Sergeant Ralph Beverly Watson in the Great War

Letters of a Canadian Stretcher Bearer

Sergeant Ralph Beverly Watson 63 (a.k.a. Joseph Ralph Watson) born in Hull, England, on 23 October 1883, to parents Joseph Watson and Lavinia Sanderson. A veteran of the South Africa Yeomanry, moving to Canada sometime prior to the war, he settled in Ottawa where he married Beulah (Bulah) Bahnsen in January 1915. On May 25 that same year he enlisted as a Private in the Canadian Army Medical Corps. Standing over 5'10" tall, with fair complexion, blue eyes, and brown hair.

Letters of a Canadian Stretcher Bearer by R.A.L.

The Watson letters originally published together in the book Letters of a Canadian Stretcher Bearer in 1918. The war still ongoing at that time and the author identified only as “R.A.L.” Other identifying details such as dates also changed in order to preserve anonymity (e.g., the book gives his date of enlistment as May 31 instead of Watson’s actual enlistment date of 25 May 1915). The real identity of the author appears to have remained unknown for many decades, but eventually identified as Ralph Beverly Watson (born Joseph Ralph Watson, going by “Ralph Watson” at the time of his marriage and enlistment).

No. 3 Canadian General Hospital – Sgt Ralph Beverly Watson

Watson served with No. 3 Canadian General Hospital (McGill), 2nd Entrenching Battalion, and as a stretcher-bearer with the 29th Canadian Infantry Battalion. Discharged in Ottawa, 3 February 1919 and died 17 November 1957. No further details provided in his Death Card at VAC.

Sgt Watson embarked for England on the troop ship SS Missanabie in July 1915 and sent into action in France on 2 February 1916 with No. 3 Canadian Hospital, Boulogne. On 1 July 1916, sentenced to 14 Days FP No.1 for absent from duty for 12 hours. Later struck from his service record. Released to duty from FP, 15 July 1916.

Somme

I was in Blighty when the big scrap came off that straightened the Salient; some show I guess it must have been, too. Of course, I knew beforehand all about it, so it wasn’t a surprise. I’d like to see the crater. Poor old Heinie!

Escaped PoW

There’s a man, an Englishman, works here. He was taken prisoner by the Germans. When captured, he had a tin of bully and some biscuits on him. Fritz first ate these, cutting the biscuits into very thin slices and making sandwiches with the bully beef, enjoying the feed — he told me — with the greatest satisfaction. Afterwards, they
took every single stitch of clothing off him and turned him loose.

When about fifty to one hundred yards away, they all took pot shots at him with their rifles ; but he got off with only a few slight wounds, wandered three days and three nights till he fell in with one of our working parties. He’s been no use ever since. . . . They did the same thing to a large party of a certain Scotch regiment, killing many. That regiment has taken no prisoners since. This is perfectly true.

Burials at Boulogne Eastern Cemetery

Yesterday afternoon I was moving what we horribly call stiffs into the ambulances
which take them to the morgue downtown — where they are buried in a cemetery here, French on one side of the road, English on the other — men with white crosses, officers brown — men three in a grave, officers one.

Each coffin is numbered in case relatives wish to claim the body after the war. I detest the job ; it seems to me most pitiful : these poor things pinned in a white sheet with a label round their neck, with name and particulars on. A while ago this was a man — a man whom somebody who does not even know he is dead is thinking of, talking of. It always makes me think what awful fools we are to detest one another, and to do nasty things and to say nasty things, when we shall all so soon be just like that.

When a man dies, his effects sent to his parents. A boy died here, his simple things sent home. An indignant letter came back to this effect,:

"I gave my boy. You have had him —why steal his things? Where are the pair of gloves and the tin of zinc ointment I sent him?"

On 30 October 1916 Sergeant Ralph Beverly Watson transferred to 29th Battalion. The O\C of the 29th Battalion apparently not too pleased with this new recruit, and had Watson assigned to an entrenching battalion, common for a soldier with a disciplinary record. Left for No. 2 Entrenching Battalion, 10 November 1916.

2nd Entrenching Battalion – Sgt Ralph Beverly Watson

2nd Canadian Entrenching Battalion organized at Canadian Base Depot, Le Havre in July 1916 under the command of Lieutenant-Colonel C. R. Hill. Amalgamated with 2nd Canadian Divisional Training Battalion in October 1917 and designated 2nd Divisional Wing Canadian Corps Reinforcement Camp.

