A Rifleman Goes To War [Illustrated Edition]

Captain Herbert W. McBride

• Publisher: Lucknow Books
• Year: 2015
• eBook ISBN: 9781786255495
• Topic: History
• Subtopic: Military Biographies
• Index: History

Includes the First World War Illustrations Pack – 73 battle plans and diagrams and 198 photos
The classic account of sniping on the Western Front.
"Herbert Wesley McBride was a Captain in the Twenty-first Battalion, Canadian Expeditionary Force, during the First World War. He was a sniper and commander of a machine gun unit known as the "Emma Gees." He was also the author of two books on the war: "A Rifleman Went To War" (1933) and "The Emma Gees" (1918)...When the war started, he volunteered in a Canadian rifle company in Ottawa because he wanted to see action as quickly as possible. He was commissioned as an officer, but was reduced to a private due to several drunken incidents. He shipped to England for training and then to the Western Front, where he participated in battles around Ypres and the Somme throughout 1916.
In his book, "A Rifleman Went To War, " he recounts killing more than 100 German soldiers as a sniper. This book is highly regarded by students of riflery, it's mandatory reading in the U.S. Marine Corps Sniping School. It is also considered one of the best first-person accounts of World War I, often being compared favorably to "Storm of Steel" by Ernst Junger. However McBride notes in his book that by the end of 1916 he felt in his heart "the game was over, " and a series of alcoholic binges resulted in his court martial and dismissal from the Canadian Expeditionary Force in February 1917. He then joined the United States Army's 38th Division, serving out the war as a marksmanship and sniping instructor at Camp Perry. He resigned in October 1918. After the war, he worked in the lumber industry in Oregon for most of his later years. He died in Indianapolis of a sudden heart failure on March 17, 1933, shortly after finishing "A Rifleman Went To War." He was 60."-Canadaatwar.com

Chapter 1—How Come?

AS THIS is the story of an alleged rifleman, I suppose it is fitting that I offer some evidence to support the allegation.

My experience in this line really began some fifty-odd years ago when, as a little boy, I used to sit and watch my father get his outfit ready for the annual deer hunt. We lived up in the Northeastern corner of Indiana and the hunting ground, at that time, was just a few miles out of Saginaw, Michigan. Father had two boxes, which he had made himself. One of them contained the cooking outfit—everything from reflector oven to knives, forks and spoons—all especially made to nest and fit in the chest. The other, smaller than the first, carried his guns and all the accessories. In those days you “loaded your own” so, besides the usual cleaning tools, oils and so on, there were plentiful supplies of powder, both rifle and shotgun, shot, bullet moulds, cartridge cases, both for the rifle and shotgun and all of brass (that was before the advent of the paper shotgun cartridge case), primers and a goodly supply of lead. Of course, at the start, he had a plentiful supply of loaded cartridges for both guns. At first, his deer rifle was a single shot Remington, ·44 caliber, rimfire. He later had it bored out to take the ·45-70 U.S. Government cartridge.

For weeks before the time of departure for the hunting grounds, the crowd would get together every few days and pull off a shooting match, each one trying some new idea he had worked out since the last expedition. It was nothing unusual for half the merchants of the little town to shut up shop in the middle of the afternoon and, together with the lawyers, doctors and, yes, the preachers, to repair to some vacant lot and shoot impromptu matches with everything from old “pepper-boxes” to the latest rifles at that time available. At that time and in that place, practically all of the “men” were veterans of the Civil War and this shooting business was part of their gospel. Naturally, as a young boy, I became infected, and my father, believing in the idea of preparedness, gave me ample opportunities to learn the game; even to letting me shoot his heavy guns when he knew very well they would kick the stuffing out of me. He was a good and kindly man but he had no use for mollycoddles.

From time to time he bought me rifles, beginning with the little old Flobert; then a Quackenbush. Well, anyway, I remember that last one, with its heavy, round, nickel-plated barrel. When I was about twelve he had the local gunsmith make me up a real rifle: a muzzle loading Kentucky squirrel rifle with the barrel cut down to thirty inches and the stock likewise trimmed down to what we would nowadays call “sporter” proportions. I still have that rifle and while it looks like—well—not very much, when I was using it, it certainly delivered the goods. A hawk on a snag anywhere within one hundred yards or a woodpecker on the highest limb was certainly out of luck and the squirrel that was foolish enough to stick his head over the limb was just as good as in the pot.

