Sunday, September 10, 2023
Edgar Harold - Sergeant - 19th Battalion
Thursday, September 7, 2023
Incident at the Canal du Nord
by Sergeant Edgar Harold, 19th Battalion
My platoon, No 13 in "D" Company, 19th Battalion, was holding the line. We were separated by a short belt of woods from the Germans who were holding the Canal du Nord maybe 100 yards ahead. It was a fairly deep wide cut.
Behind us on a hill was a new trench we had dug the night previous to taking over this line. The German artillery fire was directed over our heads to this area. We were established in what had been German Horse Lines. My 2nd in command, Corporal Jack Simon and I occupied a small hut, say 8' by 10'. The wall was blanketed to deaden sounds we might make and any evidence of light from inside. The rest of the platoon was stretched along the trench in small groups. We all spoke in whispers and someone had to be awake at all times. In the daytime Jack and I took turns on watch, but no untoward incidents took place until the one I am about to relate.As darkness came down it was my custom to patrol the lines. I was standing up by a little desk looking over an aerial photo of the area. Jack, who had recently returned to the battalion after a long period recovering from wounds was cleaning his rifle behind me. He cleaned the barrel, put in a new clip of shells and instead of putting on his safety catch, pulled the trigger. The bullet went between my arm and body and blew the photo into nothingness. I looked at him in complete surprise... his face was ghostlike.
My main concern was what effect this would have on the Germans. We listened for some time, but there was no reaction. I said to Jack, "we're both lucky, no harm done, now let's get on with the inspection". We stepped out of our cabin and inquired of the front section about the day's happening when I saw Jack was not following me. He told me later he was right at my feet, but couldn't move an inch as he was so shaken up. I selected another corporal to accompany me on my rounds.
The last sentry we visited was an original member of the battalion. One of two left. His name was "Frenchy" Hamal. No 55849. Frenchy was a very steady man, but he pointed out a small hut 30 to 40 feet into the woods and was sure he had heard or seen activity there. Feeling it would relieve him and set an example, I climbed out of the trench and walked toward the hut. It had a door which was closed. I surveyed the situation and came back. His mind was much relieved, and so was mine.
What brought this story back to mind? I came across a small pocket notebook I had not seen in years. I was looking up Homel's name on my nominal roll written a few days before my own departure on October 10, 1918, thanks to a machine gun bullet which creased my left leg. The whole incident came back with crystal clearness. I was reminded I had returned to the battalion at my own request after a long period as an instructor at the divisional school and felt I must 'win my spurs' in the field. I was happy with my decision and this continued until the decisions were transferred to others on October 10th. Jack Simon who took over our platoon from me lost his life in battle near Mons, France November 11, 1918.
Saturday, April 30, 2016
Fresnoy - A Personal Memoir - Part 7
Towards evening during the course of another bombardment the 20th battalion came up. Evidently an attack was expected. Barker was not with us; he had been buried and we were badly shaken. I said good-bye to Barker -- he was killed on May 12th. Nearly all night we stood to, until relieved again by the 20th. We occupied trenches a mile or so behind and to the left. It was quieter, but for three days we lived with gas masks on. The first night and day I was alone, Harry having been detailed to stretchers. He had found a cellar next to the dressing station where he slept all day.
I was incorrectly marked missing when they went over the rolls that day, the news even percolating as far as Canada. For some reason my name was also associated in Sandling Camp as I later heard when draft came over. Fletcher, a former pal, nearly passed out in his tracks on seeing me.
This pretty well concludes the story of Fresnoy as I saw it. The main feature in my favour was lack of previous experience -- which for a time was helpful, in that I did not realize the seriousness of the event. Friendships were formed which will ever remain. Though Harry, Doc and Allan are no more they will still live on, their cheery smiles, the grasp of their hands remain with me. Bill Squib, too, and Andy Atkinson -- the warmth of whose body on many a night contributed a restful slumber. Gord Davis and Abbie Brennan got theirs that trip, and Morgan who had a hunch and many another of fragrant memory. Baker's death was nearly too much for me. I made my way posthaste to the 20th lines after two hours of fitful sleep on our return to La Targette. Baker's pal Webber greeted me with only a look. Mute in its misery I nearly collapsed, but realizing sharply the need for control turned on my heel at once and fought it out alone on a long walk about the camp.
