In October, 1917, orders came to join in the big push on the Flanders front in what proved a vain attempt to cut the enemy lines of communication with the Belgian coast held by the Germans and used as a resort for submarines. The Canadians were asked to take Passchendaele Ridge which rose abruptly about 300 feet above the miles of mud flats its guns dominated. These muddy fields had been captured by Australians and New Zealanders after desperate fighting, but it was almost impossible to hold them without terrible punishment from the concentrated German artillery fire, bombing, and machine-gunning because of the enemy's position on the Ridge. No trenches could be made in the mud for the sides would slip back in, and there was practically no protection for our men outside the few small concrete blockhouses or "pill boxes" the Huns had built. So we had either to withdraw or go on and chase the enemy off the Ridge.
The 9th brigade of the famous Third Canadian division was chosen for the post of honour. This was the task of capturing the almost unassailable German positions on Bellevue Spur which was a part of the Passchendaele heights lying immediately in front of us. Of the brigade, the 43rd battalion (the "Camerons" of Winnipeg) and 58th were to make the attack, with the 52nd in close support. The 116th, junior battalion of the brigade, was employed as a labour battalion, and a dirty, dangerous job they had, "packing" ammunition and "duck-walks" at night through the mud up to the attack area, doing pick-and-shovel work, and afterwards carrying back wounded men under shell-fire.
Friday, October 26th, was the fateful day. Someone suggested that Friday was unlucky and 26 was twice 13, but this was countered by the seven letters in October and the lucky number at the end of 1917! It wasn't luck in sevens or thirteens that won the battle, but simply that we had men and officers with an unyielding determination to carry on in spite of all obstacles, unless wounded or killed, until their objective was gained. Contributing causes there were in training, equipment, and leadership that helped our men to do the impossible, but the deciding factor, the real cause of victory, lay in the brave hearts of the soldiers who faced the Spur that chill October morning.
The ground had been reconnoitred by Lt.-Col. Grassie, our O.C., who had to leave for Canada before the attack took place. Our operations were carried out under the skilful direction of Major Chandler.
In one of my old note-books I find a description of the affair scribbled Oct. 27th during a leisure moment in Waterloo pill-box. "From Banks Farm we moved up to within striking distance of Bellevue Spur taking over from a battalion of Wellington New Zealanders. Headquarters occupied the concrete blockhouse near the foot of the spur and about 400 yards away from the enemy lines. We were under direct machine-gun fire and sniping from their posts on the crest of the hill we had to capture. Our blockhouse was continually shelled. The enemy guns had its location to a nicety and kept it under almost constant fire. Twelve men in all were killed at the door at different times during the few days we stayed there.
"In the attack yesterday morning, fifty of our men in the centre were able to make and hold their objective, but the battalion on our right was forced to fall back to the edge of the hill after being exposed to a fire which cut it down to ineffective strength. One of our companies on the left ran into a murderous fire from a group of German posts opposed to them. We withdrew to the brow of the hill and sent word back for re-inforcements. Our centre still held but their position was precarious and before nightfall would have become untenable if these Germans to their left were not dislodged. The 52nd were ordered to reinforce our left wing and renew the attack. This time we were successful, 150 prisoners were captured in half-an-hour and the whole front cleared. The 58th were enabled to advance and we had no further trouble in consolidating our position."
Two V.C's were won that day. Bobby Shankland, a subaltern in the 43rd, under enemy observation with its consequent machine-gun and rifle fire, made the trip from one of our advanced platoons back to battalion headquarters and out to his men again. He brought accurate information at a critical time when prompt action properly directed meant victory; the lack of it meant defeat. The renewed attack on the left wing with the definite objective he advised saved the day for us. He was recommended for the highest award and it was duly awarded him. Lt. O'Kelly of the 52nd won the coveted honor by the gallant and effective way in which, regardless of personal risk, he led a company of the 52nd against a group of pill-boxes filled with machine-gunners.
Many other gallant deeds were done on the hill that day of which there was no one left to tell.
During this time a stream of wounded had been coming back past Waterloo Pill-box where our battalion Medical Aid Post was at work. The floor of the blockhouse was a foot deep in mud and water. The stretchers were almost submerged and the back of the man was almost always in the water. At times the stretcher-cases were lying in three rows outside in the cold, the rain, and the mud. There they were constantly in danger of death from shelling. Twice shells burst among them, killing and wounding again a dozen men on each occasion. Half the cases never got into the dressing station. They were given a look-over, fixed up as well as we could, and sent hobbling off over the "duck-walks" to safer areas farther back. Only the most severe cases were held for the attention of the overworked M.O. The long stretcher journeys to the rear were terrible experiences for both bearers and wounded. They had to pass through shelling, gas, and bombing. The carrying parties often became stretcher cases themselves on the way back, and the wounded in that rough journey must have suffered tortures of both mind and body.
