From the News

Dated: June 1, 1919

On Sunday, November 10, 1918, we marched steadily east all day through the thickly populated coal mining region of the Borinage in the Province of Hainautt, Belgium. Later in the afternoon we reached our billeting area for the night in the mining village of La Bouverie, five miles southwest of Mons. That evening we heard that Mons had been taken during the day by Canadian troops, and we received orders to push on in the morning in support of the 31st, our sister battalion from Alberta, which was to attack just after daybreak from the line gained that afternoon. Rumors were in circulation of a possible early armistice, but few gave them a second thought. Life in the army was "just one d*** rumor after another" anyway, and the birth-place of rumors was a subject for sarcasm among all ranks.

Next morning, the 11th, we were on the road. early, full daylight having scarcely come before the battalion, in full marching order, was plodding on slowly eastward. Just after 9 o'clock some soldiers repairing a cross roads damaged by the retiring enemy, greeted us as we passed with: "The war's over, boys. You don't need those (the rifles) any more." But they did not intend their words to be taken seriously, nor were they.

At 9:30 a.m. the battalion was having an hourly rest on the roadside in the village of Noirchain, when the British staff captain in the Brigadier's Ford came up from behind, gave the commanding officer a message, and went on. It was: "An armistice has been signed, and will take effect at 11 this morning. You will push on until that time, then halt, send an officer to brigade headquarters, and await further orders."

Colonel Tobin announced this and it was received with some cheering. The march was then continued until about 10:30, when we reached Ciply, a village three miles south of Mons. Here the whole battalion fell out to rest in a field by the side of a little stream, while the colonel himself went to brigade for orders.

The period of waiting gave a chance for discussion. There had been many disappointments during the war and most men were rather sceptical. The old soldiers recalled the incident in the long ago winter of 1915-1916, now more remote than the Garden of Eden or the Flood, when battalion orders had announced that "On the conclusion of Peace there will be no cheering in the front line trenches. Every man will collect his full equipment and file out to the right." Another matter which filled the minds of many an old-timer was his deep-seated conviction that he would be killed on the last day of the war. This was a common superstition among those whom death had often passed by. "After all these perils, and with the whole affair about to end, what if a shell should arrive with their number on it now?" For years they had not dared to think of death, but the thought came to them now, as the minutes dragged slowly towards the appointed hour of eleven.

It began to rain. All were cold and wet, and huddled together getting what protection they could from ground-sheets and trees along the edge of the field. The hour passed. Was the war really over? Few felt any confidence that it was. At best there would be years of guerilla warfare in Germany. The wiseacres predicted a resumption of hostilities.

About noon the band of the 31st, left behind that day because their unit was in actual contact with the enemy, came marching past. In response to calls from our men for some music, they struck up the tune to which all soldiers loved to sing: "Apre la guerre finie." At this the whole battalion stood up to roar approval. The spell was broken, and pent-up feelings, repressed for months, asserted themselves in cheer after cheer that echoed and re-echoed across the narrow valley. Men who could not express themselves as they wished shouted: "Good old band," and "Good old 31st," until the marchers disappeared around a corner and the music died away in the distance.