Private Raymond Duval, MM, was a soldier of the 14th Battalion (Royal Montreal Regiment) CEF who served overseas during the last two years of the First World War. He participated in some of the fiercest fighting seen by Canadians during the war and was decorated for bravery at Passchendaele. Determined to preserve his memories of the First World War, he maintained a daily record of his experiences. Here is what he wrote precisely 100 years ago today:
Wednesday July 11, 1917: Went with rations to front line nothing exciting happened. Poor Charlie Alcock[1] got napooed day before yesterday by shrapnel every day sees some one go. Got pretty good rations today Fine day. I spend my time dreaming about my little girl and the folks at home hope she is o.k. Also mother got a snap of my honey Lena and dear Aunt Frank it sure looks good to me All morning aerial battles have been going on but am getting sleepy so theres to bed Had a shave and a kind of wash today and Blake made several pots of tea so that was pretty good. Using sardine can for basin.
[1] Alcock, Charles. Born 1 February 1885, Oakengates, Salop, England. Enlisted 3 August 1916, Trois-Rivieres, PQ. KIA 7 July 1917, Beehive Cemetery, Willerval.
Author’s note in 1954: During our stay at Mount St. Eloi, I was able to contact several old town boys attached to another battalion billeted in the area. I met these boys on bath parade. Exchange of home gossip and news made a happy interlude. About a week was passed here in standard drill and dress, muster kit parades, etc., in preparation for the battalion’s return to the front, only a few kilometres to the north. Our spare time was spent writing letters, and with visits to Church Army and YMCA huts, with the odd visit to a local Estaminet (small tavern). A happy event at this point was the arrival of Canadian mail, which we had been looking for, for several weeks. I personally received 42 letters, a whole raft of parcels, and an armful of Montreal Daily Stars, to which my wife had paid a period subscription to be sent to France. What a “joke” that was.
During our stay at Mount St. Eloi, I was able to contact several old town boys attached to another battalion billeted in the area. I met these boys on bath parade. Exchange of home gossip and news made a happy interlude. About a week was passed here in standard drill and dress, muster kit parades, etc., in preparation for the battalion’s return to the front, only a few kilometres to the north. Our spare time was spent writing letters, and with visits to Church Army and YMCA huts, with the odd visit to a local Estaminet (small tavern). A happy event at this point was the arrival of Canadian mail, which we had been looking for, for several weeks. I personally received 42 letters, a whole raft of parcels, and an armful of Montreal Daily Stars, to which my wife had paid a period subscription to be sent to France. What a “joke” that was. It was really funny. We had been warned to fall in at 5:30pm to move “up the line”. At about 2:30pm I saw the mail corporal with a terrific load, searching and asking in very flowery soldier language for Pte ~~~~~~, which was me. When I called from my place in the hut, he piled the whole of his load on the floor and luridly told me what he thought of a “guy” who received so much useless mail.
As mentioned before, we were slated to move off at 5:30pm, which gave me less than 3 hours to take care of the pile of parcels, letters, etc. I first released all the letters – 42 of them – then the parcels were opened, and cigarettes, and what few eatables I could take care of, were stored in my haversack and pockets. Then I distributed cakes, candies, etc to the other boys in the hut. I was immediately quite popular. The Daily Stars, some 30 of them, were left behind and I hoped someone else would enjoy them.
About 5:30pm, we were mustered on the parade ground. After the usual inspection and talk by the C.O., we moved off to our first tour in the line. What lay before us was something of a mystery. Colored by talks describing life in the front line, we set off for the unknown, still having “kidded” by the “Old Timers” in fact all our experience only gave us an inkling of what lay before us, but we found out like all those who came before and after us that words alone could not give a true picture one has to experience war to appreciate it.
After walking along a pave [paving-stone] road, often through a maze of trenches, half filled with water, we finally came to our destination at about 9:30pm. This was “Thelus Caves” on the Vimy Ridge Front. These caves had been excavated in the chalk to a great depth, and were very extensive. Shortly after arriving, I was called with several men to the ration dump a few hundred yards away for our daily rations of food. This was my first close acquaintance with shelling, and it was anything but pleasant. It was a very dark night and our NCO-in-charge got lost and wandered in a maze for a long time, when all of a sudden, 3 shrapnel shells in quick succession burst over us; and in accordance with our weeks of training for this sort of thing we “hit the deck” in a hurry, which for most of us was a muddy splash. Happily, none were hit and we finally located the ration dump and after loading up with our quota of bread jam, smokes, etc., in sand bags, we got back to our caves in safety. I felt very happy after this experience with the thought that I had not evidenced any more “funk” than the rest of the gang. The caves were very damp and cold so that sleeping in our clothes, wet from rain and sweat, was very difficult.