The outstanding memory of it all is that of the mud. It would seem impossible for a sensible man to develop a bitter hatred towards an inanimate and apparently harmless thing like mud. But it was "the very devil" to our minds. We walked in it for endless miles. It held our feet and wore us out. If you fell sideways you would probably break or sprain your ankle. We sat down in the mud, slept in it, fought in it. It clogged our rifles and machine-guns. We cursed it with intensity. We ate rations that tasted of mud, wore clothes that were loaded with it, carried with aching muscles stretchers and wounded that were made heavy with mud. Many wounded were lost in it, and many of our dead, that we never found, were swallowed by it. Hindenburg in his memoirs considers Passchendaele the most terrible affair his armies had anywhere engaged in. It was bad for them but it was worse for us attacking, and the thing that made conditions almost unbearable for both sides was that omnipresent vampire of those rain-soaked Flanders' fields.
On the 28th we were relieved and moved back and, in a day or two, found ourselves in tents in the mud of a ploughed field near Nine Elms back of Poperinghe. We had done nobly, so they told us, added fresh laurels to our fine record, fought a fight and won a victory, the praises of which would resound throughout the Empire. Needless to say we were glad we had not failed but for all that there was much unspoken sorrow in the men's hearts. So many of our comrades had been killed. What a remnant our 100 men looked when the battalion paraded to hear some fine words of heartsome praise from our brigade commander, Gen. Hill.
On the Sunday morning we had a parade service. It lasted altogether only fifteen minutes. It was a prayer for the mourners at home, a hymn of thanksgiving, and a word of cheer to ourselves. Towards evening Sergt-Major Lowe told me that some of the men wanted me to come over and talk to them. In one of the tents, I found thirty or so crowded in to hear a story of the Yukon, and in the tents close around others were listening as I talked. We were all in a serious mood, and somehow the consciousness of this influenced me, that night, to weave my stories into a message in which there would be comfort and cheer for men who had been hard hit, and had faced in roughest form the stern realities of life, and death, and suffering. There was help in it, I know, because I spoke of Jesus of Nazareth. When you want to minister to men in such times, don't your thoughts just naturally turn to the Man of Nazareth? So I spoke of Him and clothed my message in Klondike phrases and imagery. Here it is very much as I gave it that evening at Nine Elms.
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We are all feeling a little bit down these days. The savagery of war and our heavy losses in men we knew and loved has stirred deep thoughts in us, grave inner questionings why these things should be, perplexing difficulties about the meaning of life and the power of death, the reason of suffering and the goodness of a God who permits it, criticisms of a social order, nominally Christian, which produces the barbarities we have witnessed and taken part in. We are groping for light like the blind, and wishing we could find a sure guide in our thinking on these tangled problems, in whose solution we might find satisfaction and assurance.
There is one song of all our soldier-songs that I think will live and that is the one where we sing of "a long, long trail a-winding into the land of our dreams." There's something true to experience about the thought of the long road of life. It takes me back to old trail days in the North, and I picture the long, long, trail of life winding its way from out of the mists of the past, through pleasant valleys and over windswept mountain summits, on and on into the unexplored land of the future. My message is simple enough. It is an appeal straight from your padre's heart that in your sorrow and uncertainty you decide to take Jesus of Nazareth as your guide down the trail of life for all the days that are to come. I ask you to follow Him because He is the very guide you need to find the right trail and keep it under your feet to the end. Life is all we've got and it is therefore too precious to risk in any unnecessary way. It is so important that we find and keep the right trail and save our lives from spiritual death, we cannot afford to accept any guide who has not the very finest credentials. What are the credentials of Christ when He offers himself as our Guide? They may be spoken of in many ways, but I am going reverently to put him to the three tests any guide in the Yukon would have to face before he could qualify to lead anyone on a mid-winter trip into new country over an unknown trail beset with dangers.
But before I can get to this examination of His credentials I know many of you are mentally stumbling over difficulties you have with or about the Bible. It has been said with much truth that "the Bible has kept many an earnest man from Christ." It is not going to do it with you if I can prevent it. I have heard you wondering about th............