Fresnoy - A Personal Memoir - Part 2

Four of us spent the last evening together in a sort of gun pit, with the usual corrugated iron covering, reminiscing. Well, three of us listened mostly while Morgan of the old 157th Battalion regaled us with many hilarious yarns of days in Camp Borden and fun with the nurses in Barrie Hospital where he had the good fortune to be incarcerated for a spell. We had a fine time. It was one of those evenings that stand out. Forgotten was all about the impending trip -- we were back in Canada again, neath sunny Borden skies, remembering all the good things about those days -- the cool evenings, wonderful drinking water, shower baths after parade and in the morning, the "Y" sports, the big tattoo, weekend leaves, etc. What a spell that evening was.

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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Fresnoy - A Personal Memoir - Part 1

by Sergeant Edgar Harold, 19th Battalion

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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Rookie Joins "D" Company - Part 3

Our first real appreciation of CSM Squib came about ten days later. We had been sent on a fatigue party to the Engineers for a week and assisted in the building of the plank road near Thelus, and when we came back the battalion was in dugouts on the east side of the slope. The first day we were there, Bill came along and invited us out into the sunshine.

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.

Rookie Joins "D" Company - Part 2

It seemed hard to believe in the actuality of those first grim casualties. On the way up odd parties could be seen moving about here and there in the vicinity of La Targette and my stomach took nearly a complete somersault when someone said, “There’s ‘Bunny’ Garde.” We had heard of Bunny’s death also the night before. I expected to see his body, but it was actually Bunny in the flesh and even the sight of him was another shock to a stomach which was much “in a wind up” condition. Bunny said the report of his death (like Mark Twain’s) had been greatly exaggerated. Bunny was wrong, however; the report was only anticipated by about one month.

We finally came to a halt in a big crater and the adjutant appeared from nowhere with Bernie Brown at his heels and we were detailed to companies. The old-timers were called out first and they disappeared without further preliminaries. The new men were then detailed and it fell to my lot along with two others to go to “D” Company. So we accompanied L/Cpl. Joe Stehl over a maze of shell holes to — well how anyone found “D” Company or anything else I couldn’t figure out, it all looked the same to me as Heinie’s counter barrage had sure made a mess of almost anything that resembled a trench. The CSM then appeared unshaven — without a head-covering, tunic open at the neck and a sweater underneath. What a hell of a Sergeant Major he looked to us, in our ignorance. But he was friendly, took our names and numbers, religion, next-of-kin, etc. In the meantime the mess hogs appeared with rations. We got in at the tail end, and coffee was our only sustenance that meal. But there was one bright spot. Harry Dibble appeared, and great was our joy to be in the same company. He said he’d get us into his dugout, only to return to us sitting on a bump in the snow later, with the discouraging news that they were all filled up — nowhere could we go; all the dugouts were filled up even to the stairways in some cases.

I will draw a veil over the rest of the day and night that followed. How we kept from perishing then and there will always be a mystery… one I don’t care to dwell on. To give CSM Bill Squib his due though, he told the Company clerk to find us quarters, but there the matter ended.

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Rookie Joins "D" Company - Part 1

by Sergeant Edgar Harold, 19th Battalion

It was a bleak day in April 1917, exactly one week after Vimy and the reinforcement draft, of which I was a member. 

I’d spent the previous night at Mont St. Eloi, having come up from a month’s stay at the Cups Yards at Hersin Coupigny. The trip up to the battalion lines at “Mill Street” over muddy roads and shell torn trails was far from being a pleasure jaunt. Added to the natural trepidation one had going into the unknown was the knowledge of the ground we were crossing. Here rumour said 80,000 Frenchmen had died in a vain effort to win the ridge. Rusted French carbines and pieces of equipment sticking up through the mud and snowy water bore mute testimony to the truth of this. We cast half fearful glances into every shell hole for dead bodies we had been told would still be seen from the last big show on April 9th, but the sight of which happily we were spared by the Herculean efforts of the mopping up parties.

The reality of war had come home to us very forcibly the night before when we had met some of the boys from the old Sportsman’s Battalion at the “Y” at St. Eloi. They had the advantage over us of a month up the lines and gave us the news that Riley Helm, an old boy from my section in the old battalion, had been killed the day before. Poor Riley, we had slept in the same tent all the previous summer at Camp Borden.

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Vimy Remembered - Part 3

In At the Forks of the Grand he was asked if they were aware what was happening elsewhere. He replied, ‘No, we didn’t know anything beyond what our own platoon or company was doing. That was true of most battles, big and small.’

Did you begin to think the war was coming to an end, he was also asked? On October 10, 1918, when we were going through a little town. It was the first we went through that wasn’t completely destroyed by shell-fire. And the night before people were coming down the road with baby-buggies and all that kind of stuff, getting back of the lines. We also saw dogs and cats. Any place else we had been nearly everything was wiped off the map.