We are known as the 2nd Entrenching Batt’n; but there are no trenches to be dug, so we do fatigue, and a little drill etc., also bombing, and musketry — that chiefly for the fellows fresh out, who have been trained with the Ross, which of course is not used.

Today has been a confounded nuisance; the polishing is getting on every one’s nerves. We even have inspection in the afternoons now; it’s done to such a limit that entrenching tools have to be cleaned, and both sides of brass buckles, and so on — all for an hour’s inspection by some General or other. All the officers seem to be going crazy and harass the fellows to death. We’ll soon be glad to get back to the front line, to get away from them; there you only have a lieutenant around.

29th Canadian Infantry Battalion – Sgt Ralph Beverly Watson

29th Battalion (Vancouver) organized in October 1914 under the command of Lieutenant-Colonel J. S. Tobin. Mobilized at Vancouver. Recruited in Vancouver and New Westminster. Embarked from Montreal 20 May 1915 aboard MISSANABIE. Disembarked England 30 May 1915. With a strength of 37 officers, 1104 other ranks. Arrived in France 17 September 1915. 2nd Canadian Division, 6th Canadian Infantry Brigade. Reinforced by 1st Canadian Reserve Battalion.

Sergeant Ralph Beverly Watson returned to the 29th Battalion, 7 April 1917, just in time for the Battle of Vimy Ridge.

Battle of Vimy Ridge

Lt Oscar Bovill

The arrangements went off without a hitch; the barrage exact and splendid. I never saw one Fritz plane all day. Saw more of the battle than any other Canadian. I was detailed to carry films and plates for the moving picture man! I volunteered for it —grabbed it awful quick, when I heard of it. Was ahead of the 29th, and we took a film of ’em, going in.

Remember, every Canadian and English picture you see of the battle, your Hub passed the plate, and stood there. There’s a lot of ’em, so look out. Try to see the Canadian Records pictures. I am awful well — but worn out.

Our casualties have been light. The artillery did the trick. Every object was taken at the exact second as arranged — wonderful! The Germans were a very fine lot indeed, clean and smart-looking; they were absolutely outclassed.

Captain Ivor Castle

The photograph chap, a Captain, is absolutely fearless, and stood on “the top” to take pictures. I didn’t let him beat me; I went where he went — but I dunno’ how I got away with it. Some of the pictures are to appear in the Daily Mirror.

Do you remember once telling me you didn’t believe those moving pictures were genuine, that no one would risk his life for dollars? I thought of that remark more than once on Monday — with a grin — as I followed Captain C. (Castle) up “on top” to get a picture, when down in a shell hole seemed the only possible place. He was the limit, that man, brave as a lion. We got some splendid pictures, and of course you’ll see them — both the movies and the official Canadian Records pictures. As I told you, I’m in several.

Kit

I have lost all my kit — my razor — everything. Send me an Ever-ready Safety, please. If only I could have got away with the souvenirs, I’m sure I’d be a rich man. The only thing I grabbed was a Fritz water bottle, as I was thirsty. I had lunch in his third line trench on him: sour brown bread, two kinds of sausage — awful stuff! Cheese, two bottles of wine, and all kinds of cigars and cigarettes.

Our guns have advanced up in the open now. I saw the cavalry go in. You forget all about the machine guns and rifles; it’s the shells. The noise is so great you don’t hear Fritz’s till it’s on you. If you flop in time, you’re alright; but the air is full of flying metal all the time. We captured a big general. One battalion captured a field hospital complete.

Biggest day of my life

It was the biggest day of my life. I can’t quite understand how it’s possible to live through a day like that; but the casualties were really very light indeed. I am, for tonight, in a big underground cave with passages hundreds of yards long. Haven’t shaved or washed for four days now. You are so doped with weariness and excitement that you don’t worry about such discomforts. I have no idea what I am going to do, even tomorrow.

I am to be stretcher bearer with “B” Company of my battalion. I met one of my pals being carried out by two Heinies—a lovely Blighty he had, through the flesh of the thigh. Lucky devil! The Fritzies here work very hard and uncomplainingly and willingly with our wounded ; every one has remarked on it.

No Man’s Land

Yesterday I was over the No Man’s Land (of yesterday). I found some cans of Fritz’s bully beef — I don’t like it much. But the desolation — my God, it’s unbelievable ! Even old skulls unearthed by shells — French — from the early days of the war ! And debris of every conceivable description, German and English mixed !

Our barrage was marvellous, a perfect curtain. Nothing could live, and nothing did. The prisoners surrendered from deep dugouts, or were smoked out, or bombed in.

