Part
III.—‘With Canadians at the Front’
By
Lacey Amy
From
The Canadian Magazine, XLVIII, No. 1,
Toronto, November, 1916.
Digitized
by Doug Frizzle, July 2016.
IT was in the early days of the war when trench warfare was
in its experimental stages. Bombing was so imperfectly organized that but
forty bombers were attached to each battalion. An order came to bomb out a
certain troublesome section of German trench and volunteers were called for.
Captain C., a hard-drinking, hard-fighting, reckless, but very popular officer,
was given charge of the operation. To the fall-in he addressed himself as
follows: “Now, boys, I want twenty of you. I don’t want one that’s married; I
don’t want one who doesn’t booze; I don’t want one who expects to return.” It
is not an essential part of the story for my purpose that they all volunteered.
What is essential is that he wanted only those who would not be missed.
“The Suicide Club” is the soldiers’ title for the bombers,
and it is succinctly descriptive. There is no more dangerous work at the
front. Also there is none more exciting, stimulating, satisfying. As one
bomber, lying in hospital with bandaged head and a pair of useless arms and
legs, put it with a chuckle: “I tell you the new No. 5 Mills makes the Fritzes
squeal; you can hear ’em yelling for miles when we begin.”
That is why there is such a rush for the bombing section.
The ambition of most of the Canadian soldiers is to get in with the boys who
do the destruction out at the front of things; and they practise throwing with
an energy that might be supposed to be fitting them rather for the safe jobs in
the rear than for the post where anything from a return bomb to a machine bomb
may blow them to pieces before they have had the satisfaction of hearing a
single German “squeal”. The lad with the brass bomb ablaze as an insignia on
his cap or tunic is happy and envied by his less fortunate companions.
Bombing is one of the many developments of this war. It is
in reality a reversion to mediaeval warfare, with the addition of improvements
in bombs and in the manner of handling them. Which includes the additional
dangers of these improvements. Starting with but forty bombers to a battalion,
the number quickly grew to two hundred and sixty. In each platoon of about
fifty-four men eleven are bombers. In addition there is a battalion section of
sixty and another lot of brigade bombers. In actual practice there is little
distinction between the sections, save that usually the battalion group is
kept in reserve.
Since the beginning of the war several varieties of bombs
have been tried. The most primitive was the “hair-brush”. It was a stick the
shape of a hair-brush, about the end of which was tied
gun-cotton. With a lighted fuse attached, it was thrown into the enemy’s
trench. The main trouble with it was that the fuse was of such uncertain
duration that it was frequently returned by the Germans to explode in our
trenches. Sometimes, indeed, it passed back again; and one of the specialties
of the quicker witted was to grab a sputtering “hairbrush” and hurl it back
before it exploded, more as a matter of personal safety than for its
destructive powers among the enemy.
Another style was struck across the knee before being
thrown. It was known as the “Newton Pippen”, why I do not know. The main defect
in it was that it made a spark when struck over the knee and thereby located
the thrower. The “fish-tail” possessed a long stick as a tail to guide its
course through the air. It was a concussion bomb, and at best had the virtue of
being unreturnable. Then there is the rifle grenade, which is nothing different
except in delivery from the other bombs. It, too, was on the end of a stick,
which was inserted in the rifle and fired. It has a range of about six hundred
yards and explodes upon striking.
But the many types have narrowed down to the No. 5 Mills, a
compact, convenient, destructive little affair in shape and size resembling a
large goose egg. It is thrown like a baseball, and with all the gusto of a
part of a great game. Its principle of operation is simple. Protruding from one
end are two small flanges with holes, through which a pin keeps in place a
strong spring. To explode, all the bomber has to do is to remove the pin. This
releases the spring and in a few seconds the bomb explodes by means of a
detonator inside. In many ways it presents its dangers, but its effectiveness
and simplicity place it easily at the front. A bomber about to utilize the
weapon removes the pin and holds the spring in place with his thumb until it
leaves his hand. Fatalities and narrow escapes have occurred by the accidental
dropping or imperfect delivery of a bomb from which the pin has been removed,
but equal dangers are presented by any of the other types.
