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    Pen Pictures From The Trenches
    Pen Pictures From The Trenches
    Pen Pictures From The Trenches
    Ebook144 pages1 hour

    Pen Pictures From The Trenches

    By Stanley Arthur Rutledge

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    Stanley Arthur Rutledge was a man of many parts: lawyer, beloved son, soldier, man of letters before his life was cut tragically short on the 16th November 1917. A member of the famed Canadian Corps, he left his home shore in 1915 and served courageously until dying in a flying accident whilst trained for the Royal Flying Corps.

    This volume is divided into two parts: the first contains notes, anecdotes and experiences that the Author wrote whilst in the trenches through the battles of the Western Front, including the Somme. In them he describes the daily shelling, sniper fire, deadly poison gas, going over the top and even a sentry shooting one of his own officers who didn’t hear his challenge. The second part is made up of his letters home to his parents in Canada describing his experiences in the “Hippodrome of Hell” of the war. In spite of his audience, he pulled no punches in his retellings...

    An excellent First World War Memoir.

    Author — Stanley Arthur Rutledge d. 1917

    Text taken, whole and complete, from the edition published in Toronto, William Briggs, 1918.

    Original Page Count – 159 pages.
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherLucknow Books
    Release dateJan 15, 2013
    ISBN9781782891086
    Pen Pictures From The Trenches

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      Book preview

      Pen Pictures From The Trenches - Stanley Arthur Rutledge

       This edition is published by PICKLE PARTNERS PUBLISHING—www.picklepartnerspublishing.com

      To join our mailing list for new titles or for issues with our books – contact@picklepartnerspublishing.com

      Text originally published in 1918 under the same title.

      © Pickle Partners Publishing 2013, all rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted by any means, electrical, mechanical or otherwise without the written permission of the copyright holder.

      Publisher’s Note

      Although in most cases we have retained the Author’s original spelling and grammar to authentically reproduce the work of the Author and the original intent of such material, some additional notes and clarifications have been added for the modern reader’s benefit.

      We have also made every effort to include all maps and illustrations of the original edition the limitations of formatting do not allow of including larger maps, we will upload as many of these maps as possible.

      PEN PICTURES FROM THE TRENCHES

      By

      LIEUT. STANLEY A. RUTLEDGE

      TABLE OF CONTENTS

      Contents

      TABLE OF CONTENTS 4

      FOREWORD—BY JOHN A. PATERSON, K.C. 6

      SECTION ONE 8

      OUT IN FRONT 8

      THE OLD MAN AND HIS SMILE 9

      PAUL HOFFMAN, THE PRISONER 9

      WILLIE GIERKE 11

      A CANADIAN NIGHT RAID 12

      AN EXTRACT FROM A LETTER HOME. BELGIUM, August 11, 1916. 12

      STEVE’S YELLOW STREAK 13

      LA BELLE FRANCE 14

      WHEN YOU COME HOME, DEAR 14

      WORKING HIS TICKET 15

      A NIGHT IN MAGNICOURT 16

      TWILIGHT REVERIE IN THE TRENCHES 17

      OVER, BOYS, AND AT THEM 19

      ON LES AURA 20

      LAST POST 21

      RATIONS UP 24

      HUMAN TARGETS 25

      THE BRITISH SNIPER HAS THE UPPER HAND 25

      LIKE A THIEF IN THE NIGHT 27

      A TRAGEDY 28

      OLD PIERRE 28

      IN ORDERS 29

      DOWN SUICIDE ALLEY 31

      THE CHILDREN OF HALLOY-PERNOIS 32

      ORA PRO NOBIS 32

      BRIEF SKETCH OF THE AUTHOR LIEUTENANT STANLEY ARTHUR RUTLEDGE, 34

      A FATHER’S TRIBUTE 35

      SECTION TWO 36

      SHORNCLIFFE, December 19, 1915. 36

      SHORNCLIFFE, February 14, 1916. 37

      BELGIUM, March 21, 1916. 38

      BELGIUM, March 29, 1916. 39

      BELGIUM, April 7, 1916. 40

      BELGIUM, May 20, 1916. 41

      BELGIUM, June 18, 1916. 42

      BELGIUM, July 10, 1916. 44

      BELGIUM, July 11, 1916. 45

      THE SNIPER. 45

      BELGIUM, July 14, 1916. 46

      FRANCE, September 9, 1916. 47

      FRANCE, December 24, 1916. 48

      FRANCE, January 5, 1917. 49

      LONDON, February 1, 1917. 49

      BRAMSHOTT CAMP, March 10, 1917. 50

      STRAND, LONDON, W.C., April 29, 1917. 50

      May 2, 1917. 50

      BRAMSHOTT, HANTS., May 7, 1917. 51

      BRAMSHOTT, June 10, 1917. 51

      WANTAGE HALL, READING, BERKS. 52

      READING, July 1, 1917. 52

      READING, May 13, 1917. 53

      READING, July 21, 1917. 53

      TURNHOUSE, MIDLOTHIAN, SCOTLAND, August 6, 1917. 54

      R.F.C., TURNHOUSE, August 12, 1917. 55

      HARLAXTON, September 25, 1917. 56

      HARLASTON, September 30, 1917. 56

      HARLAXTON, October 7, 1917. 57

      HARLAXTON, October 17, 1917. 58

      HARLASTON, October 21, 1917. 59

      HARLAXTON, October 28, 1917. 59

      TELEGRAMS INFORMING OF ACCIDENT GRANTHAM, ENGLAND, 60

      KIND WORDS FOR THE AUTHOR 61

      PASSING OF THE AIRMAN In Memoriam, Lieut. S. A. Rutledge. BY A. C. STEWART. 62

      FOREWORD—BY JOHN A. PATERSON, K.C.

