PASSCHENDAELE

Dominion, Volume 26, Issue 15, 12 October 1932, Page 8

PASSCHENDAELE

A Memory of Oct. 1917 (By Claude Watson, Walpukura.®.) Vivid yet, to those who were there, deep in the memory of the mothers of those who remained there, hut fading into the haxe of the past—Panchendaele Ridge. It is now fifteen years since the tragedy that robbed New Zealand and Australia of many of the “Flowers of Their Forests.” A few days ago I saw a panorama of Passchendaele Ridge. It was like a well ordered garden. Clean and fair to look upon. The poplars and hedges, churches and cottages, were all back in their old places. That is the Passchendaele the tourists and the schoolboys know. In my picture there are no trees, no cathedrals, no cottages. There is nothing in front of Ypres but mud, wire, broken roads, and trenches. More and deepening mud, star shells, illuminating winding duck walks—and here and there a ghost-like figure—or perhaps a ragged line of figures—still as statues —heads bent —fearful lest they should catch Fritz’s eye while the deadly light is upon them. Groaning horses and mules—drowning or dying in the mud. The gaunt walls of a gutted cottage by the Saint Jean Road, silhouetted; jagged, in the light of the flash from the eight-inch howitzers immediately in front of it. So much shell fire that it becomes commonplace as we walk into it. The mantle of courage, born of hopeless despair, descends upon me. I am at peace—resigned to my fate and to my Maker. Ceaseless transport—men, mules, horses, carts, and guns—troops—troops —troops—always moving forward toward the flares, the water and the morass.

The transport has vanished. It is very silent now. Ten p.m. “Move off 1”. comes a voice. We string out along the duck walk. Five miles—five hours. We halt for a rest at Gravenstafel Ridge. ‘A flare goes up. I see alongside me one of the Diggers sleeping his long sleep. He got sleepy on October 4as he hopped over at Gravenstafel. I pull out his pay book. It is R P , one time engineer on a New Zealand coaster. He wears Wellington badges. We move off toward the next guiding light. I stuff his pay book back in his pocket. More duck walks—then mud up to the knees at every step. At last we halt. I see a white line about half a chain in front of me. It is the “Zero” tape. Made to serve as a trench in the mud. We wait for Zero hour—6 a.m. Cold drizzling wet Heavy shell fire and machine gun bullets everywhere. I lie down on the mud. It is soft and warm. The drum of the shell fire hums in my ears. I sink deeper in the mud. It is. nearly level with my face now’. I think of home and the chances of getting out. lam back at home on the farm. I am lost; everyone is looking for me and calling out my name. Somehow I cannot answer.

“Watson 1” I hear whispered. “Watson!” I hear again, a louder whisper this time. “Yes!” I answer. “What the hell have you been doiug?” says old Jock, our sergeant. “Sleeping,” I reply. “Where the hell do you think you The Hotel Cecil ?” The boys laugh. A shell drops—half of them are laughing yet. The shell fire has increased to drum fire now! I can see the ridge and the Diggers to the left and right. Morning is creeping in cold —wet—grey. I pick up with Hec. G„ the R.S.M. For the first time I notice that our section is 16 in number. We wind around shell holes. “Battalion full strength, Hec.?” “Pretty well,” he says, “about 1100.” The shell fire now increases beyond all belief. Fritz’s barrage has the range to an inch, and is right on top of us. I hear a different row- behind and look back. Our owm barrage is falling behind us. We haven’t a hope. At least a hundred aeroplanes are engaged in combat overhead. Some fly so low that they nearly touch the ground. They act in liaison with the infantry. Superb skill and daring Flying so low that they can almost speak to us. Right among trees half hidden in the deceptive flare light—among shell Are—machine gun bullets and bombs.

“Pretty willing,” observes Hec. again. “Yes,” I reply. I look round. Hee. is face down ou the ground. Blood runs from his forehead. Scotty the “Pigeoneer” looks at Hec. and seems transfixed. His face is awful. I wonder if mine is the same. He holds the pigeon basket in front of his stomach to stop the bullets. Vain hope. Our sixteen are only nine now. I look to the right and see one Digger. He winds round a shell hole. He is about fifty yards away.

Fritz is coming out of his pill boxes now. I can see him quite plainly as he gets behind his machine gun and starts to fire. I look sideways again. The chap on the right is gone. Our sixteen has suddenly become five. There does not seem to be another soul here but Fritz. We reach the wire at the bottom of the ridge and start to ascend. Our sixteen are still five. Marvellous. My right leg gets caught in the wire. A bash on my head. I fall face down, half conscious. My face is crushed in—legs broken—arms offstomach ripped open. Blinded! Oh, God. I am dying. . . Light returns to me. I feel my legs. My bead screeches. I stand up and move my arms. I can just see enough to know that our sixteen are uow one. That one is me. Scotty lies with the pigeon basket in bits. The pigeons and his terrible look have flown. Scotty is forever at. peace. 1 make for the dress lug station. Hundreds of stretchers lying around everywhere aud wounded by the thousand. The C.O. and the adjutant are both on stretchers. The C.O. looks ghastly. A shell fails near them aud tips them off their stretchers. An orderly plasters a field dressing over what is left of my nose and mouth. I get up to walk. I wake in Abbeville Hospital One of the battalion comes and looks at the charts as he goes down the ward. He stops. “.Ist Canterbury?” lie asks. I nod. I know him well but cannot speak. My face is swollen and he does .not; know me. They held an armistice the next day. lie tells me. Brought up every man they cculd to clear the wounded and dead.’ “Col. K. was killed nt the drossing station after he bad been taken there." He sees I cannot speak and goes on “There were only 65 loft after the stunt." "They are now in at Polderboeck Chateau.

I pass the Panorama of Passchcndaele to my wife with the remark: “Passchendaele, October 12.” “Just fifteen years ago, isn’t itf It’s almost a memory now.” A memory! To me it will never become a memory. I am still there.