Letters From the Front

Dated: February 18, 1917

I am doing my best to get through this thing safely, and am becoming quite an expert in dodging the few shells that Fritz sees fit to put over in the morning and evening sessions. You know that Lloyd George has worked the munition market up to such a state of perfection that here, at any rate, the Hun hasn't a chance with our artillery, which appears to have an unlimited supply and bombards the enemy's lines effectively at all hours of the day and night. Fritz does very little retaliation, and it is only when the Canadians pull off one of their raids, that they have carried out all during the winter and still continue, that the Hun's artillery gets busy, and I have done a tour of six days in the trenches without a single casualty. You couldn't do that in the Ypres days when Fritz had the superiority.

Since coming to France last November, I have had a very easy time. The month of November was very wet and most of the time I spent in the trenches; so I know all about French mud, rats, etc., also fourteen-mile working parties on a stormy night and arriving in billets at the wee sma’ hours of the morning, drenched to the skin. In December I was sent to an Imperial army school near Boulogne, where I had a very 'cushy time' for five weeks, played golf and met chaps from all over Canada. We had about 150 officers there, Imperial and Canadian. When I came back to this deserted district I found the battalion at rest; so we went back to the old days of forming fours, which I find the men in France hate as much as your chaps hate checking interest on the savings bank. Finally we went back to a different part of the line and have been there ever since. We have had exceedingly cold weather for three weeks, bright, snappy cold days and cold as charity at night, in fact, just like Alberta winter (normal). The French around here state that they have not had anything like it since 1870, and believe me, it certainly was cold in the front line at nights. I always had on a heavy sweater and over that a fleece-lined trench coat, and even then felt cold, and was mighty glad when the rum man appeared on the scene about 6.00 a.m. When anyone tells you that France is in the banana belt, don't believe him. However, it was one blessing, as it put an end to the mud and damp, and, when we were relieved, we went out of the trenches with dust on our boots—a most unheard of thing in February out here.

We are certainly holding down a strange part of the line, as the trenches run directly in front of what was once quite a decent town, and they work in and out among the ruins, through gardens and across squares. We all live in cellars and have plenty of furniture and good stoves left by the French population and plenty of fuel, so officers and men are as comfortable as could be under war conditions. I should imagine that the Hun o'er the way is having a fairly decent time also—except for our shells.

I have been with the artillery for about six days and had an insight into their work which I found most interesting. I have found that my training in the old C. B. of C. has been of considerable value in this life: to respect your superiors and do what you are told. The returns are most simple after what we used to get in the Commerce, the Parade State (the most complicated one) being a dead cinch after the Financial Statement; and, when a Staff Major walks down the trenches, you can tell him at once without any hesitation, if you have had a banking experience, how many rounds of ammunition there are (even if there aren't any) in a certain place, how many pairs of socks your men have and when last darned, where the S.O.S. rockets are, and what you would do if a mine was blown up on your front, with as much ease as we used to answer that long list of questions the Inspector delighted in trying to catch us on. When a 'brass hat' (i.e. Staff officer) appears hurriedly around a trench, you quickly pick up all the empty cartridge cases that your machine-gun crew should have picked up and didn't, shy them over the parapet, put your foot over a Mills grenade that you know should have been in a box, do all these little things instantaneously just in the same manner that you used hurriedly to grab the current account balance book and tick off in blue or red the last three balances when you saw the Inspector coming down the street. As for the General, he does not make me tremble nearly as much as when Vere Brown appeared in the old days.

I meet C. B. of C. fellows and other former bank chaps everywhere. Alexander (Superintendent's Department, Winnipeg) is in the next room having a snooze, having just come in plastered with mud. Floyd, another Winnipeg C. B. of C. chap, is in the next company, McGowen (Molson's Bank, Calgary) is here also, and an ex-Merchants Bank chap has the responsibility of holding down about 400 yards of filthy trenches on my left, and I don't suppose he is nearly as worried as when John Smith exceeded his authorized credit by a few thousands. On my tour of duty I have run into ex-bank clerks standing on the fire steps, or sitting in a listening post, 40 yards from the Hun, plastered with mud. I ran into one the other night from a C. B. of C. branch when I was out inspecting posts who asked me in a cheerful manner if I would like to count his cash. And these are the chaps that form a part of the great army that shortly will show the Kaiser where he gets off.

This certainly is a strange war. From a high point near here I can see the two lines of trenches about 250 yards apart, at some places closer, and, unless you have a powerful glass, you won't detect a sign of the enemy. I think I am safe in saying that for miles along this front the enemy in the past month has not made a single attack, and he seems quite content to let well enough alone.

Some nights I have seen our trench mortars play all along his front line, smashing it to bits, yet he seldom comes back. Whether he is running short of ammunition or is saving for the big spring push, it is hard to say. Some days it is just as peaceful in the front line and apparently as safe as Elbow Park, but you never know your luck. I have seen chaps that have been all through the heavy fighting last summer get picked off by a fragment of shell on the quietest of days. I am having a cinch this trip, as my company is in support, and, while I have to be ready for an emergency and sleep with boots on, I have not much to do but sit in a cellar before a comfortable fire and detail working parties, read and write. The thaw has set in and the trenches are in a very messy state; even the rats are getting frisky. The Canadian soldier looks to-day more like a drain digger than a soldier, and those who are not on duty are busy with the shovels.

Well, here's hoping that this summer will see the last of the Hun, and from all signs we can do the trick. My very best wishes to all and hoping that the C. B. of C. has another good year. It wasn't such a bad old institution after all, but I wouldn't miss this experience for anything, though I should hate to keep a wife on a lieutenant's pay.