Thursday, April 28, 2016
Fresnoy - A Personal Memoir - Part 6
We weren't bothered much by shelling that night, comparatively speaking, but God how cold it got. Our clothing, which had been soaked from intermittent rains during the day was still damp, and with no overcoats and two feet down in a wet hole dug into the side of a wall, one just couldn't get warm. When Bill called later for a volunteer ration party we were glad to be on the move.
As we moved down the trench, illuminated by the occasional Heine flare, our first thought was overcoats. Every funk hole contained the body of some unfortunate, killed on the way up, or died trying to get out. We groped our way from wall to wall of the slimy way, and in one place I was just about to grasp a branch above the trench only to recognize in the light of a flare the outstretched hand of one of my comrades who had died the night before. A little further I spotted a great coat over a "stiff" in a hole in the trench. I gingerly grasped it, only to nearly collapse in my tracks when its owner very much alive shouted an imprecation. Well, we got back and Harry and I finally found a funk hole and crawled in. It was a roomy one and only our legs were in the trench. The heat of our bodies combined with the complete exhaustion following the events of the night and the day soon placed us in the land of complete oblivion.
How long we slept I have no idea, but it must have been four or five hours because it was dawn and men were stumbling over our feet, the ration party no less, loaded down and on the way back. Filled with a sense of guilt we eagerly offered our help to the nearest bearers. It was quickly accepted. On the way up Harry happened to notice his bag was labelled C.A.M.C. and on opening it an empty bottle of whiskey appeared. Making no mention of the fact until some time afterwards in our funk hole , the Sergeant Major appeared. "My God," said Bill. "I gave that bag to Babe Dale." Babe was his batman and he and Joe Bush (irresponsible souls) had polished off the liquor by the time the S.M. again located them.
Before we had arrived back at the break of dawn the whole Battalion had gone over the top without a barrage to the old front line to pick up survivors. They came back with few casualties, but apparently giving our position away to the enemy because all that day we certainly took it in the nose. The first spasm lasted all morning, most of the shells falling slightly long, but enough hit the opposite bank to put the fear of death in our minds. And again, during a lull in the shelling, when volunteers were wanted to go for water, it appeared infinitely better to be on the move (although the communication was shelled continuously) than to sit still and take it.
So we collected bottles and two cans apiece and away we went with the Sergeant Major's blessing. It was hot alright and when we came to the end of the trench and saw Heine lobbing shells at frequent intervals on the path to the next road, under direct observation from his balloons, we wilted a little. However, "Here goes!" and Harry led off at a jog trot towards the rear. The shells which had been landing ahead now shifted behind, then ahead again. We were spotted, but made the road in safety. Here an abandoned dressing station hit by a shell engaged our attention. The next road was several hundred yards away. Again we dodged a few, but arriving there made our way under cover to Willerval. A party was gathered around the well and it looked like a long wait. Harry got in line and in the sun I slept. Only a few minutes though, but what a relief. Harry had an idea, "Why wait for an hour while the old windlass worked a leaky pail up and down." There was plenty of wire around, so cutting the top of a can we lowered it by the wire, filled up our bottles and soon were on our way. We had only gone a short distance when a huge '59' landed near the well. Two were instantly killed, one falling down the well, and a dozen wounded. Our luck was with us for sure.
continued...