The sphere of the bomber is wherever there is an enemy. Day
and night, in attack and defence, in surprise raids or general offence, singly
or in groups, bombs have been doing work that could be done in no other way.
Their effectiveness consists in the thoroughness and wholesale nature of their
results. For cleaning out a German trench nothing can take their place, save
the artillery, and the limitations of the artillery come where the bomber
starts. In attack two bayonet men go ahead to protect the bombers, who
immediately follow. After them come the infantry. In crude language, the
bayonet men and the bombers are the sacrifice, although, if successful, the
bombers may suffer little. In night-work the bomber has the time of his life.
Creeping up to the German trenches—through
the wire entanglements, if possible—with
face blackened to prevent exposure from the flares the Germans use so
prodigiously, he hears what he can and then, simply as a token of his visit or
for more serious purpose, drops a bomb or two into the trench. Seldom is he
troubled by that section throughout his return, for the German who is not disabled
is hugging his dugout.
Following up successful attack, the bomb fulfils an equally
important purpose. The dugouts that have become such a feature of trench
warfare often escape the full blast of the big shells, and within their
protection the enemy hides. It has sometimes happened, early in the war before
their danger was fully realized, that the Germans thus passed over in a drive
have emerged in the rear of the successful attackers and done serious damage,
amounting even in one or two cases to the turning of defeat into victory and
the capture of the troops that have rushed on to the next trenches.
Later it became the duty of every advancing force to clear
out the dug-outs as it advanced. For this purpose there was nothing so quick
and complete as the bomb. In the earlier stages of the July drive the more
humane method of demanding surrender before bombing the occupied dug-out was
general, but when it was found that the Germans took advantage of that either
to remain silent or to entice in a few soldiers, whose lives were the
sacrifice, the only way was to bomb first and demand surrender afterwards. The
German has profited little from his fiendish methods of warfare.
In the work of the Canadians bombs have played perhaps a
more important part than anywhere else along the front. At the great battle of
Hooge, in June, when the Canadians, driven out of their front lines by the
terrific bombardment, made the attack that put them back where they had started
from, every man carried two bombs to clear his way, the company bombers eight,
and the battalion bombers twenty-four; this in addition to their full
equipment. And the wounded who were able kept up the supply of bombs from the
rear. The losses of the Germans fully justified this elaborate preparation.
At the crater fighting about St. Eloi bombs were almost the
only weapons. In that long-drawn-out struggle for the five craters made by
German and Canadian lines nothing else was of
much service. Of course, a man
showing himself was the target of a hundred rifles, but the struggle was not
between visible men. Every crater held its group of indomitable fighters, some
German, some Canadian. The artillery was, of course, useless in such cramped
quarters, where the combatants were but a few yards from each other through all
that bloody stretch of what had once been No Man’s Land. It remained to the
bombs. From crater to crater these were thrown by both sides. First one side
would drive out or kill the defenders of a crater and occupy it, only in turn
to be driven out. Those who have been through that awful combat say that it was
the most trying experience the Canadians have had. Everyone knew that he was
within reach of an enemy bomb that might, and probably would, drop near him,
and there was at first no chance of relief. Every inch of exposed ground was
covered with machine guns and rifles. Towards the last trenches were gouged out
from crater to crater and back to the lines, but largely for the purpose of
renewing the supply of bombs. In all crater fighting it is the same, the
responsibility of holding the holes resting upon the bombers.
Among the dangerous duties of the bombers is the protection
of patrol parties. In these expeditions there are strictest orders not to use a
rifle save under supreme necessity. In a pinch bombs are used, not only because
they afford a wider protection than a rifle bullet, but because their explosion
does not localize too intimately the location of the party. Bombers also
protect night wiring parties. During a night raid bombers run along the parapet
of the enemy trench delivering their burden of death in the full range of the
enemy fire, and down in the trench, in progress from bay to bay, the bomb precedes
the advance.
