Canada in Flanders, Volume I

by Baron Max Aitken Beaverbrook

In the early morning I came to the cross roads. The signpost planted at the crossing and pointing down the road to the south-east bore the inscription "Six kilometres to Neuve Chapelle."

This was the road that the legions had taken. It led almost in a straight line to the trenches that were to be stormed, to the village behind them that was to be captured, and to the town of La Bassée, a few kilometres further on, strongly held by the Germans.

"Six kilometres to Neuve Chapelle "—barely four miles; one hour's easy walking, let us say, on such a clear, fresh morning; or five minutes in a touring car if the time had been peace. But who knew how many hours of bloody struggle would now be needed to cover that short level stretch of "Six kilometres to Neuve Chapelle"! Between this signpost and the village towards which it pointed the way, many thousands of armed men—sons of the Empire—had come from Britain, from India, from all parts of the Dominions Overseas, to take their share in driving the wedge down to the end of this six kilometres of country road, and through the heart of the German lines. Here for a moment they paused. What hopes, what fears, what joys, what sorrows, triumphs and tragedies were suggested by that austere signpost, pointing "like Death's lean-lifted forefinger" down that little stretch of road marked "Six kilometres to Neuve Chapelle"!

I went on foot part of the way here, for so many battalions of men were massed that motor traffic was impossible. These were troops held in reserve. Those selected for the initial infantry attack were already in the trenches ahead right and left of the further end of the road, waiting on the moment of the advance.

I had just passed the signpost when the comparative peace of morning was awfully shattered by the united roar and crash of hundreds of guns.

This broke out precisely at half-past seven. The exact moment had been fixed beforehand for the beginning of a cannonade more concentrated and more terrific than any previous cannonade in the history of the world. It continued with extraordinary violence for half-an-hour, all calibres of guns taking part in it. Some of the grandmotherly British howitzers hurled their enormously destructive shells into the German lines, on which a hurricane of shrapnel was descending from a host of smaller guns. The German guns and trenches offered little or no reply, for the enemy were cowering for shelter from that storm.

I turned towards the left and watched for awhile the good part which the Canadian Artillery played in that attack. The Canadian Division, which was a little further north than Neuve Chapelle, waited in its trenches, hoping always for the order to advance.

Then I passed down the road until I came to a minor crossways where a famous general stood in the midst of his Staff. Motor despatch riders dashed up the road, bringing him news of the progress of the bombardment. The news was good. The General awaited the moment when the cannonade should cease, as suddenly as it had begun, and he should unleash his troops.

Indian infantry marched down the road and saluted the General as they passed. He returned the salute and cried to the officer at the head of the column, "Good luck." The officer was an Indian, who, with a smile, replied in true Oriental fashion: "Our Division has doubled in strength, General-Sahib, since it has seen you."

While the bombardment continued, British aeroplanes sailed overhead and crossed over to the German lines. The Germans promptly turned some guns on them. We saw white ball-puffs of smoke as the shrapnel shells burst in front, behind, above, below, and everywhere around the machines, but never near enough to hit. They hovered like eagles above the din of the battle, surveying and reckoning the damage which our guns inflicted, and reporting progress.