VII.—THE NON-COMBATANTS
With
Canadians from the Front
From The Canadian Magazine, Vol. XLVIII
Contents, March, 1917 No, 5.
By Lacey Amy
Digitized by Doug
Frizzle, July 2016.
All
who don khaki are not fighters or Red Cross men. Another class has sprung up with
the new conditions of war: the Pioneer Battalions, the sappers and miners and wirers.
They are the labourers of the
force, the men who take strange risks against which they
can scarcely protect themselves. Their
work is never finished, idleness is
never more than enforced at the point of a gun. With the big
guns roaring about them their duties continue, increase, oblivious to the fortunes
of the struggle in which they indirectly take such an important share.
Day
and night are the same to some of them. To others night and darkness provide
the only protection they know. But some time their toil must be performed. The
Pioneers are pioneers indeed, first on the new ground where the deserted,
battered trenches of the enemy must be rebuilt without loss of time for their
new occupants, always fighting against conditions that seem to conspire to
impede them. Like the fighters, they are not fair-weather soldiers; but, unlike
the soldiers, the resting enemy affords them no rest.
In
the German army the Pioneers and sappers form an integral part of the combatant
forces. When there is no fighting they are working. When their
friends go “out over the top” they are in the thick of it. That is one reason
why they are a larger proportion of the soldiers in the front lines. In the
British army they are called on to fight only in extreme cases. In such a
struggle as that at St. Julien, when the enemy was held up only by the grim
grit of every man in the Canadian camps, they are able to prove that, under
necessity, they can handle a rifle as well as a pick. But even the camp cooks
and roustabouts were called into that affray. Every arm that could pull a
trigger or throw a bomb figured in the repulse which added the grandest
battle-page to Canadian history.
But
these charmen of the army are not left to the charman’s standing in society.
The boys who make things possible, who make impossible the worst of the enemy’s
menaces, who offer to their friends that protection which could come from no
other source, are not apt to be looked down on in an army where every man has
his part—and it makes no difference whether he was a clergyman or a billiard
marker. Digging trenches, piling up a parapet, gouging out a dug-out for
others to enjoy, laying a trench mat, clearing the water and mud from about the
soldiers’ feet— it all gives them an importance which is appreciated at its
real value in the scheme of things. And even back in camp
they are not allowed to rust, for a camp is a huge house to look after. Then at
night they may form a burying party, that evaded task of the soldier’s daily
life, with a chaplain mumbling reverently but hurriedly the service in the
blackness of a cemetery within reach of the enemy’s machine-guns.
Plug—plug—plug
is the routine of the soldier who lifts pick and shovel as his share of the
great war.
The
miners are as real miners as those who seek coal or gold from the depths of the
earth. Indeed many of them were miners in civilian life. The Maritime Provinces
have supplied hundreds of miners from their coalfields, men inured to
underground life and work, accustomed to the back flaying task in impure air,
trained to play with gunpowder, to sense subterranean dangers, experienced in
the demands of safety where an accident is certain death. England’s miners have
responded by the thousands, many of them engaged at their ordinary wages in a
task that requires an expertness equal to that demanded of the army General.
Never,
day or night, are the tunnelers of either side idle along those hundreds of
miles of front. Down beneath the mud and cold of the trenches above, the snow
and rain, the thunder of guns and the tearing of shells, the advance and
retreat of struggling millions, the miners swing along foot by foot farther and
farther towards the enemy, cutting the shafts and drifts and galleries that
will some day play an important part in the defeat of the enemy. And the men
above never forget it. To them the menace of the unsuspected mine is more
terrible than a score of attacks.
Tunnels
vary in size and length and shape as they do in the pursuits of peace. Usually
about three feet wide and four to five feet high, they advance about a foot an
hour, two miners using the pick while two others carry back the loosened earth.
If
it is to be a long tunnel it will sink as far into the earth as sixty feet
before striking its level. In that case it probably starts back in the
supporting trenches and sinks either straight into the earth or by a slope. The extreme depth of a
long tunnel is necessitated by the fact that an obstruction of water or rock is
surmounted only by rising, and in a tunnel of a mile many upward deflections
may be necessary. As it progresses it is shored up every three feet by timbers
brought in by working parties during the night. The loosened earth is removed
in sandbags that are used as parapet or emptied somewhere out of sight of the
enemy. For the earth from a tunnel is recognizable, and the entire value of a
mine is its surprise.
