Letters From the Front

Dated: June 24, 1917

Somewhere in France,
June 24th, 1917

My dear Dad:

This is Sunday once again, but not a day of rest, at least over here, as everybody is on the move every day of the year. However, I guess it must be so or we cannot expect to win.

How is that for an introduction? Pretty dry! Well, let me see, no letter is complete without a few well chosen words on the weather. Out here, however, it is not possible to adequately describe it. An American visiting London once remarked: "England had no climate, it was all samples." Out here in France that applies admirably with the further statement that we have all the samples in one day.

At the present moment I am lying fully dressed in bed--it is the only way to keep warm. Last evening I was out late with a ----- party, so I am supposed to be sleeping now. My bed consists of a waterproof ground sheet, and a great-coat laid on the ground sheltered by a square of canvas called a bivoy. The rain is pattering on the canvas not far away, a pleasant sound to us, for we know that Mr. Fritz is getting back what he gave our brave fellows at first. I can hear the whirr of the aeroplanes as they pass over head-- "The eyes of our guns." Beside me trying to overcome the noise of the guns with his snoring, is George Maben. He and I were out with a ----- party the other night near the front line; just as we got nicely into our work, the German guns opened up on us, and he and I, with a corporal, took refuge in a bomb store with -----bombs. No sooner were we in than a Hun shell burst in the trench and blocked up the door. Only a small hole was left in the roof, and it was through this that we climbed after Fritz had quieted down. It is very funny to hear him tell the story. Such is life on active service.

Aye, many in Red Deer will remember it, thought it may not have been the hardest fight, yet I think it has struck Red Deer the hardest in one blow. What a victory, and at such a price. We can thank our lucky stars we came through without a wound. Poor Harold Muldrew -- I cannot help but think of him, he was such a splendid fellow at school too, and to have his life snapped off in the youth -- it seems hard lines, still what is, must be, I suppose.

If I were to walk outside, I could see nearby three graveyards where are buried the "Sons of France," who fought so valiantly here a year ago. There they lie -- their tombstone, a rude wooden cross, but their monument to be raised in the page of history. What a great sorrow these crosses represent! Dear old France, through it all may she rise supreme, a better and a grander nation because of this trial by fire. Soon shall come our turn -- may we not be found wanting in this greatest fight of all time.

Hurray! dinner has just come in -- a regular feast today, for we had meat and potatoes. Grub is one of our big difficulties out here, and it is the subject of many a good joke and laugh. Isn't it peculiar how fat one gets on "army grub"?

Yesterday we had a great day for our aircraft. We had up observation balloons, and so did Fritz. At one time I counted 28 of our planes in the air at one time, and also saw a fight in which we were unfortunate enough to lose one machine. But we even up, for about three hours after, three of our machines waltzed over the enemy's lines, and in spite of all the guns which opened on them, they brought down two of his balloons in flames -- a very pretty, but terrible sight. What could we do without our aircraft?

But enough of this war-talk; the really interesting news we cannot tell, for information is useful to the enemy.

How is everybody in Red Deer? I suppose it is still on the map? The old boys have shown their sterling worth in the army -- I've met quite a few out here. The other day someone beckoned me, and whom should I see but Percy Lagrow. He is in the 102nd, and from what I can hear he still causes lots of trouble to poor Fritz.

This is too long now, so I will cease. Regards to all my friends, both in Red Deer and vicinity, I am,

Your loving son,
WILLIAM McILWRAITH
183709, 8TH C.M.G.C.

P.S. --The following poem was written by a person you know very well:

Vimy Ridge, we'll ne'er forget it,
Ne'er forget that blood red field.
Where our soldiers fought so bravely
Fought, Britannia's flag to shield.

Brave fellows fell, in death victorious,
Some were aging, some were young.
Never one but made the sacrifice
To keep the Union Jack far flung.

Bright young laddies, just from High School,
Men, with life's course in the prime.
Yet they left their homes and loved ones,
To join the glorious "Allied" line.

How the shrapnel rained upon them,
How the bullets sped fast death.
Still they carried on, victorious,
Still they fought with dying breath.

How the horrid shells came shrieking,
Ripped and tore the very earth,
Whistled round our gallant laddies
As if they mocked and laughed in mirth.

Soldiers saw their comrades shattered,
Saw them blown to very bits;
Numbering up the heavy toll,
The toll they soon would ask of Fritz.

Soldiers saw thus comrades shattered,
Comrades that they loved so well:
Saw them give their life so freely
In that seething surging hell.

Still they kept up smiling faces,
Died, scarce knowing they were hit.
Cheerfully they gave their greatest,
Determined sure "to do their bit."

Terrible the field of battle,
Terrible the gory slain,
Dying, wounded, all around them,
But they fought and fought again.

That was where the brave Canadians
Made the sacrifice again,
Though it cost them, aye so dearly,
We know that it was not in vain.

Vimy Ridge! yes, we remember,
Its echoes roll from sea to sea.
One more column deeply rooted,
At the door of victory.