Belgium will have to be rebuilt entirely, or left as it is, a monument to “Kultur.”
My section has been ordered up to a divisional area on the south of the salient. In accordance with instructions I went up to Ypres this morning to find a place to park the machines.
Contrary to the popular belief, we do not fight our guns from the motor cycles themselves. We use our machines to get about on, and the guns are taken up as near as possible to the position we are to occupy, which is usually behind Brigade Headquarters. [pg 090] Brigadiers have a great aversion to any kind of motor vehicle being driven past their headquarters, owing to the movement and noise, which they believe attracts attention to themselves, and as a rule the sentries posted outside will see that no machines go by. We get up as far as we can, because after we part from our machines, everything must be carried up through the trenches by hand.
Bringing Up A Motor Machine Gun
I arrived at the town early and reported to the major who is in charge of the town and of the troops quartered there. He was living in the prison, a substantial brick and stone building, which has been smashed about a bit, but which is still a fairly good structure. The major is a fine, gruff old gentleman who was a master of fox hounds in the North of England. He came over with a detachment of cavalry. He is past the age limit, and it was decided that although he was a fine soldier, perhaps his age would be a deterrent and his job ought to be something lighter, so they gave him one of the fiercest jobs in the world—O. C. Ypres!
I was sent in, and when he heard my errand he said, “You want to park your machines in Ypres? Why don't you take them up in the German front lines? You'll be safer there than here. Listen to the shelling now.” I knew this, but I was doing just exactly what I was told. He continued: “I have now thousands of troops here and my daily casualties are enormous, so naturally I don't want any more men. The best plan for you will be to go down the Lille road and pick a house below ‘Shrapnel Corner.’ ”
I went on through the town, under the Lille gate, across the tram lines, past the famous cross-roads known as “Shrapnel Corner” and chummed up with some artillery officers. They told me that I could have any of the houses I wanted. I picked a couple which looked to me to be more complete than the rest and chalked them up. This whole place was alive with batteries. While I was there I heard a shout and suddenly a hidden battery of guns, sunk behind the road with the muzzles almost resting on [pg 092] it, started firing across in the direction of the part of Belgium occupied by Fritz. I had passed within two feet of these guns and yet had not seen them, they were so well “camouflaged.” On my way back I saw the “Big Berthas” bursting in the town, and I was surprised that so little damage had been actually done to the Lille gate itself. Shells had visited everywhere in the neighborhood, but had not smashed this old structure.
I went home, collected my men together, and told them the importance of the work we were to undertake. I have found it always a good thing to make the men think the job that they are doing is of great importance. Better results are obtained that way.