Souchez Valley

Do you know I wasn’t half so scared, that day (taking the pictures), as I was the day they put me on building the road over which they got guns into and down the Ridge. That was the devil of a job. The road runs down the side of the Ridge into the town and the valley below. Fritz hadn’t had time to destroy it ; but our own shells broke it up a lot while the boys advanced. Some three or four thousand men were put on the job of fixing it up — in direct view of Fritz. As they explained; the “guns must be gotten there.”

The holes were filled with anything at all. Old Fritz had had an engineers’ yard down below, and threw all his material into the shell holes any how. Even as we worked, the guns staggered through somehow; the road was littered with dead men — dead Heinies left behind — and men killed as we worked. No one moved them; there was no time. – sometime before 22 April 1917.

Neuville-St.Vaast

One day you must walk over the trail from Neuvelle St. Vaast to Vimy and remember — indeed it would be impossible to forget — that here Canada made herself ace high with France. I have heard of people, French people, stopping to shake hands with boys wearing the maple leaf down at the base — an unusual thing, as the French are most taciturn, not excitable as we have been led to believe. Not now, anyhow.

The ground is littered with rotting French packs and equipment and German ditto and the more recent stuff of ours. It is a graveyard. Big shells have uprooted parts of bodies everywhere, and human bones lie dirty white in the open.

Hypocrisy

The newspapers ring with the wonder of the Vimy achievement, yet I haven’t heard one say a word about our trip in May, when we held the line just by sitting, day after day and night after night, getting killed without firing a shot — just holding on. It wasn’t spectacular; yet that was typical of the whole war. That’s what it is; the other things are episodes, rare ones, and the correspondents make the people imagine that is what makes their boys’ lives at the front.

Yesterday, I was reading an account of Vimy in Canada. He described it more or less accurately, missing, of course, the heart of the thing, the little things, as they all do. Men don’t laugh in the front line, ever. They “grouch” — a lot — about the food, the shortage of water, the weather, the insects, and many things besides.

UXO

I just decided to have a wash, so found a shell hole with some water in it and an old steel helmet, stuck it on our stove and had a beauty, with Pears soap and a clean white towel. When I had finished, I got a hurry call: “Stretcher-bearer!” A sergeant of our company had driven a pick into a buried smoke bomb, and it burst in his face. It was very bad — very bad indeed. I could only bind it with a shell dressing to keep the air out till he reaches the dressing station. It’s a Blighty one alright.

For twenty years to come, there’ll be accidents of that kind happen all over the front line in France.

Unmarked graves

The dead stay where they are, with a rubber sheet or an old sandbag, to cover their faces. Later, maybe that night or the next, a fatigue party will climb over the parados and scratch a grave a few yards from the trench, cursing the flares, and flopping, as Fritz plays a machine gun casually, just on the off chance, all along the ground behind, as a man might play a hose on a lawn.

These graves are not marked. How could Some one takes all the letters and things out of the pockets ; eventually, if the man who has them doesn’t get blown to pieces, they reach the Quartermaster, who sends them home. Some one writes a letter, and that’s all. No advance, no spectacular raid, not even repelling an attack. So many dead Heinies, so many dead Britishers. And so she goes. And such is “a trip in.” – 8 July 1917

Death of C

The standard of duty, conscientious duty in the line, at any rate in this Battn. is very high. I told you I was a stretcher bearer. The vacancy occurred in the big scrap Easter Monday. A fellow called C, an original man, through all the scraps had the place I now fill. It is not a sinecure, but its dangers and hardships are lifted in a different plane from mere work.

Whizz-Bangs

When my Company took its objective that day — the point was the brim of a ridge — they went a few yards too far. The Bosch was running, and they followed. C. had been very busy up till then ; but his big effort was to come over the brow. The Germans had some batteries — what we call whizz-bang guns (about fifteen pounders). These were not all out of action; but when the gunners saw our boys coming over the edge they saw all was up, and decided to die game; so, instead of shooting over away back, they turned the guns direct at a few yards’ range pointblank on our boys. Many were hit. It was “Stretcher Bearer on the double!” from point to point. Poor C. did what he could; he dressed a few. It was finished, anyway; no one could live, and he was killed.

He might have got a medal ! He did good work in the Somme, too. One or two very brave acts don’t win medals now; consistent good work, backed by a conspicuous act, may.