      SERVICE well rendered deserves well-rendered thanks and a life well spent deserves well-worded praise.

      Lieutenant Stanley Arthur Rutledge was for some time a law student in my office, and I looked forward to no ordinary future for him. But there came a time when the sword was mightier than the pen, and, as one of a noble band of many other law students, he, like Coriolanus of old, surrendered to the call and said:

      "I do love

      My country’s good with a respect more tender,

      More holy and profound than mine own life."

      When danger threatened the Scottish clansmen they sent through the heather-covered glens and up the rocky cliffs two charred sticks dipped in blood—the Fiery Cross, and then every fit man answered the call and flamed forth. And so Stanley Rutledge went forth. He was not only an able lawyer and a valiant fighter, but also a fertile writer, and he charmed his own friends and many new-made friends by the magic of his pen, as he wove out graphic descriptions of eye-witnessed scenes. I have before me some of the letters he wrote me, and I feel honoured in having them in possession. The Air Service attracted him, and he became a proficient instructor, and in that service he rendered up his life. But we count it death to falter not to die, and Stanley Rutledge never faltered. His life was not long as we count it by years, but a life is long when it serves life’s great ends. And so he lived long and the twilight here merged into the dawn over there.

      I quote from John Oxenham:

      "I never hear

      The growling diapason of a plane

      Up there,

      The deep reverb’rant humming of a plane

      Up there,

      But up to God I wing a little prayer,

      Begging His care

      For him who braves the dangers of the air.

      "God keep you, Bird-man, in your plane

      Up there!

      Your wings upbear, your heart sustain!

      Give you good flight and oversight,

      And bring you safe to earth again!"

      But our prayers are not always answered as we would like them to be, for we only see darkly and confusedly—as the tapestry of life is woven for us on this side of it the pattern appears mutilated; on the other side, which we do not see, it is harmonious. Thus God’s finger touched him and he slept.

      SECTION ONE

      OUT IN FRONT

      WHAT would be your feelings if, when on sentry go, peering over the parapet, someone were to come along the trench and whisper: Scouts going out on the right and coming in on the centre. I remember my first twenty-four hours in the front line. It was a great experience, crowded with exciting moments. Not the least of these was the one, about 11 p.m., when the caution, Scouts are out was passed along. Three figures like silhouettes, appeared out of the gloom. The night was very dark, one of those in which Fritz shoots up countless flares. These men were going out over the parapet. Going out into that narrow strip of land which knows night prowlers only. Going out into that bullet-swept zone banked by huge piles of sandbags, behind which men cower and wait and wait.

      Surely, I thought, these chaps are the real heroes. It is nothing to hide behind a wall of sand, but to go out there, why, I wish it were in me. Every first-nighter has these thoughts. He sees the patrol in a heroic light. He peers into the faces as the men shuffle by, trying to read their miraculous escapes—the wonderful encounters in the dead of night. A patrol will often consist of three scouts and a non-com. The Canadians take kindly to this business of raids and patrols. In fact, some battalions refuse to have the strip called No Man’s Land. It is ours, they vehemently assert. Some fine results, too. The German is losing the whip-hand along the whole front. In the first instance this can be attributed largely to the daring raids which have unnerved the field grey.

      The patrol may creep out to our listening post, along an old trench—these posts are never very far advanced, and so far the journey can be made by walking upright. Of course, care must be had to stand still—not a muscle to move, sir, when a tremendous flare goes up. Whispered greetings are exchanged with the boys on listening post, then the ticklish part of the job. Each man fingers his revolver, sees that the bomb pins may be removed quickly, then creeps along on all fours. Every tree trunk—one would swear it moved—is watched. It is dark, dark, and if one is new to the game it is sure to get you. You are sure that something is creeping up alongside, you are certain that Fritz is cutting at our wire. The patrol is lost to view and making for Fritz’s line.

      A machine-gun opens up, the bullets swish through the long grass, and each man gets down, down until his face rubs into old Mother Earth. Then the line moves on, crawling in and out shell holes, alertness personified. Then a stop is made; the patrol is now approaching the German conglomeration of barbed wire. The noise of a maul is heard, faintly it is true. The Hun is cautious. Some dark figures are noted on the sky-line. Yes it is, No it isn’t. Yes, by—it is—a wiring party. Signs are made, one does not know hardly what they mean, but the gang manages to do the right thing, intuition, isn’t it?

      The patrol creeps cautiously towards the busy little group. Bombs are made ready. A hoarse yell and fling, a scampering of terrified feet, a moan

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