For his work the bomber is equipped with an apron of heavy
canvas, the capacity of which is usually ten bombs. Of course, he carries his
rifle, but on his back. He is relieved from all fatigue duty in the trenches.
There are definitely established classes for the training of
the bomber, consisting usually of a three weeks’ course in England and another
week in France. Some of the training has been little better than useless. For
instance, at East Sandling a series of lectures, without even the sight of a
bomb, was the extent of the training of the bombers, but this was probably one
of the weird slips that somehow creep into ordinary
military matters.
The
Snipers.
Like everything else in this war, the sniper is a distinct
creation of the times. And like most else, the Germans led the way until
experience taught us the wisdom of their preparations of these many decades.
There were months in 1914 and early 1915 when to put but a hand above the parapet
meant a half-dozen German bullets in it. In a desultory sort of way the
British tried to retaliate. But not until the sniper was made as definite and
as organized a unit as the gunner did we begin to establish that superiority
that began to be felt about the middle of 1916. In fact, we have never passed
the Germans so completely in sniping as in the other details of war.
There are now sixteen snipers to a battalion, under the
charge of a sergeant. Their personnel passed from a voluntary system to a
careful selection on merit. Men with much rifle practice and reputation were
given the chance to demonstrate their ability behind the lines, and if they
cared to undertake the peculiar work of the sniper were assigned to duty. Like
the stretcher-bearers and bombers, they undergo no fatigue duty, the principal
requirements for their business being a steady nerve and confidence. For
eight days they are up in the front lines, then a rest for the same time. But
they are never allowed to fall out of practice; special ranges are provided
for them in the rear.
They usually work
in pairs, one as observer,
the other as marksman, the duty of the observer being almost as important as
his mate’s. For the sniper depends
as much upon the keen eyes of his
observer as upon his own accuracy, since the
value of his work and
his future safety rest upon his knowledge
of the billet of his bullet.
The rifle, of course, is fitted with a telescope
sight that makes accurate shooting less a matter of light and wind
and good fortune than of clearness of eye and steadiness of hand. Marks that
would elude the eye as a target are brought within range, and the observer,
through his glasses, is able to detect the success of the shot and to correct
its error.
When up at the front, snipers are given a free hand. They
select their own locations and construct,—or
have constructed—their own blinds and
protections. Exposed as they are, their safety depends upon the cleverness of
their concealment. Sometimes they work in the trenches with the infantry, at
which times they operate from an emplacement specially constructed and
prepared, no sign of its location being visible to the enemy. Behind the
sandbag parapet they make their disposals, with every sort of contrivance to
conceal their whereabouts. As many of these have been in successful use every
day their description in detail would not be wise at the time of writing; but
each sniper develops a few touches of his own to add to the more common ruses.
Shooting through tiny spaces in the sandbags, that open and close at the will
of the sniper, is the basis of this kind of sniping, the marksman being
protected from stray bullets by a steel shield. The back of the hide must be
closed in so that the opening of the hole will not be revealed by the sky
behind.
But the distinctive work of
the sniper is done away from the
trenches. Often he selects a spot a couple of hundred yards behind the front
lines. There he is far enough distant from the enemy to
be protected by the coverings he is able to construct by
the means available. He may
be lying behind a sandbag parapet of his own, a low,
seemingly casual wall that is apt to
escape notice in the general chaos of shell-holes and broken
trenches. From behind his steel plate, which has a hole
in it large enough for
the barrel of his rifle and observation,
he watches, waiting by the
hour, sometimes without results. In more exposed spots he may be protected by a
double sheet of steel. But more often his hide is a bit of ruin or a tree.