Tuesday, April 26, 2016
Fresnoy - A Personal Memoir - Part 5
We located a stretcher in the road, and I shall never forget the mute appeal in the boy's eyes as we lifted him not too tenderly, as it was so difficult to brace oneself on the muddy slopes of the road, up and out of my funk hole. By now he was greenish in colour, he never complained -- he was grateful to be on his way to medical attention, and maybe back to life again from the Hell of that place. Someway or other with two carrying and two others helping in pinches (even when one of us slipped) we made it to the M.O.'s dugout. On the way we came to a widening in the trench made by a shell where, being absolutely done in, we were compelled to rest our load. It must have happened last night. The remains of three men lay where they had been blown by the shell. I recognized a head -- expression almost natural -- as belonging to a lad of my former Battalion with which I had often exchanged a friendly word.
In front of the M.O.'s dugout was a party of the 20th headed by Earle Barker from my own town, Paris, Ontario. They had been ordered up by the heavy shelling in support, should an attack materialize, and Barker acted as guide. It was good to see him, and a few moments chat while the M.O. examined our patient was helpful. We carried the wounded lad down to a dugout in a trench running off the communication trench and left him with food and water. His last words were full of cheer and he died there later, alone. Very sad.
Back in the road things were happening. The shelling was becoming worse. In our bay, everyone was alert. For how long we stood I don't know. From heavies Heine switched to whiz-bangs. One battery had us marked every few minutes they'd arrive. First one shell and then four in rapid succession. It was hard to be calm and even look at one's hands. One lad got the shivers, but Doc cheered him up. "Never mind old man." We couldn't keep our eyes away. "Cheer up laddie." Finally one landed right next door. "Stretcher bearer." I don't believe I could have moved, but Landon strong to the urge of duty stumbled into the next bay. We could hear moaning and Harry Dibble appeared. I hadn't seen him all day. He reported Sergeant Davidson killed in the next bay, Purvis with his heel shot away, and Morgan killed first thing this morning (our pals in the dugout the night before). He and Colonel Dennison had been in a dugout together (naturally the entrance faced Germany). There was only one -- it had been blown in -- Harry and Bill Squib the Sergeant Major had been up to the front line by Winnipeg Road which ran into it. They had buried a pal of Bill's, but there were dozens more. Apparently Heine had left, but the decision was that the line was too far forward and we would have to retire at night 1,000 yards to the next road.
When Allan appeared again later it was to announce the retirement. "Sixteen Platoon will fight the Rear Guard Action, if any is to be fought, and the only instructions I'm giving you beyond this is to get out even if you have to ditch your equipment, your overcoats and rifles, and get back." It was still light. Harry and I were amongst the last half dozen to go out, but back of us was a detail from the Brigade with machine guns which had come up to support the retirement. We had covered more than halfway when we met Purvis. He had been wounded as reported and with a sandbag wrapped around his foot had gallantly worked his way this far on the road to Blighty. Normally a quiet steady going chap he was now at the end of his resources, weak from pain and loss of blood, he couldn't go a foot farther. Added to this the thought of being deserted here to die, or be taken prisoner, he begged us to help. Well, we found a stretcher handy, ditched our equipment, our rifles, even our overcoats and loaded him on. With fear of capture or worse to spur our efforts we finally got him back assisted by Andy Atkinson -- a fine lad who heard what we were doing and came back to help. (Poor Andy was killed the next day).
continued...
Fresnoy - A Personal Memoir - Part 4
Monday, April 25, 2016
Fresnoy - A Personal Memoir - Part 3
We got out our ground sheets and plugged them with bullets into the clay above to form a protection from the rain. After much perseverance and pulling huge chunks of mud down on myself, in trying to get in under the rubber sheet, I finally succeeded, slumping into my funk hole in a condition bordering on coma from sheer exhaustion, this being my first trip into the front line trenches. How long I remained there I have no idea, but it seemed only seconds before I came to with the consciousness that something was happening. The most ungodly racket imaginable had broken all around me. It was not quite daylight yet but rifles were snapping, machine guns on both sides hammering, and the ground being continuously shaken with exposing shells, few of which seemed to be striking our immediate locality, but many were passing over our heads and lighting fifty yards behind. This I found out on making an inspection from outside the funk hole. No one else seemed to have moved though, so concluding this was a regular morning strafe which I had often heard about, I eased in to my hole and lit a cigarette. A slight abatement in the shelling about this time assured me that it was all over so I decided to have breakfast. Here I was wrong. The old-timers knew after so severe a strafe that it was just beginning.
