Private Peat | Page 7

England was
not really any training at all. The rain was almost continuous, we were
constantly being moved from one camp to another, and training, as
training is understood to-day, was out of the question.
As I have said, our first camp in England was Pond Farm. It was well
named. Later we moved to Sling Plantation. However, it was at Pond
Farm we had some of our most grueling experiences. Many a night,
owing to the awful rains, we would have to move our tents sometimes
in the middle of the night. If any minister of the gospel--except our
chaplain--had been standing around on these occasions he might well
have thought from the sulphurous perfume of the air that every soldier
was doomed to everlasting Hades. But, after all, "cussing" is only a
small part of a soldier's life, and who would not swear under such
extraordinary circumstances? Again, we have authority for it. It is a
soldier's commandment on active service--the third commandment--and
here is how it reads:

"Thou shalt not swear unless under extraordinary circumstances."
An "extraordinary circumstance" can be defined as moving your tent in
the middle of the night under a downpour of rain, seeing your comrade
shot, or getting coal oil in your tea. As a matter of fact, all minor
discomforts in the army are counted as "extraordinary circumstances."
Despite the weather conditions, and the fact that we did very little
training, the men in our battalion were enthusiastic and did their best to
keep fit. However, we all went to pieces when we were told, early in
December, that it was a cinch our battalion would never get to France
as a unit.
I'll never forget the day our captain broke the news to us. The tears ran
down his cheeks, and he wasn't the only man who cried. We were
almost broken-hearted to know we were to be divided, because Captain
Parkes (now Colonel) was a real and genuine fellow. He had taught us
all to love him. For instance, when after a long march we would come
in with our feet blistered, he would not detail a sergeant to look after us.
He would, himself, kneel down on the muddy floor and bathe our feet.
If at any time we were "strapped" and wanted a one-pound note, we
always knew where to go for it. It was always Captain Parkes, and he
never asked for an I.O.U. either. On the gloomy wet nights of the
winter he would play games with us, and it was common to hear the
boys remark that if we should ever get to France as a unit, and our
captain got out in front, it would not be one man who would rescue him,
but the whole company.
The day at Pond's Farm was more than a sad one when the old Ninth
was made into a Reserve Battalion. The men were so greatly
discouraged and the sergeants so grouchy that at times it became
almost humorous.
One day, in late December, while at the butts, we were shooting at six
hundred yards, with Sergeant Jones in command of the platoon. We
had targets from Number One to Number Twenty inclusive, and the
men were numbered accordingly. At this distance we all did fairly well,
except Number One, who missed completely. For the sake of Number

One the sergeant moved us down to four hundred yards, and at this
distance every man got a bull's eye except Number One. He was off the
target altogether. Our sergeant, after a few very pungent remarks,
commanded the section to move to one hundred yards. Here again each
one of us had a bull to his credit but Number One. Again he had missed,
and again we moved, this time to fifty yards.
At fifty yards I can not begin to describe the look on the sergeant's
face--to say that his eyes, nose and mouth were twitching is putting it
mildly. Nevertheless, Number One missed. Then, something that never
happened before on a rifle range on this earth electrified us all.
Sergeant Jones shouted at the top of his voice: "Number One, attention!
Fix bayonet! Charge! That's the only d----d hope you've got."
Disappointments were frequent enough in camp. Take the case of the
Fifth Western Cavalry, who could sport the honor of their full title on
their shoulder straps in bold yellow letters. It was they who had to leave
horses behind and travel to France to fight in what they termed "mere"
infantry. To this day we know them as the "Disappointed Fifth." There
was also the Strathcona Horse of Winnipeg who were doomed to
disappointment and much foot-slogging with their horses left behind.
Among those made into reserve units we of the Ninth had for
companions the