The evening of August 7th, 1918, saw the British troops in France massed under cover along a front of many miles, ready for the morning and the grand attack of August 8th which led to our final victory.
Throughout the vast organization of our allied armies, now all under Gen. Foch, gigantic preparations of microscopic thoroughness had been going on for weeks. Our intentions had been most wonderfully hidden from our foes by all the artifices of elaborately developed camouflage. At night the roads of France back of the line were filled with hundreds of thousands of infantrymen marching to their appointed places; with countless batteries of big guns and little guns, and munitions, moving as required by the great secret plan; with lorries, armoured cars, and tanks, pounding along in almost endless succession through the darkness. In the daytime little movement was to be seen beyond what was usual. Artifices, many and varied, were used to trick our foes, such as fake attacks in Flanders by a platoon or two of Canadians left in the north to mislead the enemy, the Canadian troops being then far south. Altogether it seemed that the Germans were left wholly in the dark as to our purposes. It was the largest and most brilliantly arranged venture in the war. Armistice Day testifies how well the plans were carried through.
Our own corps had been slipping by night into a little patch of timber, on the Roye road, called Gentelles wood. We had been gathered there for two days, lying low but so packed in, that, if the enemy artillery had dropped a single shell anywhere in the woods, it would have decimated a battalion. What a chance they missed! Enough to give old Hindenburg the nightmare if he knows of it. It seemed like another direct intervention of Providence. For weeks before, the Germans had shelled these woods, a little, almost every day, but now, at the very time when a few shells would have materially disarranged our plans, something stayed the hands of the gunners and not a single shell or bomb came near us.
On the 7th, as soon as it was dark enough, the tanks, hidden in the brush at the edge of the wood and by hedges at roadsides, commenced to move to their attack positions. Two score must have passed through our battalion bivouac. The leading tank made its own road crashing through the brush, going over ditches and fallen timber, and turning aside only for the large standing trees. Each driver, hidden away in the tank and peering through the small look-out, could see only the lighted end of his officer's cigarette which was used to guide him in the deep darkness of the trees. No other lights were allowed. When they were gone we too moved forward, deploying to our positions in trenches ready for "zero-hour" next day.
The night passed safely, a momentous night, in which the enemy had his last good chance to spoil our plans and save himself from overwhelming defeat. Just before dawn, through the light morning mist, our artillery barrage came down with infernal noise and destructive effect. It told the enemy that we were going to attack. The German batteries of course replied with damaging precision, but it was too late then to save the day. Our guns lengthened range and the tanks went forward. The other fighting units followed and by sunrise the grand attack had been fully launched up and down the whole British and French front. It was an attack that was to continue victoriously for three months, finally forcing the Germans on Nov. 11th to confess themselves well and thoroughly whipped.
In this splendid affair the Canadian Corps had a place of special honor on the extreme right of the British line, and facing the central attack-area beyond Amiens down the Roye road. Of our own battalions the 43rd was on the right flank linking up with the left wing of the French troops. The "liaison platoon" was half Canadian Camerons and half French "poilus." This junction sector would probably be the place of greatest danger to the success of the whole advance, for there, if anywhere, misunderstanding or conflict in orders might occur leading to a dangerous dislocation in the long line of the Allies. We were very proud of the confidence placed in us. The results show that it was not misplaced.
It was a glorious victory. The tanks cleared up the out-lying German defence posts and enabled our machine-gunners and infantry following them, to put their full strength against the main German positions. Before noon the Hun was on the run. We chased him helter-skelter through fields of yellow grain, across meadows, and down dusty roads, cornered and captured hundreds of his men in orchards and chateaux. It was sunny, summer weather in one of the loveliest parts of France. Our success had surpassed expectations and we were still going on. There were "beaucoup souvenirs." The enemy in his hurry had left a litter of stuff behind him, post-cards half-written, tobacco-pipes half-smoked and still warm, shaving brushes with fresh lather on them, breakfasts commenced but finished elsewhere, if ever finished.
On Aug. 11th, three days after the attack our brigade was camped under the trees beside a chateau which had been a German Divisional Headquarters on Aug. 8th, and was now ten miles behind our line. I remember it distinctly for that day, a Sunday, I had preached my farewell sermon to my battalion. I had been inveigled into asking for a recall to England. They said I needed a rest. Perhaps I did, and then at that time you couldn't tell how much longer the war was to last. If I had foreseen an armistice in twelve weeks I should have done differently. So I was to go to Blighty for a few months, my substitute had reported for duty and there was nothing for me to do but go.
A group of men sat around me beneath the trees, as I lingered that afternoon, chatting about odds and ends of things, leaving the subject that, I think, was uppermost in our minds pretty much untouched, for we were all loth to say good-bye. Somehow the talk turned to stories of clever camouflage suggested by some of our recent experiences and the boys told several good yarns. I outlined an old one I had heard my father tell of the arts of camouflage practised by Indians in his own soldier days in Upper Canada. This elicited enquiries about my father, and how he came to be soldiering in Canada so long ago. It was a story I knew well, and so it was easily told. These men were friends of mine, true and tried, and I knew they would understand and fill in from their hearts the simple outline I gave them of my father's life.
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Ever since I can remember, Edinburgh has been to me the fairest city in the world. I am Canadian-born, my mother also, but my father was an Edinburgh man, and my earliest memories are filled with word-pictures of that city drawn in warm tones of affection by a home-sick Scot. Many an hour have I sat at my father's feet, as we gathered around the fire of a winter's evening, listening to his stories. He had a wide range of Indian and soldier anecdotes so dear to a boy's heart, but none of them live so clearly in my recollection as those he had to tell of his birth-place. Long before I knew what geography was I had a fairly intimate knowledge o............