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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