Tuesday, April 26, 2016

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.

continued...