Dawn had broken now and the first sight that met my eye right in the bottom of the road below my funk hole was a man laying on his back, a gaping hole in his face and very dead. I hadn't time to gaze. The next thing was someone running away from the road towards Vimy -- and then another jumped into the road right beside me. I called and he stopped in answer to my query. "What's the matter?" "Henie's come over. We'll have to hold him here." By now others were appearing from their funk holes and the front, and we stood to. The first lad who had joined us being an original took charge of our little group.
Shortly after an officer appeared. Later I got to know him as Major John Harmon. How white he looked, but calm and in the face of what he knew to be almost certain death he led us over the top. Fortunately for me and hardly realizing the seriousness of the affair, I quickly made up my mind. If there is going to be a scrap it won't be with all that load of harness on, so I left it and started with only a rifle, a bayonet, and a pocket full of bullets.
continued...
Sunday, February 21, 2016
Fresnoy - A Personal Memoir - Part 2
Then just before we moved we fell silent each immersed in his own pleasant dreams, except Morgan, perhaps, who had been listening to us for a spell. Suddenly he remarked rather quietly, "Boys, I don't feel like going up tonight." "Funny", said his pal Purvis, "neither do I." Well, we tried to cheer him up, but to me it came as a bit of a shock at that. "No Boys. I was over at Vimy and frankly it didn't bother me at all, but tonight -- well, I feel different."
Then came the "Fall In" above the trench in the dark. We moved off, jumping the trench enroute, to the shovel dump. Every man had something to carry that night besides his 48 hour rations and an extra 50 rounds. Slipping and sliding through the mud on an inky dark night we moved along and down the ridge.
Our first shock came near the bottom of the old chalk road, with startling suddenness. We were bombarded with gas shells, just as if he knew we were coming they landed in our midst. Some men were hit, some gassed and confusion reigned till we got organized again. It was an ominous start and our spirits were scarcely revived by a drizzley rain, the almost continuous whine of shells overhead, and a sickish smell of gas and corruption from dead horses which sprinkled the whole terrain. The route lay overland till we hit the trenches about one mile from the line.
And what a trip that was -- the rain had made it slimy, we slithered and slipped. I gave up my pick to help a man carry his bombs. Fifteen in a bag -- and darned heavy, too. The continual rains had made the trenches almost impassable, in places they were battered in, water waste deep in one spot, wire underfoot -- wire overhead. Continually you'd hear, "Make way for a stretcher party", and every so often find a wounded Tommy resting, or come across a group of three or four where a sniper had done his work infiltrating from the right where the trench was hammered in.
I remember one incident well. We were resting, by now our hands and clothes were an inch thick in mud, and our rifles -- well, we didn't examine them till the next day and the breechings were plastered with mud. One hardly knew who was near him, but I heard a voice remark with the depth of feeling which such a thought would indicate, "Man, if only our mothers could see us now." A star shell went up and I saw his face. He meant it too -- someone laughed -- and such is man's inhumanity. I laughed as well, quietly, and strangely enough the load felt lighter and we moved on, feeling just a little bit warmer to one another -- a little less sorry for our own particular selves, and more aware of the fact there were others, too, in the same box.
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Saturday, February 20, 2016
Fresnoy - A Personal Memoir - Part 1
Amongst the battle honours of the Canadian Corps there are many names which to the men of one Battalion have an entirely different significance than to the men of another. Such a name is Fresnoy. It was captured in April 1917 by the men of the 6th Brigade and for them there is at least some little satisfaction in the fact that "they captured Fresnoy". (Fresnoy is a small farming community situated 9 miles northeast of Arras).
