I stole the following Facebook entry from my sister, she's a journalist who years ago had complied our Great Grandpa's memoirs into a book to gift to our Dad. She compiled photos of Grandpa's village in Marykirk, Scotland and even found an archived CBC radio interview with Grandpa, including a transcript of that exchange in the book. I think save for his grandkids that book is the favorite thing my Dad's ever been gifted, he was quite close with Grandpa Strachan, whom he gave me my middle name in honor of.
The following is an excerpt from my Great Grandpa Alexander Strachan's autobiography, which he entitled "A Wee Herd Laddie's Memories." He was born in Scotland, but moved to Canada, and in WWI served in 43rd Cameron Highlanders battalion. He described, in his no-nonsense Scottish way, much of what trench warfare was like for him. In this short excerpt he talks a little about his time in the trenches near Vimy, France, in 1917, when he was a 28-year-old soldier. It may be important to note that his battalion, though Canadian, wore kilts in combat:
While lying there, I figured that if I got killed, I wouldn’t need all my heavy stuff, and if I didn’t we would get back anyway. So I ditched the things I wouldn’t need. Packed my mess tin with bread, other stuff. Cut my coat hip-length, and waited until five o’ clock. The barrage opened up then and lifted and away we went, up Belleview Spur. Halfway up, a flare came down and fell on the back of one of my men. I opened my kit, and took one half to bandage him up, and told him to make back to the H.Q. They were in an old Fritz concrete shelter. Then on we climbed, until we took Fritz front line trench, and waited to get organized again. All at once, all went blank, and it was some time before I came to myself and found I couldn’t move, as I was jammed into the back of the trench. As the minutes passed, I found I had no hat, my rifle was bent in two, and all was quiet around me. I tried to scrape the mud away, and finally I saw that I was on the side of a shellhole. Everything being so soaked with rain, that the shell had gone so far down, that very little shrapnel had come up, which saved my life. Then I found I was quite deaf, my right side and legs was sore and useless, also my thumb (right) was all smashed at the base. Well, I kept trying, and finally I pulled myself out. I crawled back to another shellhole when I saw a fellow coming towards me, and when he got closer, I recognized him as the lad whose hand I had bandaged on the way up. He spoke to me, but I couldn’t hear a word he said. But he heard me, and I bawled him out for not going back. He said he should have done that, just couldn’t bring himself about to do it. As there was a Fritz plane flying around (the only one) we went into this shellhole one on each side, as it was half-filled with water. A few minutes later, everything went black again, and when I came to, I was a few yards from the shellhole, and when able to look around, I saw this chap a few yards from the other side, so the shell must have landed right in the centre of the shellhole. A short time later, Jim Sherriss and Black Smithy came along. They had been slightly wounded, and with one on each side of me, we managed to get back to H.Q. There was quite a crowd there, so we kept going until we came to a Y.M.C.A. Shelter, where we got hot cocoa and wafers and did that go down nicely. From there, we were taken in a truck to Ypres where there was a Medical Hospital. I couldn’t move I was so cold. I sat between two bib boilers until we got the call to board a train, and headed out. I sat there for awhile quite sick, and a Nurse came along and looked me over. Then she says in good Scottish voice, “Man, Scotty, I could plant tatties between your legs!” and I guess she could, thanks to Colonel Grassy and his “No Shorts” order.
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