Letters From the Front

Dated: May 30, 1915

May, 1915:

I am going to give you a few impressions of my first few days in the trenches. As you know we volunteered to go in as infantry, pending arrival of reinforcements of Canadian Infantry. After two weeks of marching all over the north of France we at last went into the reserve trenches on Saturday, 22nd May. The reserve trenches consist of a very strong wall of sacks filled with sand, and behind are bomb-proof shelters and dugouts. The Germans shelled the place for all they were worth until well on Sunday, when they ceased for a while. They did no damage however. About noon on Sunday our troops got orders to go down to the front lines in a very shallow communication trench and to bring down boxes of ammunition and bombs. When we were in. the communication trench they shelled us. I thought my end had surely some. We were all lying down flat. Several of the boys were killed and wounded around this place. My head was between the feet of the man in front of me, whose right foot was almost blown off by a fragment of a shell. All that was left of the troop (10) went forward and after various little experiences arrived at the front trench and delivered our goods. It was on my way here that I saw the Germans deliberately turn a machine gun on four fellows who were carrying out a wounded man. I am afraid I called those Huns some very impolite names at that point. At noon we found we had to repair about two hundred yards of communication trench that had been blown away in the morning. Before starting this we decided to have dinner, so we 'dug ourselves in' and wrestled with some bully beef and hard tack. This finished we picked up our shovels and picks and started out. We were just about one hundred yards from our 'dugout' and in a very exposed place, when they started the fireworks. There was a sand bank there and we rushed for it. I dug a hole with my nose and hugged it tight. You would think the ten of us were frozen to the bank, we lay so close. A shell hit the bank immediately above my head and two of us were absolutely covered with sand and clay. There was a dirty, green, slimy pool immediately behind where we lay. A shell burst right in it and presto, we were all covered with green slime and pieces of frogs and everything. After about fifteen minutes the fire subsided and our guns started to go. It surely was the sweetest music to hear our shells whistling over there and making the Germans keep quiet.
When it all stopped I shook myself and took a look around. My haversack was riddled and there was a great piece of shell imbedded in my tin of bully beef. My emergency ration of biscuits was all broken up into crumbs. A cartridge pouch was completely shot off my belt and not a round in it exploded. Two of our boys were wounded. I had a piece of shrapnel in the fleshy part of my thigh. I got it out yesterday and am 'right as paint' now.
Just about this time I saw some of the finest examples of pluck that a person could see. One sergeant had a great piece torn out of his right arm. He calmly put his left hand into his pocket, pulled out a knife, opened it with his teeth and slit his coat sleeve. Then took a field dressing out of his pocket and bandaged himself. When it was done he called the corporal of his troop and gave him charge. Another place there were two fellows carrying ammunition to the front trenches. The front one got wounded and said 'Say, mate, can you possibly carry the two boxes up? I'm wounded.' Just as he said it the other chap fell. He said, 'By gosh, I copped it myself, Jack.' Then No. 1 said that the boys in front might be badly in need of it and that they would have to get it up anyway. So away they went; one with blood oozing out through his puttee and the other with his arm nearly shot off. These are only a couple of the thousands that happen every day. Americans are, and always have been, rather too ready to look down upon the Britisher as a good-for-nothing lady-like cissy, but if you only saw him as I did you would 'take off your hat' to him as the pluckiest and most manly fellow in the whole world. You should see them go and pick up a wounded comrade under shell fire. Perhaps I had better describe shell fire. First you hear it coming as a dull moan, then it gradually develops into a weird whistle, then a shriek and the earth rocks under you; you are covered with mud and earth and you are glad you are alive. Simultaneously with the bursting of a shell come the cries and moans of the wounded. When you are exposed to this for quite a while it gets rather nerve-racking. My left ear is singing yet.
To continue my narrative, though, it was utterly impossible to work that afternoon, so we went into a dugout and rested till dusk. When dusk came we carried out the wounded, and another fellow and I went up to headquarters. An officer there gave us a fine hot supper. This finished, we marched right back to the trenches. It was midnight when we got there, and we worked till 6 p.m. the next evening, fortifying a communication trench. While we were here a party of Germans came along with bombs to try and throw at us. We fixed our bayonets and started to climb over the parapets. Just as soon as they saw the steel they ran as fast as their legs could take them. The day passed rather uneventfully, except that the snipers kept things going. I had a few narrow escapes myself. That night we were relieved in the front trenches and went to the reserve. We slept all day in the reserves (we hadn't slept a wink for four days), and in the evening we started on a very welcome march back to the billets where we still are. The net result of our work was that the Huns were driven back nearly half a mile and we captured several trenches. Besides this we had withstood as hot a bombardment as had any in the war. Not bad for green troops first time under fire, is it?
And now I've had a good hot bath, some new clothing, lots of civilized food and lots of sleep, and am feeling as good as ever.
My impressions are many—here are a few of them: (1) The man who said War is hell is right to the letter. (2) There is no pluckier man in the world than the British soldier. And lastly the Germans are a poor bunch, especially those who indulge in firing on Red Cross parties.
Now, you've got a description of the little bit of war I saw. I find, on looking over the description, that it is a very poor one. Please goodness, I'll be able to tell it to you by word of mouth one of these days.