Chapter LXXXIVThe Battle of Arras
Our journey was uneventful, save that we were derailed at St. Paul; no one, however, was killed. All along our journey we spoke of the Battle of Amiens, “the greatest isolated victory to the credit of Canadian arms.” It had taken but five days to free Amiens and its railway. The allied troops engaged in the battle were one American division, five Australian divisions, four Canadian divisions and four English divisions. There were also four hundred tanks and three British cavalry divisions. These troops had met and routed twenty German divisions, and taken twenty-two thousand prisoners and over four hundred guns. The line was advanced twelve miles from points held at the hour of attack on August 8th.
Of these totals the Canadians claimed ten thousand prisoners, nearly one hundred and seventy guns, one thousand machine-guns, over one hundred trench mortars, and great quantities of other materials. They had freed over sixty miles of territory. They had been the apex of the wedge that attacked. It was, indeed, a great victory! Later, I read in Hindenburg’s account of the war, entitled “Out of My Life” (Harper & Brothers, New York), the following:
“I had no illusions about the political effects of our defeat on August 8th. Our battles from July 15th to August 4th could be regarded, both abroad and at home, as the consequence of an unsuccessful but boldstroke, such as may happen in any war. On the other hand, the failure of August 8th was revealed to all eyes as the consequences of an open weakness. To fail in an attack was a very different matter from being vanquished on the defense. The amount of booty which our enemy could publish to the world, spoke a clear language. Both the public at home and our allies could only listen in great anxiety. All the more urgent was it that we should keep our presence of mind and face the situation without illusions, but also without exaggerated pessimism.
“The military situation had certainly become serious. Of course the position on the part of our front which had been attacked could be restored, the lost war material made good, and fresh reserves brought up. But all this did not exhaust the effects of our defeat. We could only expect that, encouraged by his great victory, our enemy would now open similar attacks at other points.” (Vol. II, pp. 217 and 218.)
This is just what we did. On August 26th the Second Canadian Division had opened the Battle of Arras and, as we hastened towards them, were in the thick of the fight.
We detrained at Aubigny and were taken from there to Arras in busses.
During the night of August 28th we moved up from the ruins of Arras to relieve the Second Division. We had been waiting in reserve at Arras. Already the Second Division had been gaining victories. Before September 1st we had gained a minor engagement or two.
On the morning of September 1st I received word that we were preparing for a great attack; we were to break the Drocourt Quéant line. The line had been accounted impregnable, for the whole system was the result of years of patient toil on the part of the Germans. In the attack, the Canadian Corps was to be the battering ram of the advance.
The night of September 1st was very dark, and rain fell as the men assembled for the attack. Zero hour was to be 5 a. m. Captain Shea, one of the medical officers of the First Field Ambulance, with whom I was going to work the following day, found a square hole in the ground about two feet deep, and he and I rolled ourselves in our blankets and tried to sleep. The Germans were shelling this area very hard and shells were dropping all about us, and the rain upon us. Every little while I could hear the doctor, who was a very devout Catholic, give voice to the following soliloquy: “Think of a priest lying out in the mud a night like this! What awful times we are living in! I wonder what his people at home would say if they could see him now. A priest sleeping in a mud-hole!”
Then, perhaps, a shell would drop very near us and I could hear him say, optimistically: “Well, the worst we can expect is to be buried alive!”
I could not help laughing as the doctor continued. Everything seemed so strange to him, for he had but lately come to the front. And I had now been long enough in the army to take things as they came.
At five o’clock a. m. the earth began to thunder and rock as the terrible barrage began that was to soundthe death-knell of the Drocourt Quéant line. We watched the men advance, then we were busy with the wounded. A great number passed through our hands, including some Irish lads from the Naval Division on our right. It took but an hour or two for the Canadians to break the Drocourt Quéant line which had been considered impregnable. Passing through the trenches and over the battlefield that day, I marvelled at the system of deep trenches from which led great dugouts lighted with electricity. We encountered many wounded Germans lying in shell-holes, and dispatched German prisoners to bring them to the Field Ambulance that had now been established near Cagnicourt.
We had not been shelled very much that day, but two or three days before, in one of the minor engagements, the shelling had been terrific. George and I had run the gauntlet of shell-fire known as a “creeping barrage.” Wall after wall of bursting shells had swept over us, killing nearly all our companions. George and two privates and I were the only ones out of fourteen who were not casualties.
Towards evening, as I was anointing some German wounded, one of our prisoners, an officer, stepped over and began to speak to the lad to whom I was administering. The officer told me in French that he would interpret, as he was a Catholic. I asked him to try to dispose the dying soldier for absolution. He did, and then helped me while I anointed the lad.
When I was through I thanked the officer for his aid and remarked that he seemed well grounded inhis religion. He smiled a little at this, as he said: “I should be, for I am an ordained deacon.” I was still talking to this young ecclesiastic when I heard a friendly call from a stretcher, and, looking in that direction, I saw it was Lt. Maxwell-Scott—he who had first served my Mass at Fosse-dix. It seemed years ago. He was wounded, though not seriously.
The following day I waited, with an Anglican chaplain from the Third Brigade, till all the dead were brought in from the battlefield. Among the officers of the Sixteenth were two or three of my dear friends. One was the gentle officer who had slept in my billet at Carency, months before—the one who had been called “Wild Bill;” even in death there was a gentle expression on his kind face. We buried one hundred and twenty-five that day, and called the place “Dominion Cemetery.”
Few and short were the prayers we said,And we spoke not a word of sorrow,But we steadfastly gazed on the face of the deadAnd bitterly thought of the morrow.
Few and short were the prayers we said,And we spoke not a word of sorrow,But we steadfastly gazed on the face of the deadAnd bitterly thought of the morrow.
Few and short were the prayers we said,
And we spoke not a word of sorrow,
But we steadfastly gazed on the face of the dead
And bitterly thought of the morrow.
We remained in this area till September 4th, and each night we were bombed almost continuously. It was terrible and there were many casualties. One could scarcely count the airplanes. We could hear them coming from a great distance and each moment drawing nearer and nearer. We would lie on the ground unprotected—nothing between us and the airplanes but the thin sheets of our bivouacs. When they would arrive over our camping ground, great lights resemblingarc light would drop slowly down, lighting up the entire area. Then would come in quick succession the awful crash of bursting bombs. Often I have gripped the grass beside me with both hands, as I lay there waiting to be blown into a thousand fragments. Then, one fleet of ’planes having exhausted its supply of bombs there would be relative silence till the next was heard approaching. During the interim, slowly, silently, and anxiously, our searchlights swept the sky, the great long shafts of light crossing and recrossing each other.