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Anjani Kumar, Abhishek Mishra and Sanjeev Kumar
Abhishek Mishra
Thane West, Maharashtra, India
Sanjeev Kumar
Gurgaon, Haryana, India
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1. Introduction
Anjani Kumar1 , Abhishek Mishra2 and Sanjeev Kumar3
(1) Gurgaon, India
(2) Thane West, Maharashtra, India
(3) Gurgaon, Haryana, India
I.
The Capture and Loss of Hill 60.
The grass has grown up thick and long about the little graves
strung out in a great semicircle about Ypres, marking the line of the
famous salient, in the defence of which so many thousands of
Britons and Frenchmen cheerfully laid down their lives. Spring and
summer have smiled on the wooded and undulating plain about the
ruined towers of Ypres, and the profusion of wild flowers, the wealth
of green foliage, which their gentle caress has brought forth, has so
transformed the land that the awful battle-pictures these green
pastures have seen now seem like a far-off dream.
With wise strategy we drew in the horns of the Yser salient on May
3, and fell back to the position we now hold, at the beginning of
August, from the Yser Canal, north of Ypres, through Wieltje,
Verlorenhoek, and Hooge, back to the foot of Hill 60, and thence
down to St. Eloi. Thus a great part of the battlefield, which was the
scene of the tremendous struggle lasting from April 17 until May 13,
is now in German hands—St. Julien, sacred for ever in the Empire’s
history in memory of Canadian gallantry there; St. Jean, where the
gallant Geddes died; Zonnebeke, where, by the light of candles
stuck in beer-bottles, those gallant doctors, Ferguson and Waggett—
Waggett, the throat specialist of Harley Street, now Major Waggett,
R.A.M.C.—in the cellars of the ruined houses worked for hours over
the wounded, and brought them safely away.
Yet I have contrived to visit in person many corners of the
battlefield of Ypres, sometimes a day or two after the great contest
had raged itself out. On the chaussée by the Yser Canal, north of
Ypres, I have seen the humble graves, many of them nameless, in
which the poor French victims of the first great gas attack were laid
to rest, their rusting rifles and blood-stained uniform close at hand. I
have stood in the emplacements of our guns about Ypres amid the
putrefying carcasses of horses and piles of empty shell-cases. I have
walked through trenches dug across the battlefield where, through
fissures in the ground, one yet might see the dead, buried as they
died, in uniform.
I have looked upon the hill of St. Eloi—the Mound of Death—that
tumulus of glory of the Princess Pat.’s. I have seen the brown and
scarred top of Hill 60, where in the yawning craters rent by our mines
2,000 Britons and Germans are yet lying awaiting the Last Trump,
where shells and bullets have stripped the trees of their last leaf, and
where chlorine gas has stained the herbage yellow.
I have talked with the Generals who directed the fight, who spoke
eagerly of its strategy and tactics, and of the undying heroism of our
men. I have spoken with the humble privates, whose only
recollection of this classic struggle is of long marches over the hard
and galling pavé of the Belgian roads, of such an inferno of shell-fire
as no man ever dreamt of before, of hours spent, hungry and thirsty,
with nerves benumbed, in narrow trenches where comrades cried
sharply “Oh!” and “Ah!” as fragments of shell or bullets struck them,
where dead men sprawled around, where wounded sighed and died,
where one fired and loaded and fired and “stuck it,” because,
avowedly, one wouldn’t go back for no bloody German—in reality,
because one was British.
I have been among the Canadians who went through the gas
horror with a gallantry that made the Empire ring. I have talked with
soldiers to whom, but five days out from England, the hell of fire that
swept the salient night and day was their first taste of war, and with
veterans fresh from the fight on whose breasts the discoloured
medal ribbons spoke of former service in the field. From all I have
seen myself and all I have heard from others, my mind has focussed
so sublime a spectacle of heroism, of pluck undaunted by adversity,
of resourcefulness never foiled by confusion, that I have felt impelled
to try my hand at painting the picture of that battle which history will
set down as one of the crucial struggles of the war.