There no rescue is possible should he be discovered, and he is usually open to
artillery fire that seeks him out almost as eagerly as the opposing guns. For
the sniper is the bane of the ordinary trench-life of the enemy. He may even
lie flat on the ground, practically without protection, his face covered with
a cloth mask the colour of the surrounding earth or grass, and shoot through a
rum jar.
The work of the sniper is not pleasant, either from the
danger point of view or from the results. He is not now required to make
reports, and seldom will one speak of his successes in detail. One does not
like to talk much about the men one has killed in what may savour to some of
cold blood; and the officers have recognized that. Some snipers have the greatest
contempt for the fellow who will describe the course of his bullet. And yet
their work is legitimate and most necessary in the peculiar conditions roused
by this war. In attack or counter-attack by the enemy they must pick off the
officers. In the ordinary way their duty is more to end the activities of
enemy snipers than to disable the rank and file, for the soldier to-day is
careful not to expose himself to the sniper’s bullet. When the sniper locates
an enemy sniper he waits his chance, and the situation of a dozen snipers
watching for each other is one to try the nerve of any but the most seasoned
campaigner or marksman. If a sniper is especially annoying, the enemy sniper
who discovers his whereabout but cannot get him himself directs his artillery
to the spot.
He is expected to keep an eye on every enemy movement, a
working party, a new parapet, a gun emplacement, and the location of these he
passes back to his artillery. Thus a good sniper is a real factor in the war,
apart from his less agreeable duties of killing men by deliberate aim. The
Germans utilized this branch of the service from the first to an extent that
was most difficult to cope with. Not only were their front line snipers well
trained and numerous, but their wonderful spy system enabled them to place
snipers back through the British and French lines, and hundreds of officers and
gunners, whose work is more out of sight of the enemy, lost their lives to
them. Any tree or house or ruin was a possible hiding-place, and part of the
most serious tasks of the men behind the lines was to keep a watch for this
form of menace. As I have said in a previous article, entire gun crews have
been cleaned out in this way. One crew had been disabled to its last man
without the location of the sniper being discovered. Then a company of
soldiers returning to the rear caught a glimpse of a figure in a tree. They did
not wait for explanation, for there could be but one.
One of the well-known snipers of the 5th C. M. B. was
brought into hospital with shell-shock. From the nature of his duties it might
be supposed that his nerves would be above shell-shock, but to be buried far
from the trenches, with but one companion and no seeming prospect of escape, is
apt to do anything with nerves. By the merest chance he was discovered. He
returned to his work, but sniping was beyond him for a time.
He was the ideal man for the job, except physically. Before
the war he had been a policeman in an Indian reserve in an eastern province.
But he was marked for life with deformities that might have justified him in
dropping any work connected with weapons; it was a wonder that he passed
inspection for the army. Two fingers of one hand were gone, and an ugly scar
across the wrist of the other hand was the mark left by a drunken Indian he was
arresting. It had slashed through the cords of four fingers. Yet, from what I
could gather of his work, he had proved that a sniper need not be a model of
physical perfection. From the first he had been assigned
to sniping and had worked with various observers—a
couple of big Indians, an Ottawa clerk, who had developed into a grand shot,
and a westerner who had the habit of climbing to the parapet to get a better
view; he finally paid the bill for his recklessness. J. refused to talk of his
successes, but one incident that seemed to have clung to him with a strange
vividness was the end of an enemy sniper who was demanding a big toll from the
shelter of a tree. After J. had failed for hours to put an end to his sniping
he sent word back to the artillery. In a few minutes a “dud”—(a
small shell often sent over first to get the range) burst above the tree. Then
came a “whizz-bang”. That was all. The entire tree disappeared. The calculating
deliberateness and calmness of it had burnt itself into J.’s brain for all
time.
The next article of this
series is entitled “The Weapon of Defence” and will be in the December number.
It deals with the changes in fighting methods that have taken place since the
great war began.
No comments:
Post a Comment