Sunday, February 21, 2016

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.

continued...