42
THE YPRES TIMES
Railway Wood under a veritable storm of shell fire by a gallant ex-miner stretcher
bearer of the K.S.L.I., for which action he received a Military Medal; Victoria
Crosses have been won for less gallant acts. Just after midday on the first day of
battle, the Canadians tried to rush ammunition to their guns along the Menin
Road, in full view of the enemy. The result was appalling, for in almost every
instance they were blown to bits. The guns of the 20th Light Division swung
over to help the sadly depleted Canadian troops, and this incident created a close
bond of friendship between ourselves and the Colonials. Some of my readers may
remember that any 20th man was always welcome to a buckshee supper and a
packet of gaspers at a certain Canadian canteen situated in a ruined hovel, well
sandbagged, on the Menin Road. Some few days later, when the Canadian
Command were offered assistance to take back the lost ground, which included
Hooge, the reply was courteous, but precise: No thanks; Canadians lost it, and
Canadians will retake it." And they did, with interest.
Up betimes on Sunday morning, and to the Church of St. George, for Holy
Communion. Our hearts filled with pride as we entered the warriors' church, its
windows filled with the insignia of gallant regiments who fought and suffered to
keep this old town inviolate.
A vision of 1916 came to the writer as he knelt; the beautiful church faded
away, and in its place a picture appeared of war-worn officers and men, kneeling
amid the ruins, before a hastily raised altar of
bricks, covered with the fair linen cloth, and
furnished with a miniature chalice and paten,
while a beloved padrethe Rev. Roger
Bulstrodebrought to them the spiritual
comfort of the Great Comrade, at a time when
that comfort was so sorely needed. At any
moment the scene might have been blotted out
by death in ghastly form.
The voice of another padre brought me
back to the present, a padre who wore the
ribbons which told of service in the cause.
We would suggest that all pilgrims make
a point of attending at least one service during
their stay. It will, I am sure, encourage the
very excellent resident padre.
After breakfast, we were privileged to take
part in the unveiling ceremony of a memorial
to the South Wales Borderers at Gheluvelt, at
which the Bishop of Swansea officiated. As
this ceremony has already been fully reported
in The Ypres Times, it is unnecessary for me
to say anything except that the fixed bayonets
of the veteran Guard of Honour brought back
poignant memories of days when such things
were used in deadlier fashion on the ground on
which we stood.
That was a public ceremony; a quieter one was to follow for us in the afternoon
at Vlamertinghe old cemetery, for here, we held a service of remembrance for our
own old comrades, many of whom sleep in this quiet spot. Walking reverently
on the closely cut soft green turf between rows of graves aglow with beautiful
flowers, we reached the Stone of Remembrance. We two were alone. No! not
alone, for could we not feel pressing around us the forms and faces of dear old
S.W.B. MEMORIAL (GHELUVELT.)
