In Flanders Fields And Other Poems [9]
the events which are passing.
For this purpose `Punch' is the great newspaper of the world,
and these lines describe better than any other how men felt
in that great moment.
It was in April, 1915. The enemy was in the full cry of victory.
All that remained for him was to occupy Paris, as once he did before,
and to seize the Channel ports. Then France, England, and the world
were doomed. All winter the German had spent in repairing his plans,
which had gone somewhat awry on the Marne. He had devised his final stroke,
and it fell upon the Canadians at Ypres. This battle,
known as the second battle of Ypres, culminated on April 22nd,
but it really extended over the whole month.
The inner history of war is written from the recorded impressions of men
who have endured it. John McCrae in a series of letters to his mother,
cast in the form of a diary, has set down in words the impressions
which this event of the war made upon a peculiarly sensitive mind.
The account is here transcribed without any attempt at "amplification",
or "clarifying" by notes upon incidents or references to places.
These are only too well known.
==
Friday, April 23rd, 1915.
As we moved up last evening, there was heavy firing about 4.30 on our left,
the hour at which the general attack with gas was made
when the French line broke. We could see the shells bursting over Ypres,
and in a small village to our left, meeting General ----, C.R.A.,
of one of the divisions, he ordered us to halt for orders.
We sent forward notifications to our Headquarters, and sent out orderlies
to get in touch with the batteries of the farther forward brigades
already in action. The story of these guns will be read elsewhere.
They had a tough time, but got away safely, and did wonderful service.
One battery fired in two opposite directions at once,
and both batteries fired at point blank, open sights, at Germans in the open.
They were at times quite without infantry on their front,
for their position was behind the French to the left of the British line.
As we sat on the road we began to see the French stragglers --
men without arms, wounded men, teams, wagons, civilians, refugees --
some by the roads, some across country, all talking, shouting --
the very picture of debacle. I must say they were the "tag enders"
of a fighting line rather than the line itself. They streamed on,
and shouted to us scraps of not too inspiriting information
while we stood and took our medicine, and picked out gun positions
in the fields in case we had to go in there and then. The men were splendid;
not a word; not a shake, and it was a terrific test. Traffic whizzed by --
ambulances, transport, ammunition, supplies, despatch riders --
and the shells thundered into the town, or burst high in the air nearer us,
and the refugees streamed. Women, old men, little children,
hopeless, tearful, quiet or excited, tired, dodging the traffic, --
and the wounded in singles or in groups. Here and there I could give
a momentary help, and the ambulances picked up as they could.
So the cold moonlight night wore on -- no change save that
the towers of Ypres showed up against the glare of the city burning;
and the shells still sailed in.
At 9.30 our ammunition column (the part that had been "in") appeared.
Major ---- had waited, like Casabianca, for orders until the Germans were
500 yards away; then he started, getting safely away save for one wagon lost,
and some casualties in men and horses. He found our column,
and we prepared to send forward ammunition as soon as we could learn
where the batteries had taken up position in retiring, for retire they had to.
Eleven, twelve, and finally grey day broke, and we still waited.
At 3.45 word came to go in and support a French counterattack at 4.30 A.M.
Hastily we got the order spread; it was 4 A.M. and three miles to go.
Of one's feelings all this night -- of the asphyxiated French soldiers --
of the women and children -- of the cheery, steady
For this purpose `Punch' is the great newspaper of the world,
and these lines describe better than any other how men felt
in that great moment.
It was in April, 1915. The enemy was in the full cry of victory.
All that remained for him was to occupy Paris, as once he did before,
and to seize the Channel ports. Then France, England, and the world
were doomed. All winter the German had spent in repairing his plans,
which had gone somewhat awry on the Marne. He had devised his final stroke,
and it fell upon the Canadians at Ypres. This battle,
known as the second battle of Ypres, culminated on April 22nd,
but it really extended over the whole month.
The inner history of war is written from the recorded impressions of men
who have endured it. John McCrae in a series of letters to his mother,
cast in the form of a diary, has set down in words the impressions
which this event of the war made upon a peculiarly sensitive mind.
The account is here transcribed without any attempt at "amplification",
or "clarifying" by notes upon incidents or references to places.
These are only too well known.
==
Friday, April 23rd, 1915.
As we moved up last evening, there was heavy firing about 4.30 on our left,
the hour at which the general attack with gas was made
when the French line broke. We could see the shells bursting over Ypres,
and in a small village to our left, meeting General ----, C.R.A.,
of one of the divisions, he ordered us to halt for orders.
We sent forward notifications to our Headquarters, and sent out orderlies
to get in touch with the batteries of the farther forward brigades
already in action. The story of these guns will be read elsewhere.
They had a tough time, but got away safely, and did wonderful service.
One battery fired in two opposite directions at once,
and both batteries fired at point blank, open sights, at Germans in the open.
They were at times quite without infantry on their front,
for their position was behind the French to the left of the British line.
As we sat on the road we began to see the French stragglers --
men without arms, wounded men, teams, wagons, civilians, refugees --
some by the roads, some across country, all talking, shouting --
the very picture of debacle. I must say they were the "tag enders"
of a fighting line rather than the line itself. They streamed on,
and shouted to us scraps of not too inspiriting information
while we stood and took our medicine, and picked out gun positions
in the fields in case we had to go in there and then. The men were splendid;
not a word; not a shake, and it was a terrific test. Traffic whizzed by --
ambulances, transport, ammunition, supplies, despatch riders --
and the shells thundered into the town, or burst high in the air nearer us,
and the refugees streamed. Women, old men, little children,
hopeless, tearful, quiet or excited, tired, dodging the traffic, --
and the wounded in singles or in groups. Here and there I could give
a momentary help, and the ambulances picked up as they could.
So the cold moonlight night wore on -- no change save that
the towers of Ypres showed up against the glare of the city burning;
and the shells still sailed in.
At 9.30 our ammunition column (the part that had been "in") appeared.
Major ---- had waited, like Casabianca, for orders until the Germans were
500 yards away; then he started, getting safely away save for one wagon lost,
and some casualties in men and horses. He found our column,
and we prepared to send forward ammunition as soon as we could learn
where the batteries had taken up position in retiring, for retire they had to.
Eleven, twelve, and finally grey day broke, and we still waited.
At 3.45 word came to go in and support a French counterattack at 4.30 A.M.
Hastily we got the order spread; it was 4 A.M. and three miles to go.
Of one's feelings all this night -- of the asphyxiated French soldiers --
of the women and children -- of the cheery, steady