THE YPRES TIMES
"5
queer fires in their dark depths. Women avoid him, and I have seen children
frightened at his approach. Jock would not harm anything, but he has seen—and
cannot forget
Strange things and sadand wonderful,
Things that I scarce can tell
It was one of those November mornings of '17, and we were making a weird
advance at Passchendaele. In the dripping, bone-chilling dawn we had left our
line of connected shell holes and plunged through the soupy morass in order to
push back a line that flanked a wanted pillbox." There was no barrage worthy
of mention, and visibility was very poor. Sections became divided as they skirted
the deeper quagmires. Men became engulfed in the mud and had to be extricated.
Others halted through sheer weariness. Yet we went on, and in stinking gullies
and indescribable places waged fantastic battle with the Hun. The platoon to our
right captured a machine-gun crew without much difficulty, as the Germans were
too exhausted to fight. The prisoners were asked to point out other posts, but
declared they did not know where any of their comrades were, and that they had
not received water or rations for two days. Fifty yards farther we stumbled over
isolated nests in the mud, garrisoned by bedraggled, grey-faced men. For the most
part they surrendered without a struggle, but here and there some patriot of the
Fatherland sniped or hurled bombs until he came to a miserable ending. Plainly,
this straggled line had been ignored or forgotten. The Heinie higher-up was
depending on his concrete fortresses
Jock Brown and two others plunged through the clinging mist at a greater
speed than the rest of his platoon, and in some mysterious manner escaped contact
with the enemy until they were well heyond our objective. Then they were
suddenly overwhelmed by a shower of stick bombs hurled by a party of determined
Huns. Brown's companions were wounded and the three were taken prisoners.
We missed the trio when our officer checked his losses, but no one had seen them
in the murky light.
All day we lay, scattered in small parties, snuggled into filthy holes and ditches,
s|hivering with the cold, almost numbed, too weary to think. Just before dark
word passed that the 1st Camerons were to join in an attack on the nearest pillbox,
and that we were to advance our line correspondingly. Later we roused from our
stupor and wandered on through the mire, pulling ourselves from place to place
like grotesque beings from a nether region. My section had stayed together, and
so it was that we were able to circumvent a Heinie post that spat machine-gun
fire in a half-hearted manner. The one grenade we possessed was thrown at the
proper time, and the post was ours. Two wounded Germans sprawled in the
muck, two lay dead. Someone spoke to us. called us by name. We peered into
a pocket-like cutting on the left, close to a dark pool. There lay Jock Brown, his
face crusted with blood, his hair matted with it. Watch your step," he croaked.
Don't fall into that pool whatever you do." He shuddered as he spoke.
We tugged him from the cavity into which he had been thrust. He had a bad
scalp wound and his face was badly bruised. It was unlike any wound from
shrapnel. "What hit you, Jock?" someone asked.
He seemed to catch his breath before he answered. A fist," he said shortly.
What? One of those guys?" The fellow pointed at the four Heinies.
No," grunted Jack. Not them." That was all he would say then, and he
stared at the water-filled crater that drained the post until we were relieved.
The second night we were back in rest billets, he had such a nightmare that I
awoke him. I suggested that he should have a smoke to settle his nerves, and sitting
