Canada in Flanders, Volume I

by Baron Max Aitken Beaverbrook

"It is by presence of mind in untried emergencies that the native metal of a man is tested."—LOWELL.

In a battle of the extent and diversity of Ypres, there naturally arose innumerable acts of individual heroism, to which reference could not be made in the course of the narrative of the engagement without disturbing its military balance as a whole.

I therefore propose to deal with a few of these incidents now, as they form a record of unsurpassed valour and tenacity of which every Canadian must be proud.

Quite apart, however, from incidents which occur in the actual fighting, there is a time immediately before a battle, and a time immediately after it, which provide a wealth of human interest too poignant to be overlooked. Our vision, narrowed a little by direct concentration on the progress of the engagement, and our ears dulled a little by the din of the conflict, we are prone to overlook the fact that this war is waged amid scenes only a short time ago devoted to the various avocations of peace, and that on the Western Front, especially, the armies of the Allies are oftentimes inextricably mixed with the civilian element and the civilian population.

A wave of battle is like a wave of the sea. While it advances, one is only conscious of its rush and roar, only concerned to measure how far it may advance. As it ebbs, the known landmarks show again, and we have leisure to gather observations of comrades who were borne backwards or forwards on the flood.

The wave that fell on us round Ypres has baptised the Dominion into nationhood—the mere written word, "Canada," glows now with a new meaning before all the civilised world. Canada has proved herself, and not unworthily; but those who survive of the men who have won us our world-right to pride, are too busy to trouble their heads about history. That may come in days of peace. The main outlines of the battle have been dealt with already. We know what troops took part in it and how they bore themselves, but the thousand vivid and intimate episodes, seen between two blasts of gunfire, or recounted by men met by chance in some temporary shelter, can never all be told. Yet they are too characteristic in their unconsciousness to be left without an attempt at a record; so I give a little handful from a great harvest.

In the days before the battle, when the Canadians lived for the most part in and about Sailly, whence one saw, as I have already written, the German trench-flares like Northern Lights on the horizon, Honorary Captain C. T. Costigan, of Calgary, was the paymaster, and lived, as the paymaster must, decently remote from the firing line. Then came the attack that proved Canada; and the German flares advanced, and advanced, till they no longer resembled flickering auroras, but the sizzling electric arc-lights of a great city. Captain Costigan locked up his paychest and abolished his office with the words: "There is no paymaster." Next, sinking his rank as honorary captain, he applied for work in the trenches, and went off, a second lieutenant of the 10th Canadians, who needed officers. He was seen no more until Monday morning, when he returned to search for his office, which had been moved to a cellar at the rear and was, at the moment, in charge of a sergeant. But he had only returned to inveigle some officer with a gift for accounts into the paymastership. This arranged, he sped back to his adopted Battalion.[[1]] He was not the only one of his department who served as a combatant on that day. Honorary Captain McGregor, of British Columbia, for example, had been paymaster in the Canadian Scottish, 16th Battalion. He, too, armed with a cane and a revolver, went forward at his own desire to hand-to-hand fighting in the wood where he was killed, fighting gallantly to the last.

The case of Major Guthrie, of New Brunswick, is somewhat similar. He was Major of the 12th Battalion, still in England, but was then at the front in some legal-military capacity connected with courts-martial. He, like Captain Costigan, had asked the General that Friday morning for a commission in the sorely tried 10th. There was some hesitation, since Guthrie as a major might quite possibly find himself in command of what was left of the 10th if, and when, he found it. "I'll go as a lieutenant, of course," said he; and as a lieutenant he went.[[2]]

The grim practical joking of Fate is illustrated by the adventures of Major Hercule Barré—a young French Canadian who fought well and spoke English imperfectly. He had been ordered to get to his company in haste, and on the way (it was dark) met some British officers, who promptly declared him a spy. The more he protested, the more certain they were that his speech betrayed him. So they had him back to the nearest Headquarters, where he was identified by a brother officer, and started off afresh—only to be held up a second time by some cyclists, who treated him precisely as the British officers had done. Once again he reached Headquarters; once more the officer, who had identified him before, guaranteed his good faith; and for the third time Barré set out. This time it was a bullet that stopped him. He dragged himself to the side of the road and waited for help. Someone came at last, and he hailed. "Who is it?" said a voice. "I, Barré!" he cried. "What, you, Barré? What do you want this time?" It was the officer who had twice identified him within the last hour. "Stretcher-bearers," said Barré. His friend in need summoned a stretcher-bearer, and Barré was borne off—to tell the tale against himself afterwards.

There were many others who fell by the way in the discharge of their duty. Lieut.-Colonel Currie, commanding the 48th Highlanders, 15th Battalion, had his telephone communication with his men in the trenches cut by shrapnel. He therefore moved his Battalion Headquarters into the reserve trenches, and took with him there a little band of "runners" to keep him in touch with the Brigade Headquarters, a couple of miles in the rear. A "runner" is a man on foot who, at every risk, must bear the message entrusted to him to its destination over ground cross-harrowed by shellfire and, possibly, in the enemy's occupation. One such runner was despatched, and was no more heard of until, days after the battle, the Lieut.-Colonel received a note from him in hospital. It ran: "My dear Colonel Currie,—I am so sorry that you will be annoyed with me for not bringing back a receipt for the message which you sent to Headquarters by me. I delivered the message all right, but on the way back with a receipt, I was hurt by a shell, and I am taking this first opportunity of letting you know that the message was delivered. I am afraid that you will be angry with me. I am now in hospital.—Yours truly, (Sgd.) M. K. Kerr." It is characteristic of the Colonel, and our country, that he should always refer to the private as M. K. Kerr; and, from the English point of view, equally characteristic that M. K. Kerr's report should begin: "My dear Colonel Currie." And it marks the tone of the whole Battalion, that only two hundred men and two officers should have come unscathed out of the battle.