Star shells

There were one or two “sticky-out” things I intended to tell you at various times. I’ll try to think of them now. One was: Heinie has a new shell. When it bursts, out pops a terrifically brilliant arc light which hangs in the air far too long. The country is made as bright as day. Imagine the feelings of a bunch of men working, or marching in the open at night, and one of those damn things busting near ! They flop, I guess, tout suite.

Newspapers

We have the Canadian papers now, giving the account of the Vimy scrap—rather amusing some of it. One of the papers said the preliminary bombardment lasted ten days. As a matter of fact, it lasted less than an hour; but it was the concentrated kind and evidently lasted long enough.

Larks still bravely singing

The chap bunking with me is an unconscious humorist, he just said, — “Gee, listen to those birds singing. I wish I was on my old chicken ranch, listening to them. Six days of this yet, and the world was made in six days !” Mentioning the birds, it’s curious; but you see ’em all the time right out in No Man’s Land — the only things besides the slackers at home that don’t seem to realize there’s a war on.

Close call

I notice I am getting most awfully thin. I guess that must be why so many of those nice bits of shell splinters don’t plunk me. My luck simply won’t go that way at all. A lovely opportunity occurred the other day; only about a hundred yards from the dressing station, I was talking to the two chief stretcher bearers – everything all stage-managed to perfection. Heinie plugs a 4.1 over, and the two other fellows get the splinters. – 22 May 1917

Americans

We are trying to take the Americans seriously. I see their war loan was over-subscribed. Moreover, many things we read show they mean business. I see we are not to have them on our front. We had heard that they would work with the Canucks; however, I guess the French need them most. If only they could get here this year ! But I guess it’s impossible. I hope they can get that big bunch of planes over that they talk of; they would be invaluable.

Granted 10 days leave, 9 June 1917, returning 18 June 1917.

Dominion Day 1917

The parade this morning was quite a surprise to me. Apparently it’s Dominion Day — no one knew — and when the Batt’ns of the Brigade had formed a square in a pretty field surrounded with trees, motor cars came up and discharged about all the brass hats in France, including the Commander of the First British Army himself (the Canadians are attached to the First Army).

Note that ours of all the Canadians in France, was the Bgd. chosen for him to attend. We even had special “programmes” printed, one of which I enclose as another souvenir. Photographs and moving pictures were taken, and our fastest and latest type aeroplanes made rings round the affair in formation, in case Fritz should happen to take a look over. The band supplied the music. We like our own band; but it doesn’t compare with theirs.

Baseball Crazy

All the games and sports stuff and putting everything on a competition line is good in every way, makes the fellows keen, sets up friendly rivalry, and is interesting for every one. The rest has undoubtedly been a great success. The only kick the fellows have is that there were only two pays of fifteen francs each.

As I told you before, the Division just now is baseball crazy. The thing causes the most intense rivalry — even Generals attend — and the winning team gets a trip to Paris where they will play games against American teams. The rivalry between Batt’ns. in everything, line work and games, is at all times intense ; a sneer at a man’s Batt’n. is a fight at any time. We kick about our crowd amongst ourselves ; but don’t let an outsider agree, or it’s bad for him.

The Sunday Pictorial

I want you to order “The Sunday Pictorial”, for July 15, ’17. In it you will see a picture of the Church Service held on Dominion Day that I told you about. I am about the centre of the bunch of men on this side of it, though of course you cannot see me. I want you to keep it, as it is a fine example of how hot air is dished up to the public.

It says: “Enemy Air Craft over a Church Service” — whereas it was our own planes, which of course the photographer knew — so would any of us who used his brain. It’s hardly likely about four thousand men would stand packed in a bunch calmly looking up at an enemy aeroplane while the padre carried on with the service.

Another close call

I feel utterly dispirited to-day. We moved to a different town again, one that’s deserted and shelled pretty bad, like the rest around here. Yesterday afternoon I spent with young V. R. and in the evening went up into the front line on a working party. On the way back a shell dropped amongst the bunch and got eighteen.

The work, the confusion, all in the dark and everything, was awful for awhile, one boy dying awfully hard with a wound in the stomach — had to be held down for fear of tearing off his dressings. I was called over to see if it had slipped, felt down; but it hadn’t, so I went away and they got him off to the station.