Next day was clear and fairly warm. No drills as we were on the last lap to the front, so we had the opportunity of viewing the battle ground for the first time, and it was a depressing picture to say the least. Torn and smashed tree trunks, remains of destroyed houses in all stages of ruin, bits of furniture, etc. Nowhere within range of human sight anything but stark ruin, truly an awesome picture of modern war’s devastation. One could not help but try to sum up, even if futile, the losses to the erstwhile natives, their homes all gone with nothing left but ugly ruin.
The ruin on the ground was terrible to look at, but [seeing them] in the air for the first time, we were fascinated [to watch] the airplanes in battle. It was an exciting picture. The planes swooped and zoomed in dog fights, each trying to get at the other, accompanied by the rattle of their machine guns, which made a continuous “rat-tat-tat” above as the A[nti] A[ircraft] guns on the ground, fixed at every opportunity when they saw an enemy plan in the clear with no danger of hitting their own. One or two planes were brought down in smoke and flame, but to our chagrin, too far away for us to see if they were friend or foe.
Writing letters and getting ready for a further move took up the remainder of the day, and that night we moved up to the support line only a short distance from the front line. The next 4 or 5 days were spent in working parties, digging out deep dug outs in the solid whit clay of the country. My work consisted mostly of filling sand bags with the heavy clay and toting it up a flight of some 40 rough steps to the surface where they were dumped and kept covered with soil to prevent observation from the air. These working parties generally were from midnight to just before sunrise.
We were now living in the trenches and in order to get some rest, we scooped out hollows some 2 feet deep in the side of the trench wall, which we called “funk” holes, and this was a very appropriate name indeed. However, when a ground sheep was hung across the hollow, some quite cozy homes were the result, as long as the rain did not come down too hard and make a pond of it, or a near miss shell did not shake it down on you in the middle of a nice snooze.
As we were now in the fighting zone (being only a few hundred yards at best from the front line), the guns, all types from rifles to heavy howitzers, kept up a continual din, never slacking for any appreciable length of time. In fact, it was so continuous that it became a part of life, and in time one wondered if it was different anywhere else.
On these working parties we were continually within range of field guns as well as snipers, and also machine guns from airplanes. Aerial bombs, fortunately, were not common. All in all we were having an exciting time, at times dangerous, but for all that interesting as we learned the art of war at first hand.
As we travelled some 2 miles to and from our trench home on these working parties, shells of all descriptions often burst in our vicinity, with occasional casualties resulting. Fortunately, these were fairly infrequent. Our worst headache, or I should say heartache, were the floating star shells, which the enemy fired over our lines to get a look-see. These lights, or star-shells as we called them, were affixed to a sort of parachute which caused them to float to the ground very slowly. They were designed to give off a bright light, and they certainly did just that, as even one lit up the countryside for thousands of yards in every direction, almost like the noon-day sun. This was very nerve-racking. When one of these shells came over, all we could do was stop and remain absolutely rigid, until the light faded. Otherwise, we knew that even a slight movement might result in a “visit” from a sniper’s bullet or a shell such as a trench mortar, or even a 3” field gun.
This job of trench and deep dug out digging continued in spite of heavy rains and the almost incessant shelling. The actual digging had its compensation in the fact that the hole one was digging offered some shelter against a near miss shell, but often we had to tote heavy articles, such as heavy timbers, over long stretches well in reach and in view of the enemy. This was most unpleasant and hard work, as the walking in the dark along slippery tracks (such as they were) was something to be endured in misery.
After a couple of weeks of this digging job we were moved up to close support lines on the same (Vimy) front where we mostly slept in the daytime with stand-to most of the time at night. We managed to boil some water and make tea, which was always welcome in the line. Making a fire was done with great care, as no smoke could be allowed to be seen, as it meant a shelling of that point. However, we were soon taught by the old timers how to make a small fire without smoke. Of course, in spite of all possible precautions, Fritz being of a nervous type at all times, threw his shells around in a most careless manner, and these often landed too close for comfort, and even caused frequent casualties. The mid-summer heat was also trying.
I had one of my first experiences under close fire at this time. With several other men I was picked to carry rations to the front line and one night we landed in the front line just as a box-carriage was put over as part of an attempted raid on a section of our front line, probably an attempt to get prisoners. The raid was broken up fairly easily, but not before several of our men were hit, and to me, like the other new men, it was terrible; the screaming shells, the yellow flash of exploding shells, which were so close at times that the searing heat almost scorched one’s face. This made me wonder how much of a this a man could stand and keep his mind, even if he was not hit. I agreed that “war is hell.”
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