Over
all these operations a mining officer, an engineer, has charge, performing the
task as accurately according to plan as his facilities permit.
Some
of these tunnels are the products of more than a year of unbroken work. As
this is written there are at the front certain huge tunnels about which the
soldiers speak in awed voices. Extending on and on, they pass beneath two,
three, four enemy lines, even back beneath towns in which the enemy thinks
himself secure, under artillery emplacements which will one day be marked only
by a tremendous hole in the ground. When the time comes for advance these mines
will play a part that will effect the results.
At
the great fight at Hooge a German mine blew up almost an entire
company of Canadians. The boys are going to exact
retribution.
Four
to eight hours at a stretch the miners toil underground, coming to the
surface “for a blow” as the quality of the air and their experience demand.
Fresh air is pumped in by bellows through pipes, but only the most modern
ventilating system would
purify the air of some of' these larger tunnels.
And
all the time an enemy mine may be near, awaiting
the moment when it may be blown up with greatest damage. The only defence
against a mine is a counter-mine. Groups of enemy miners may tunnel within
hearing of each other, both feverishly seeking the advantage of level where the
other may be destroyed. When the enemy’s mining is suspected a counter-tunnel
may be hurried out towards it and blown up in its path, thus blocking its
progress by means of what is known as a camouflet.
Another
kind of tunnel has proved itself especially serviceable to the Canadians. At an
exposed point where a hill ranges behind the front lines a tunnel was dug
beneath the hill to provide safe passage for the incoming and outgoing troops.
Six feet in height, it is a luxury that has saved its hundreds of lives, for it
prevents an exposed movement within easy range of an effective German
artillery that here has every foot under fire.
A
third variety of tunnel is that utilized as a listening-post. One of the
wounded Canadian miners has told me that the strangest feeling he had at the
front was when he lay only four feet or less beneath the feet of a trenchful of
Germans, hearing tham with perfect safety converse and laugh and play their
musical instruments almost within reach of his hand. A charge of gunpowder
would have blown up the entire company, but the spying value of the tunnel was
greater than its destructive value. From that listening-post we were kept
informed of every enemy movement in the immediate vicinity, with some knowledge
of their gun emplacements, their working parties, their night patrols, and
their suspicions of the movements of the enemy before them. There is always
the chance that the conversation of the front line is within the hearing of the
enemy.
The
sappers are the privates of the Engineers. They take charge of fatigue parties
for digging trenches, building parapets, laying trench-mats, guarding
ammunition dumps and stores, and of the thousand and one duties for which men
must be detailed. In most of these the knowledge of engineering, however
slight, is of value.
The
wirers have a particularly unpleasant job. Not so expert as the miners, they
are, nevertheless, selected for this task which takes them always within
reach of the enemy rifles and machine-guns, of flares, of bombing and patrol
parties, of every sniper who looks out towards the lines for a chance shot.
Barb wire, while it is a curse to friend and foe in the wrong place, is as
necessary for protection and rest as the sentinels themselves. Its only place
of usefulness is in the most dangerous part of the front, where only darkness
offers protection to the men who stretch it. And the Germans have an unpleasant
habit of turning loose a machine gun or two without provocation; and a machine
gun may wipe out an entire company of wirers without knowing it. When the wirer
goes out into No Man’s Land he simply takes a big swallow —and
his life in his hands. At the first sound of a Veery light, before it has had a
chance to light up the ground, the wirer throws himself on his face or turns to
stone and escapes notice by mere lack of movement.
His
fate is less disagreeable to-day with the improvement in the style of fence. At
first the posts were wooden, and had to be driven in. Even when they were made
of iron in the next stage, they still were pounded in where noise was the last
thing desired. The Germans first developed the new idea, the screw post, but
the British quickly followed, the only difference in the two styles used being
that the British posts did not have the arms that were a characteristic of the
German variety. Now a wiring party goes out into the danger zone and works in
silence. The posts are four feet high and eight feet apart, with a low post
midway between. The barb wire, which at first was wired
to the wooden posts, then strung through poles in the early iron posts, is now
simply looped over hooks on the posts. From high post to high post it runs,
with other wires proceeding downwards to the low posts, thus making a network impossible
to pass through without cutting.