On the chances of getting killed: Well, you always knew that there was a possibility. One method I used to keep from thinking of being badly wounded or killed was to keep busy. I took every opportunity to volunteer for extra duties… After I had been at the front for a few months, they sent me down to the divisional reserve to take a NCO’s course. Towards the end of it, I was all pepped up to go back to the front, but they told me I had to stay on as an instructor. I said, ‘I don’t want to do that’… I saw the colonel, and he said, ‘If you feel that way about it, we’ll see that you go back at the end of the course…’ You see, all my friends were at the front and I felt as though I was deserting them. So eventually I got back. I had weighed all the possibilities. I realized that I might be wounded or killed, but I must say that I didn’t really have any kind of hunch until the day I was wounded. The night before I began to think things over. I said to myself, ‘I wonder how many times I can get away with continually going over the top?’ It was a different kind of war towards the end. In trench-warfare you felt you had a chance. You could take some protection and the casualties were not too heavy in a normal trip into the line. There would be a few wounded and killed, but not many.

*Credit Note: from At the Forks of the Grand, Vol. 2, D. A. Smith, Paris Public Library Board

Vimy Remembered - Part 2

I was lying there half asleep when suddenly all hell broke loose. The first thing I could think of in my muddled way was a typewriter. It sounded just like that. It was a machine-gun, and the bullets were whizzing overhead. The next thing was a barrage of whiz-bangs, and boy! they sure came fast. If they banged on the other side of the trench, you were lucky. I said to myself, ‘Well, I’d better see what’s going on.’ So I got out and looked around. I thought that this was the usual early morning strafe that we had to get used to. So I eased myself back into the hole and was just about to open a tin of beans when I thought I’d better look again. When I did, I found that the fellows were all out of their funk-holes, and that a man was running over the top right by me. I said, ‘What’s up?’ He said, ‘The Germans have overrun the front line! Our boys have all run away.’ So I said, ‘Well we’re in support. We’ll have to hold them here.’

So we got our rifles out and stood to, but in the darkness we couldn’t see anything. Then an officer appeared and he said, ‘Boys, we’ve got to go over the top and recapture that trench.’ As we started over the top, I thought, ‘Well, I am right so far, so I lit a cigarette, and right then somebody called out, ‘Stretcher bearer! Stretcher bearers on the double.’ I looked around and saw that somebody had been hit.

After going some little distance, we came to a communication trench and got into it. Then the officer yelled, ‘Up the trench and bomb them out!’ So we started up the trench in single file, and I was third. Suddenly, I saw my sergeant lying dead. We got just a short distance farther when a man came back and said to me, ‘Have you any bomb?’ ’No’ I said. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘there are some Germans up there. We can hear them.’ I said, ‘I’ll go back and get some.’ When I started back I found that nobody had been following us. I said to the other two, ‘We’d better go back. They want us to establish a strong point.’ This we did with sandbags, and we mounted a machine-gun. All the others were standing to and firing at dim shadows they could barely see ahead of them. So I said to the other sergeant, ‘Can you be sure that those are Germans or our own men?’ He said, ‘I’m not sure.’ ‘Well,’ I said, ‘perhaps we should stop firing.’ At that, he instructed to stop. That’s how much confusion there was. As a result of this little engagement we lost 75 of the 750 men in the battalion.

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*Credit Note: from At the Forks of the Grand, Vol. 2, D. A. Smith, Paris Public Library Board

Vimy Remembered - Part 1

In late 1915, 17 year old Edgar Harold, my grandfather, tried to enlist. He was unsuccessful. He later tried twice more but was also refused. On February 8, 1916, when not quite 18, he was accepted along with three boyhood friends into the 19th Battalion, Canadian Expeditionary Force (CEF).

Many years later my grandfather was asked by my uncle, Jack Pickell, editor of the Paris Star, in the book At the Forks of the Grand* why he was so eager to enlist. He replied that he thought his motives were pretty good. He went on to say there was quite an attempt to educate people on the causes of the war and he said he felt that he and his friends were fighting for what was right. Being brought up on Boys’ Own Annual and Chums and novels like Henty and Ballantyne, Edgar looked at joining as an adventure.

He was also asked if he could have imagined how terrifying an artillery bombardment or being under machine-gun fire could be. He replied, “Well, we knew it as well as one could from a distance. I talked to Am Fraser, and he gave me a pretty good run down on it. It didn’t sound all that good… I was prepared for it in a sense, that’s all. When you get pitched into it, you find it’s something you really couldn’t imagine." 

The following is from the same interview in 1978 in At the Forks of the Grand*:

My first experience in the line was probably the most devastating… It was on April 16, 1917 - the night we first went up to the line. We had just started down the hill on the other side of Vimy Ridge when shells began to fall - gas shells, quite a lot of them. We were choking, but just had to stay in line. Finally, still in line, we reached the trenches The water was up to our knees and deeper in places, and all kinds of wounded and dead were lying there in the mud because they couldn’t be evacuated… We landed in a sunken road and were told to spread out, so I took part in the spreading out and then put myself up against a parapet and dug a little funk hole with my entrenching tool. I then got my groundsheet and fastened to the top of the hole with with some bullets pulled through it… Finally I slid in and lay there exhausted - completely worn out.

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*Credit Note: from At the Forks of the Grand, Vol. 2, D. A. Smith, Paris Public Library Board