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- Karen Dykes
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Page contains the first part of a newspaper clipping, continued on the following scrapbook page, from the Ottawa Free Press. The article, by F. A. McKenzie, describes fighting at the Front in Ypres, Belgium.
- 50.85114, 2.88569
- [start clipping] IN THE BLOODY SALIENT AT YPRES WHERE THE HUNS FIRE THREE WAYS --- F.A. McKenzie, Free Press Staff Correspondent, Visits Worst Part of the Line Where Canadians Hold Back Flower of German Army. By F.A. McKenzie, Staff Correspondent of The Free Press at the Front. This article has been read and passed by the censors at the General Headquarters of the British Army in Flanders. In one of the side streets of Ypres, close to what is left of the old Infantry Barracks, someone has put up a sign, with a finger mark pointing to the road homewards, "This way to Blighty." Underneath it another hand has printed another sign, pointing in the opposite direction, "This way to Hell!" Don't be shocked at the language. When you have had a few hours in the trenches you will at least understand why it is that men, faced by events far greater than they ever realized possible before, seek to express them by strong words. And the fighting that has gone on in the Ypres salient day by day for close on two years seems to defy ordinary language. It is on this front that the Canadians, since the first contingent came out a year and eight months ago, have fought their battle. It is here that many and many a British regiment has a terrible cost crowned its fame. It is difficult to realize what a short way the "bloody salient" is from London. I have traveled on the Hampstead tube in the morning, and stood on Hill 60 at night. The London morning papers are often delivered at the brigade headquarters the same evening. And yet, half a day apart in time, London and Ypres represent the very opposite extremes of life. [end column] [start column] Come with me across the carefully guarded lines. I fyou are wise you will be in khaki, for the man who goes astray in civilian clothes in the dark is apt to meet the business end of a sentry's bayonet in painful fashion. Before you approach Ypres itself the authorities will see that you are equipped with a "tin hat" - otherwise known as a steel helmet, and a gas mask. At first you may smile at this equipment; you will not smile for long. When there comes an air fight overhead - and you will not be in the salient half a day without witnessing one - the Hun guns rain shell into the sky. As the planes approach you, the fragments will drop near where you are. If you cannot take shelter - and it is often quite impossible - the tin hat may save your life, as it has saved many another. A small fragment of shell falling on a cap might kill you; if it falls on the tin hat it will be deflected harmlessly to the ground. Donning the Gas Mask. But the gas mask guards one agaisnt the greatest danger of all. Shells may drop all around and leave you untouched. But let the poison gas come, and the man who is unprepared dies. Once the signal goes around the lines, "Gas Alert - On," you pin the hideous head-dress to your coat, ready for instant use. When the clanging of empty shell cases and other insistent noises are heard that warn you that a gas attack is coming, on goes the helmet. You grab it firmly around your throat, you feel carefully that it is not bulging at the neck - many a man has died through this - you button [end column] [start column] your coat tightly up, and then if you can, you stand still. It is a question of seconds betweeen you and death. "Have you practiced putting your gas mask on?" the captain in charge asked me, as I was spending the night on his section of the front trenches. "No? Well, do it at once. Start now - right away!" My fingers fumbled at the buttons of the gas helmet, and my glasses got in the way as I tried to pull it over my head. Strive as I would my collar would not come up quickly. "Umph!" grunted the captain, with brutal kindness. "You'll be a casualty if you can't do better than that. Last night the gas came on us in 20 seconds. Now, try again." But it is not only in the front trenches that you need to be careful of gas. Leave or forget anything else you please, but never part from your gas helmet. We approach Ypres through Poperinghe, the little town of big churches, and through the village of Viamertinghe. There are ruins before you come to Ypres, but nothing prepares one for the sight of the town itself. Sixteen months ago Ypres was destroyed by the heavy German shell fire and was deserted by its inhabitants. Those of us who saw it then described it as the acme of desolation. One Year In Rain of Shells. But it has had over a year of heavy, continuous further shelling since then. It still forms the focus for the Hun fire from the great arc of enemy lines around. Houses that I remember a year ago as then bearing some resemblance to their original shape, are now nothing but broken bits of party walls. Here a circular staircase is left hanging apparently on nothing; here stands a bit of front telling of a gay boarding house. The old monster water tower, for long a familiar landmark, now lies wrecked on the ground. Here is a bronze pillar box, apparently untouched. The fine tower of the cathedral has only one side left, and that has a big slice out of its centre. The grand old Church of St. Pierre is a pitiful wreck, and its famous monster bell, reputed to be made of sivler, rests securely by one of our guard rooms. Ypres today is little more than a succession of roadways, of crumbling walls. [end column] [start column] [illegible]. It has been possible to drive up to here. Now we must go afoot. Horse or car beyond Ypres gates would attract so many shells that our journey would be a short one. Look around at the city walls as we leave them. Vauban planned them. They seem to defy time, and they are merely pock-marked by the shells that have struck them. Notice the swans and cygnets swimming peacefully and gracefully in the moat. The mother swan sat on her eggs undisturbed by heavy shelling. Even when one shell burst quite close she did not stir. Her cygnets were hatched in the midst of a particularly heavy bombardment. The Lille Road, between the city and the front trenches, is not considered healthy. It is a favorite target for the Hun artillery, who are specially partial to one point on it, Shrapnel Corner. We decide to walk, not along the road, but through the rank, grass-grown fields. As we pass parallel with Shrapnel Corner there comes a gentle whizzing through the air, that steadily grows louder. It ends with a big exposion and a cloud of smoke just by the corner. "Lucky for us we didn't take the main road," says the young staff officer guiding us. A few minutes alter there comes another shell, again to our right. Shell Hole As Refuge. Generally three shells follow one another. We have to turn to the right to reach our destination. We wait for the third shell, but it doesn't come, so we decide to chance it. "If you hear another coming, jump into a shell hole and lie flat," the captain commands. "Never mind if it's full of water. Shells never strike the same place twice." There is no difficulty in finding a shell hole. The ground is thickly dotted with them, as though they had been scattered out of a pepper box. There is a rattling sound overhead, harsh and insistent, like the click of a Lewis machine gun. Somewhere overhead an aeroplane fight is going on. But search the skies as we will we cannot see it. Now our anti-aircraft guns open, shell following shell very rapidly. Some sharp whistles are heard from nearby. It is the familiar Ypres signal: "Enemy aircraft overhead - take shelter!" You cannot take shelter in the midst of an open field, but we know the Taube will not waste bombs on us, and so we [illegible] [end clipping] continued [annotation in ink]
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