PASSCHENDAELE

Hokitika Guardian, 15 October 1932, Page 6

PASSCHENDAELE

A MEMORY OF OCTOBER, 1917. Vivid yet, to those who were there, deep :in the memory of the mothers of those who remained there, but fading into the haze of the past—Passchend'aele Ridge (says a writer in tlie Wellington “Dominion”). •It is now fifteen years sinc 6 the tragedy that robbed New Zealand and Australia of many of t-h© “Flowers 01 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 hedge-, churches and cottages, were all back in their old places. That is the Piai.sschendaiele , th© 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 trenched More and deepening mud, star shells, illuminating winding duck walks—and here and ther e 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 bores anti mules—drowning or dying in the mud. Th© gaunt walls of a gutted cottage by the Saint Jea.ll Road, silhouetted, ijagged, ill th© light of the flash iro n 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. 1 am at peace—resigned to my fate and to mv Maker.

Ceaseless transport—man, mules, horses, carts, and guns—troops—troops —troops—always moving forward toward th e flares, the water and the. morass. The transport has vanished. It is very silent now.-Ten p.m. “Mov© off!” comas 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. 1 see alongside me one of the Diggers 'Sleeping his long sleep. He got sleepy on October 4 as he hopped over at Gravenstafel. I pull-1 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 hi s 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 th e “Zero” tape. Made to serve as a trench in the mud. We wait for Zero hour—o' 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. I am back at :hom e on the farm. I am lost; everyone is looking for me and calling ont my name. Somehow I cannot answer.

“Watson !” I heard whispered. “Watson!’,’ I hear again, a louder whisper this time. “Yes!” I answer. “What the hell have you been doing?” sayold Jock, our sergeant. “Sleeping,” 1 reply. “Where the heil do you think you are—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. Mornim. 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 3r» in number. W© wind around shell holes, “Battalion full strength, Hec. ?’’ “Pretty well,” he says, “about 1100.” The shell ifire now increases beyond all belief.

Fritz’s barrage has tlie. range to an inch, and i« right on top of us. I hear a different row behind and look back. Our own 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 tlie ground. They act in liaison with the i.r. fan try. Superb skill and daring flying so low that they can almost s'peak to us. Right among trees half hidden in the deceptive flare light—among shell fire—machine gun bullets and bombs.

“Pretty willing,” observes Her. again. “Yes,” I reply. I look round. Hec. is face down on the ground. Wood runs from his forehead. Scottv the “Pigeonoer” looks at Hec, and seems transfixed. His face is awful. I wonder if mine is th© same. H© holds the pigeon basket in front of his stomach to stop the bullets. Vain hope. Our sixteen are only nin© now. I look to the right and see on© 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 b© another soul here but Fritz. We reach the wire at the bottom of the ridge : id start to ascend. Our sixteen are «til| five. Marvellous. My right leg gets caught, in the wire.

A bash on my head. 1 fall face down, half conscious. My face is crushed in—legs broken —-arms off—stomach ripped open. Blinded! Oh, God. T am dying. ■ • •

Light returns to mo*. 1 feel my logs My bead screeches. I .stand up and mo ,r © my arms. T can jurat so*© enough to know that one sixteen are now one. That one is m*3. Scotty lies with the pigeon basket in bits. The pigeons and

his terrible looks have flown. Scotty is fore* - *v °t p'’°ce. I mak© for the dress- ; "cr station. Hu"dred,«. of .stretchers Ivin© around evervwhero and wonnd'vl k-*-the thousand. Th e C.O. and th© adjut ant are both on stretchers. The ■C O. looks ghastly. A shell falls r '/ar them and tips them off their stretchers. (An formerly plasters a field dressing over what is 'left of my no'e and mouth. I .get up to walk. I wake in Abbeville Hospital. One of the battalion comes and looks at th© charts as he goes down the we'd, w stops. “Ist 'Canterbury 2” h© asks. 1 nod. T know him well blit ei’pno* speak-. My face is swollen and h° doe= not, know me. They held an armist’'the next day, he tel 1 * me. “Brought up every man they could to n’env the wounded and dead.” “T’oT. .Tv. was killed at th e dressing station after hn h n d been taken there.” He spe.s T cannot speak and goes on. “There w<*r“ only 65 left after th© stunt.” “They are now in at Polderhoeck Chateau.”

I the Panorama of Pns«eh nndiH© +o mv wife with the remark : “Passchendaele, October 12.” “Just fifteen years ago, isn’t it? Its almost, n memory now.” • A memory! To m© it will never become a memory. T am still there.