Comment
has long been made on the maze of wires that protects the German lines, the
deduction being that the enemy is much more afraid of surprise attacks than are
our men, so nervous, in fact, that he is willing sometimes to wire himself in
as well as wire our soldiers out. And patrol and listening-post is considered
to be an integral feature of the British war scheme.
The
strain of continued wiring must be tremendous. S., a Toronto-born lad who
enlisted in the West, was sent from the trenches to hospital with a
complication of diseases, among them being a weakness of the heart. Arriving in
England for treatment, he fumed at the enforced inaction, for, although feeling
at times almost as well as ever, he was ordered to bed. He knew it was unlikely
that he would see the trenches again, and back in Canada a very sick sister and
mother called to him to return. It seemed to him, too, that only in Canada
would there be relief to the lung trouble that was one of his ailments.
Of
course his only chance was to remain in bed, an order which he consistently
ignored at every opportunity. He was a dark, suspicious-eyed fellow, fostering
the idea that the world was against him, and to every effort at restraint he
opposed a watchful silence or an explosive disgust. The knowledge that came to
him gradually that the doctors were not frank with him increased his insubordination,
and finally one evening I undertook to put his case frankly before him. It was
a seemingly useless task, for when I called the next two nights he was out. On
the fourth evening I was prevented from visiting
the hospital, and a message was delivered
to me from him that he was remaining
in bed at last. I understood.
For a week I saw him every day,
and for another week he stuck faithfully
to his word. Then he was allowed
up, and to give himself some interest
in life he established a barbershop
in the hospital. It brightened
him up wonderfully. And there he
remained, seeing ahead of himself in
the end a reasonable recovery that could
be attained only with extreme care.
His
weak constitution and bad family
record were scarcely the foundations
on which to build
a wirer’s career.
Of
course there are thousands of others
in khaki who not only have not fought
the enemy but have not even seen
them, who could scarcely be called
soldiers in any sense of the word.
Many of these have landed in the
non-combatant service from
choice. For instance, the
Canadian War records Office in London was filled with them,
until a “man-power board” yielded
to public clamour and cleaned
a lot of them out for the work for which
they were supposed to enlist. But
“man-power boards” are more for the
public eye than for real “combing-out”,
and still many continue to draw
good pay without more danger than
threatens in the life of London. There
have been, too, in these offices many
who were not permitted to go to
the front, because their faithfulness
to the work in hand made their presence
in London desirable. What they
suffered from was the quality of their
work. The young fellow who loafed
on his job and filled no essential
place in the offices was—unless
he had the “pull”—cleaned out
for active service, while
those who were eager to do everything they
touched with all their energies
were put down as “indispensable”,
although they were usually the ones who had enlisted
to be real soldiers. In addition there
were a number upon whom sickness fell before they
could cross the Channel. So that not by any means all the clerks in the War
Records Office were shirkers.
Of
the didn’t-want-to’s I came across an interesting example who for many months
had succeeded in evading discovery. He was admitted to the hospital where I
met him with what appeared to be shellshock. It was a well-defined case. I saw
him first seated on a bench in the blazing sun (of which England had experienced
none for weeks previously) but in his surly, cynical face was a hopelessness
and disgust with life that seemed to call for sympathy. His right knee thrown
over his left twitched spasmodically and he watched it with sneering contempt
and disgust.
From
the first word I found him “fed up” with everything—the many hospitals he had
been in, the weather, the state of his health, the food and treatment he had
received at everyone’s hands. He was explosive in language, irritable, almost
vicious, with a face from which every gleam of pleasure seemed to have taken
permanent leave. At times it was impossible to get a word out of him until
some impulse started him, when he would hiss and sputter out his anathema
until it was considered wise to keep the poisons out of his reach. The only
treatment seemed to be to rouse his interest in something outside himself, and
at first he was put on the mess. For a few days he improved, and then he began
to complain of the clatter of the dishes. He was set at gardening, but
something fir other there did not agree with him and he was put to making
chicken coops. For a few weeks the young chickens did seem to be working a cure.
