps we were not glad to see him! He said, "All right, boys, we'll get some stretcher bearers up and have you taken out as soon as possible." In about half an hour along came a carrying party; they took the Irishman up just ahead of me, and I could hear him grinding his teeth. Gee! but that fellow had grit. We had just gone a little way down the trench when _bing_! one of the stretcher bearers got a bullet through the top of his tin hat. It didn't touch, but it came too close for comfort and they kept pretty low after that. As they carried me along some one pa.s.sed me on the run going out, and I called "h.e.l.lo, Benson." He turned around and, gee! he was glad to see me alive. He grabbed one end of the stretcher and insisted on helping to carry me out, so away we went to the advance dressing-station. I had to wait my turn, for there was a long line of wounded. "Well, Bobbie, what shall I do?" asked Benson. "Go back and report to Headquarters,"

I said. "And, by the way, Benson, what happened to our gun?" "Oh,"

said he, "a sh.e.l.l landed right on top of it and blew it to smithereens." Not long after old Tucker came along and said, "Got a Blighty, Bob?" "Yes," says I, "and I'll be lucky if I don't lose my leg." By this time my leg was swollen up like a balloon, and I was afraid of blood poisoning. When at last my turn came at this dressing-station they just gave me an injection to prevent poisoning and sent me on. After much jolting in a motor ambulance I arrived at a big clearing-station and had my leg properly dressed. Then they put me aboard a Red Cross train, and I was lying there feeling pretty tough when a sweet voice said, "Would you like a cigarette?" I opened my eyes, and there stood a Red Cross nurse. Say, she looked like an angel to me. I guess the other boys felt the same, for their eyes followed her wherever she went. Just before daylight we arrived at the little town of Camiens, and we were tenderly carried off the train and put into motor ambulances. The road was very rough, and at every jolt we would all swear. Then, to our amazement, a lady's voice said, "I'm sorry, boys, but the road is rough." I looked up and there, driving the ambulance, was a young lady. Gee! we did feel ashamed. Finally we arrived at our destination and were carried into a big base hospital.

It was an American hospital, and it sure seemed like heaven after what we had been through. They soon fixed up my leg, and then I had nothing to do but watch the nurses. They were the most efficient doctors and nurses I ever saw; everything in the hospital moved like clockwork.

After a few days they set my leg and put it in splints and then I waited for my ticket to Blighty; but my troubles were not quite over.

One day the German aeroplanes came over, and next night they came again and bombed our hospital. Oh, it was awful--worse than the front lines.

They dropped six bombs, killed a doctor, wounded some nurses, and killed and wounded many of the boys. I lay in bed hanging onto the pillows and listened to the crash of the bombs, and the screams of the wounded. I hope I will never hear the like again. One of the bombs came through the tent I was in, but didn't explode. The minute the Huns were gone the doctors and nurses were around looking after the boys, soothing those who were shaken and attending the ones who were injured. There was no excuse for the bombing of this hospital; it was plainly marked with the Red Cross, and no one could mistake it for an ammunition dump. A few days more, and I was s.h.i.+pped across to dear old Blighty and three months of heaven. It was worth all I had gone through to be treated as we all were over there. I was in several hospitals, and it was the same in all--they were just as good to us as our own people could have been. The X-ray showed fifty-six pieces of tin in my leg. As the doctor remarked, "You are a regular mine, and I think we will let you take your fifty pieces back to Canada; it would destroy too many nerves to dig them out, and in time they will work up to the surface."

So, here I am back in Canada, a civilian with fifty-six pieces of iron in my leg to remind me that I spent Two Years in h.e.l.l.

Your chum, BOB.

THE RED, RED ROAD TO HOOGE

You're on parade, go get your spade, Fall in, the shovel and pick brigade, There's a carry fatigue, for half a league, And work to do with the spade.

Through the dust and ruins of Ypres town The seventeen-inch still battering down, Spewing death with its fiery breath, On the red, red road to Hooge.

Who is the one whose time has come, Who won't return when the work is done, Who'll leave his bones on the blood-stained stones Of the red, red road to Hooge?

To the sandbagged trenches and over the top, Over the top if a packet you stop On the red, red road to Hooge.

The burst and roar of the hand grenade Welcome us to the "death parade,"

The bit of gloom and valley of doom, The crater down at Hooge.

Full many a soldier from the Rhine Must sleep tonight in a bed of lime-- 'Tis a pitiless grave for brave and knave, Is the crater down at Hooge.

Hark to the "stand-to" fusillade, Sling your rifles, go get your spade, And spade away ere the break of day, Or a hole you'll fill at Hooge.

Call the roll, and another name Is sent to swell the roll of fame, So we carve a cross to mark a loss, Of a chum who fell at Hooge.

Not a deed for a paper man to write, No glorious charge in the dawning light, The "Daily Mail" won't tell the tale Of the night work out at Hooge.

But our General knows, and his praise we've won, He's pleased with the work the Canadians have done, In shot and sh.e.l.l at the mouth of h.e.l.l, On the red, red road to Hooge.

"THE IRON SIXTH"

(6th Brigade, 2nd Canadians, 27th, 28th, 29th, and 31st Battalions)

Canada's Golden Gateway sent forth her gallant sons, Who proudly marched with smile and song to face the German guns; Where'er their duty called them 'twas there they won their fame, And on the Scroll of Honour is the "TWENTY-SEVENTH'S" name.

Yet farther west, and still her sons is Canada sending out: The "TWENTY-EIGHTH" Battalion fights with never a fear or doubt; From the head of Lake Superior and the Province of Golden Wheat The boys are marching 'gainst the foe with never falt'ring feet.

B. C. has sent her quota, and the "TWENTY-NINTH" is there, Broad-chested, stalwart manhood, just out to do and dare; Vancouver's boys are marching with steady step and true, Determined all to play the game and see the whole thing through.

A breath from Calgary's city, flung where the fight is worst-- Still more of Canada's manhood is the gallant "THIRTY-FIRST."

From prairieland and city they answered to the call, And bravely shouldered rifle lest their Empire's honour fall.

From Winnipeg's Golden Gateway to Vancouver's rainy sh.o.r.e, Come Canada's sons to keep the flag of Empire to the fore; From Kemmil down to Ypres, go when and where you will, The "IRON SIXTH" have paid their toll, and are bravely paying still.

Canada, O Canada! the Pride of all the West, We'll fight for thee, we'll die for thee, so that our Homeland be The Bounteous land, the glorious land, Forever of the free.

WALTER T. H. GRIPPE.

28th (N.W.) Battalion,

June 12th, 1916.