For the men of the 4th Brigade, however, and in particular the 19th and 20th Battalions there is no such satisfaction as that, for the 19th "lost" Fresnoy -- but lest any misunderstanding occur it might be well to explain that the village of Fresnoy, or rather - what was once Fresnoy -- when captured formed the very point of a salient. A bulge had been made in the German lines at this point -- a very deep bulge - and the intention no doubt was that a strong point should be created here which would assist attacking troops on the right and left to straighten out the line.
Heine wasn't exactly dumb at that though and the attack having pretty well slowed up now, his morale was greatly improved by the addition of reinforcements. He decided, just as the morning the 19th took over, and before they really established themselves in the line, to do the straightening out himself. He had all the advantages with him of the high ground: several days continuous bombardment from three sides, which destroyed all the wire; and a fresh Imperial Battalion on our right composed mostly of young boys who stood the gaff too long and were in no fit shape to receive the attack when it came. He got in on them on the morning of the 8th of May, 1917, a foggy dismal morning after all night and several nights before rain.
But to go back. We had parked on the ridge in a series of shelters in old German trenches a short distance from the edge of the hill. We had heard the bombardment for days and on the 7th many walking wounded, wild eyed, and with all the appearances of having undergone a tough experience, passed along the trench. Prospects ahead looked none too rosy. We knew we were for it that night.
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Thursday, February 18, 2016
Rookie Joins "D" Company - Part 3
The trench was only about three feet deep here and up to this point we hadn't used it. Here a fine view could be had of the entire region towards Fresnoy and Lens on the north. Bill pointed it all out to us, and in the midst of the narrative we heard a shell coming with startling precipitation. We had become somewhat familiar with the sound the previous few weeks, but this was a big one and was going to be close. Some of the boys eased into the dugout. The shell landed above us near the top, but Bill betrayed no sign whatever of interest, going on more earnestly than ever with his story. Three minutes later another shell came and we again experienced the same funny feeling in the pits of our stomachs. This one was below us and closer, but still Bill was unmoved, and despite our own misgivings we held our ground. For two minutes he continued to chat and pass remarks, and then said, "Well boys, he's apparently got us spotted, you'd better get inside." We needed no further invitation and Bill, without hurrying in the least, made his way along the slope and towards the next dugout. The next shell was just about due and in a wordless prayer I hoped to hell he'd just get around the corner into the deeper trench ahead of it. He just did and the next one was really close. It sprayed dirt all around our abode and shell splinters screamed through the air for a long time. You can readily imagine Bill made a wonderful hit with us new fellows that day.
I got another glimpse of him at Fresnoy not so long afterward. We had retired a thousand yards to Winnipeg Road abandoning the deep salient where our losses were were so heavy that day. The word came, "Stand to, Heinie is coming over." Remember? It was the evening. Harry Dibble and I had thrown away our rifles in order to carry out "Purvis" who had been wounded. Harry had found another, however, and I had a little pocket revolver I had won in a poker game on the way across the pond. Bill Squib, picking out the two newest recruits, parked right beside Harry and I, and proud boys we were too as Bill waved his old hat in the air and with fulsome oaths, called the old bastards to come on. Then he looked down at me, tensed and white of face as I no doubt was after the strenuous night and day we had had, and burst out laughing. "Well for God's sakes kid, what the hell do you expect to hit with that pea shooter?" I had to smile too for I was no longer "skeered" but ready and hopeful for them to come.
Poor old Bill, he was the best Sergeant Major I ever had the honour to meet, and the friendship which we shared is one of my proudest recollections. We had come to look upon him as impregnable, steady as a rock, without any nerves... I slept on a bank beneath him at Gouay Servins the night before the move south in March 1918. He was restless that night tossing about considerably and I wondered... It seemed almost unbelievable... "Has Bill got a hunch?" Perhaps he had. It was his last trek and he died as he had lived waiving an old French sword in the face of the enemy that morning when they came over at Beillecourt.
To me Bill Squib was the supreme example of courage and inspiration to his men. When he passed on there was a feeling of gloom throughout the whole Battalion.