I
came to understand his case and the reason for his eternal grouch, as well as for his transference
from hospital to hospital. He had not only never been at the front but he had
tried every means to escape being sent. At Shorncliffe his leg was injured by
being thrown from a horse, but his “shellshock” was sheer fear. In the hospital
where he was undergoing treatment for his leg the inmates quickly diagnosed
his case and laid themselves out to make him undergo some, at least, of the
suffering, even though he never got to the trenches. They piled on him such terrible
stories of the life in the trenches, the suffering, the danger, the misery and
injuries that he developed shellshock without having heard a big gun. It is an
established fact that the boys who have been in the trenches have nothing but
contempt for the khaki-clad pseudo-soldiers who prefer a safe job in England to
taking a term in the active fighting.
Of
the other kind who were prevented from reaching the front one whom we will
call R. is a good example. R., a Westerner, had enlisted with the C.A.M.C.
Always before him he held the picture of the good he might do as a
stretcher-bearer up in No Man’s Land. After very little training he was sent to
England and there his training stopped. His earnestness and indefatigability
earned for him right away one of those positions of drudgery that come to the
faithful, in order that some officer may have at his beck and call the best
workers in the army. He became a batman to an officer, and such a good one
that his delivery to the active forces was not to be thought of. In the course
of many changes he reached a convalescent home, not as a patient but as one of
the staff whose duties were to scrub and sweep and clean and perform other
tasks within the powers of wounded soldiers unfit for the front. Transferred
to another convalescent home, he came to my notice. He was never idle. No need
to point out what needed attention; R. always saw it and attended to it. When
the ordinary of the staff orderly failed, he filled m his time in a little
garden he commenced to make in waste ground.
He
was too good for the trenches, of course, said the officers.
He
became a silent lad, moving about his work with a wordless suffering behind
his patience that was pathetic. It was in a moment of confidence that I
obtained his story. He had never been “crimed,” never been even lectured save
when he pleaded to get to the front. Strong and cleareyed, he was at first
sight the very man to have about anywhere. Had he dared he would have removed
the red cross from his arm, “for,” said he, “anyone can do this work. I thought
I might be of use out there at the front,” he moaned. “They told me they needed
stretcher-bearers when I enlisted.”
I
was able to obtain for him his wish, and the last word I had from him, written
in a Y.M.C.A. hut at the front, was the gratitude of a happy soldier at last
within sound of the guns. The flotsam in the eddies and back currents of
military red tape and discipline is sometimes as pathetic as the suffering of
the wounded and nerve-stricken.
Another,
a Russian, who enlisted in Prince Albert, Saskatchewan, came over to England as
a gunner, full of the enthusiasm that so often characterizes that branch of
the service. When about ready to leave for the front, at Shomcliffe his gun
backfired. Once before it had done the same without serious injury to any of
the crew, but the second time it caught five of them. The other four recovered,
but the Russian’s heart had been too badly tampered with. In the hospital he struggled
hard with his malady. Time after time as the medical officer inspected the boys
he put on the best face he knew how, but the trained ear heard the murmur of
the weak heart and turned the Russian back. Long since I lost track of him but
at the last he was becoming reconciled to return to Canada without
a taste of that for which he had enlisted.
As
sad as any are the cases of those who took sick in the training camps in
England through no fault of their own. The exposure of that first camp at Salisbury
Plains will stand for many years a discredit to the authorities. How many of
the boys contracted through it pneumonia or
rheumatism, tuberculosis, kidney trouble or the other
diseases resultant from such outrageous mud and exposure I do not know. That
any of them came through it is
surprising. English weather, combined, perhaps with a certain recklessness on
the part of the boys, has claimed a toll that has decreased as experience
taught the best methods of combatting it. So that to-day the Canadian soldier
who has no chance to reach France is becoming a rarity. In that stands
the protection of these who would be
real soldiers.
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