Fresnoy - A Personal Memoir - Part 7

We navigated the first leg of our journey without event, but Lord those bottles were heavy. I felt as if my neck was being amputated. In the road, however, we met with many sights which will long remain in the limn of memory. Dozens of casualties were there. Wild-eyed from the last bombardment which had registered directly on our trench and was still going on, one man had lost his speech entirely. His plight was pitiable. All the way up the trench we dodged and ducked shells, and sniper bullets registered on the high spots, the water bottles around our necks and the cans in our hands took the last ounce out of us. We felt we should hurry. Anything might be happening in the trench, and such a sight as met our eyes defies description. Hell had reigned supreme for over an hour. It was a badly battered road that met our eyes. Many funk holes had been destroyed, including Andy's on our right killing both occupants. Two sergeants sat together their heads down, arms around one another. Helpless in the inferno to do anything, just taking it and ready to go together. Shortly after we landed a shell hit in the next hole on our left. Another lad and we too started in to help. Something went wrong with the other lads nerves when another shell landed nearby and without any forewarning he dropped his shovel and started to run over the bank. Heaven knows where he landed or if he ever did as I never saw him again. Maybe he lay out there and died. Maybe he got to Blighty.

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.

Fresnoy - A Personal Memoir - Part 6

Billy Sunday, an officer, was at the junction of the communication and the road, which we were now to convert into the line, and called on Bill Squib to relieve us of our burden. He directed us away from the spot which surely would have been marked. (He was killed there himself the next day). We soon saw Purvis on his way overland in the growing dusk with a party of four and in the same minute heard the order, "Stand to!" "Heine coming over!" Well, Harry grabbed a rifle by the side of a dead comrade and we plastered ourselves against the wall. Squibb seeing us and knowing we were the newest recruits aligned himself beside us. Waving his hat in the air and with many fulsome oaths he defied the bastards to come over. Then, seeing me, green and white-faced, and with only a ladies revolver (which I had won in a poker game on the boat over), he laughed aloud, "Well for God's sake kid, what do you expect to hit with that peashooter?" I felt foolish no doubt, but bucked indeed to be beside so doughty a warrior, and when alarm passed, and Harry and I fell to constructing a funk hole, much of my trepidation had passed, too.

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.

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Fresnoy - A Personal Memoir - Part 5

In my funk hole was a wounded lad, cheery, but obviously distressed. Without disturbing him I retrieved my haversack and reported the incident to Allan. Two tins of beans and a good hunk of bread, taken with large gulps of friendly banter on Allan's part relieved this part of the day handsomely. And when a little later he left and Sergeant Davidson appeared looking for four volunteers to carry a stretcher party, although Heine had increased his shelling which had been going on incessantly all day, it wasn't too big an effort to accept the challenge of his eye as it roved around the group.

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).

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Fresnoy - A Personal Memoir - Part 4

As we started I lit a cigarette offering one to my nearest neighbour. It surprised me to hear before we had gone six feet someone call out "stretcher bearer", then from another angle "stretcher bearer on the double." I couldn't see any danger and in the noise and confusion scarce recognized the whine of bullets around us. At about 50 to 70 yards we landed in a communication trench running at an angle to the front line and the orders were "up the trench to the line." Two men were ahead of me and I hadn't gone far before a bullet zipped into the mud beside my head. I dropped and lying face up beside me was Sergeant Edwards, killed by the same sniper no doubt. He was a fine fellow. They called him "Happy" as he was always smiling. We crawled along further as at this point there was only about three feet of protection in places.

At this point Joe Bush came around an angle. "Have you any bombs?" I hadn't. Fraser was behind me and neither had he. Joe and the other lad who was with him had heard Germans in the next bay. Fraser then called "there's no one following us." Well it didn't take us long to get back, and we found out the orders had been countermanded but didn't get as far as us; we were to block the trench instead and establish a bombing post. This work was nearly completed when we arrived and the rest of us fell to, converting the communication trench into a fire trench with a lookout on both sides. Towards the line and about two hundred yards away could be discerned figures moving toward the German trench. It was somewhat foggy, but they presented a good target against the light. Several of our boys took shots at them until it was suggested some might be our own men taken prisoner, at which the Sergeant intervened and ordered a stop to the firing. 

After all had quieted down my old pal Doc Rutherford, at that time Corporal Rutherford, appeared and seeing me suggested we build a funk hole. So unhooking his entrenching tool I handed it over to him while he fell to. Then I had a spell, and he had one, and I had one again and fell exhausted. Doc had another go and we both fell exhausted and slept with only our heads and the upper parts protected against rain and splinters of shells.

About noon our officer, Tom Allan, appeared and asked for Doc. I pointed him sprawled out over my legs and Allan had a good laugh, at which Doc awoke. Allan was hungry and asked Doc for provisions. They were both from Owen Sound, both graduates of pharmacy, good pals, as officer and man can often be in France. Doc had nothing and suddenly I remembered my haversack. I had thought of it earlier, but the mud had been so bad that even my cardigan was plastered from frequent wiping of my hands under my tunic. Our rifles too had been so plastered we had to lubricate the breeches to make them work.

Our bay was only the second from the road, and such a sight as met my eye: dead and wounded in all sorts of positions. The M.O's (Medical Officer's) dugout was only a short distance and farther down the road and above the trench had been tossed what looked like dozens of bodies of those beyond human aid. I then realized how easy it was to be marked missing. It was a physical impossibility to take out the stretcher cases in the mud, with snipers spotting every place where the trench was battered in. It was even impossible to bury them with the whole area so raked with machine gun and shell fire.

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Fresnoy - A Personal Memoir - Part 3

After many delays, as a consequence of our guide losing his way more than once, and frequent stops to allow stretcher parties to pass, we finally landed dead on our feet from exhaustion in Winnipeg Road where "D" Company was in support for the Battalion. Being in the last section of 16 Platoon I found myself in the extreme funk hole, one to the right. The other boys having, foolishly too, located themselves in the nearest shelters that offered themselves to the community trench -- always a bad place to be as such spots were likely to be registered by enemy artillery.

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.

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