Death of V (Pvt Ivie Campbell)

This morning — as young V didn’t come over to see me as usual, I went to hunt him up — to find it was him who had the stomach wound, and he was dead. I went over to the ruined house where the dead were and sure enough it was him, poor kid ! He just looked asleep. If only I’d known it was him, when I was called over, I could have given my other cases to other men, and stayed with him till he died. But in the darkness and hurry I never recognized him. The other stretcher bearer that dressed him told me at the time the man couldn’t live. I remember I asked him if he knew him; but he said he didn’t. A brighter, cleaner, steadier young boy never came to France. I think he told me he was an only child. – 28 July 1917

II. C. 9. CAMPBELL IVIE 23 27/07/1917 Private Canadian Infantry 29th Bn. ‘104192’ FOSSE NO.10 COMMUNAL CEMETERY EXTENSION, SAINS-EN-GOHELLE. Son of Thomas McCaig Campbell and Maggie Petrie (his wife), of University Farm, Saskatoon, Saskatchewan.

Hill 70

We are on the eve of the most terrific thing in history. Our Batt’n has a most difficult part to play: as each hill is occupied, we will have to take and hold the trench.

One thing, I’d hate to be in the German front line today — and on. It is my firm belief that it’s now or never, the turning point of the war.

This morning got a very old paper. Young French kids bring papers right up, when they can get hold of them. … A French “civile” will face the whole German Army for a franc. They have a Jew or a Scotchman backed right off the map. The papers have the early news of the opening battle in Belgium.

Mustard Gas

We have had a small lecture on the Huns’ new gas. Large calibre shells of Prussic Acid gas. Gentle creature, the Hun! It has already been christened the “Mustard” shell, as it leaves the ground, where it hits, yellow, and tickles the nose like mustard. It remains effective for as long as thirty hours. You can absorb it through the skin by rubbing your clothes with your hands ; in fact, any old way. It seems to be made so you can get gassed with the least possible trouble on your part. “Deadly” is its middle name.

At four-twenty a.m. you’d have thought the earth had cracked open. My God, it was marvellous ! I don’t know how many guns we have, some say one to every three men. Maybe a thousand, maybe ten — I don’t know. With the first roar we manned the trench and began to move along to our places some few hundred yards further up the line. No power on earth could keep us from getting on the parapet to have a look. Was too dark to see the men advancing behind the barrage, but the line of fire — ye Gods !

It was perfect. It was terrible. The flames were dotted with black specks which were bits of rock and mud.

Murder

Hill 70 was ours, and the villages and trenches consolidated. Canada had proved herself again. But it is not another Vimy; this is no walk-over, it is a pitched battle. Heinie hasn’t quit yet, is hanging on desperately. His air service is better, he comes down and fires on the trenches; but his counter attacks lack spirit, and no wonder. Our guns — my God ! If you could see them — and they say each gun only fired three shots a minute, and they are capable of firing twenty ! This isn’t war; it’s murder. There are as vast numbers of prisoners this time, as at Vimy; but the dead are piled in heaps.

All the Heinie prisoners I have seen are about eighteen years old, not more, and those who have seen the dead say they are all the same, just kids.

Blighty Premonition

Well, Lai, old pal, I’ll finish this. Whether I see you again or Billie, the next few days will say. I think I’ll be able to keep my nerve and do what’s right. Hope so. I wonder what you’ll be doing, Monday morning. I’ll be thinking of you all the time, waiting for the. barrage and the signal. You’ll know all about me, if there’s anything to know, by Wednesday or Thursday, I guess. Let’s hope it’s a hospital bed in Blighty.

Gassed 18 August 1917 while near Lens. Twenty two days in 1st Southern General Hospital, Birmingham. Doing light duty ever since clerical work.

1st Southern General Hospital at the University of Birmingham

On 3 September 1917, Sgt. Ralph Beverly Watson wrote home from his hospital bed in England.

My very dearest Lai, —
Well, I’ve got all settled down, though I only came yesterday. To come here after France — the front line of France ! It’s the limit ! But let me tell you. The house is an English country home. It’s lent to the Government as a V.A.D. Hosp. and is used exclusively for Canadians and Australians. I guess it holds about fifty. The staff are all English ladies. Don’t look for their pictures in a “sister uniform of costly and studied simplicity” doing “War Work for our soldiers” in a high class English society paper. It won’t be there. They are here to help us get well, and apparently make us happy. They succeed completely. Not a man but loves the place.

Tachycardia

Diagnosed with tachycardia, 2 December 1917 at Seaford.

Bronchitis due to gas poisoning at Medical Board 9 December 1918 at Witley.

While hospitalized on several occasions, most seriously for gas poisoning, Watson survived through to the end of the war and demobilized on February 3, 1919, having returned aboard SS OLYMPIC.

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