I made my own powder-horn and bullet-pouch and, of course made my own bullets. The caps—”Elys”—I had to buy, as I did the powder and lead, with what money I could earn by odd jobs, one of which was the catching of rats around our premises. Father gave me five cents apiece for every rat.

Well, there you have it. Any youngster brought up in such an atmosphere is bound to develop into a rifleman. As the years rolled round I graduated through the different grades. My father was Captain of a company of the old Indiana Legion, as it was known before the adoption of the designation of National Guard, and I was one of the privileged boys who tended target for them on the range which they had improvised at the edge of town. In those days the Militia companies were self-supporting. Even after I became a full-fledged “soldier” we not only bought our own uniforms, but paid armory rent and all expenses.

On some occasions, we boys were actually allowed to shoot, the older men taking our places in the pits. How those old Springfield’s did kick. They were wicked. I have seen many of the old timers with black-and-blue shoulders after a day’s shooting and, curiously enough, I remember that most of the officers had their shoulder straps bent. That was before the idea entered anyone’s head to lie at the now commonly accepted “forty-five degree” angle. They lay straight toward the target and took the whole kick right on the top of the shoulder when firing from the prone position. The back positions, which were commonly used then, were not at all bad. Either the Texas Grip or the Stevens were easy, even for us kids, but when it came to the “belly-whooping” position, well, we did it, but every shot would set us back a foot or more.

At the age of fifteen I enlisted in and for several years remained a member of the Third Regiment. During that time, my father rose to the rank of Colonel commanding, and I became a sergeant. Then I went to work in Chicago and immediately affiliated with the First Illinois Infantry —Company I—Captain Chenoweth commanding. During the summer of 1893, having been informed by a wise medico that I had T. B., I put in my time ranging around in Colorado and New Mexico, part of the time as a cow-puncher and the rest working for a coal-mining company. (That is, I was supposed to be working for them, but, as a matter of fact, I was using them simply as a meal ticket, as I spent every minute of my idle time in scouting around looking for something to shoot at.) I met and got acquainted with a lot of the real old timers: men famous during the hectic days of Abilene, Dodge and Hays City and, of course, those who had been mixed up in the various ructions incident to the clearing up of the famous Maxwell Land Grant, upon part of which this mine was located.

Trinidad, near the mine (Sopris), was one of the hot spots in the old days and many a bad man had met his “come-uppance” there and along the Picketwire or, as the original Spanish name has it, the Purgutoire River. From these men and from my practical shooting with them in various matches, I learned just about how good they and their erstwhile friends—and enemies—could really shoot, both with the pistol and the rifle. Bat Masterson, Jim Lee, Schwin Box and Nat Chapin, just to name the best of them, were all good shots, but the best of them never could hold a candle to the amazing performances of a lot of hitherto unknown “experts” who are continually bobbing up in the moving pictures and the sensational stories published in supposedly reputable magazines in the year of grace, 1930.

I should have included Brown—Three-finger Brown—in the above list. He was as good as the best of them although he had to do all his shooting left-handed: due to the fact that he had allowed his curiosity to over-ride his good sense in the matter of investigating the doings of a band of “Penitentes” one night and, as a result, lost the thumb and first finger of his right hand.

All these men had grown up in the West and had lived through the various “wars” and ructions which flared up every now and then, all the way from Texas to the Black Hills. They all bore the scars of combat but the very fact that they had survived was, to my notion, the best evidence that they were good. Those were the days of the survival of the fittest, especially in the case of men who, like all those mentioned, had occupied positions as legal guardians of the peace, all along the border.

From these men I learned many things, the most important of which was the point which they all insisted was absolutely vital: the ability to control one’s own nerves and passions—in other words, never to get excited.

I had the opportunity to see a couple of them in action during some disturbances which came up during the Fourth of July celebration and never will forget that, while armed, they never even made a motion toward a gun: they simply walked up to the belligerent and half drunken “bad men” and disarmed them and then walked them off to the calabozo to cool off. Yes, I learned a lot from those men. That they could shoot, both quickly and accurately, is unquestioned, but the thing that had enabled them to live to a ripe middle age was not so much due to that accomplishment as to the fact that they were abundantly supplied with that commodity commonly called “guts.” That was the point, above all others, that impressed me and remained with me after I had returned to the East; and, ever since, I have tried to live up to the standard of those pioneers of the shooting game.

By the time I got back, my father had been appointed to the bench of the Supreme Court and the family had removed to Indianapolis. I took up my home there and immediately joined up with Company D, of the Second Infantry—the famous old “Indianapolis Light Infantry” which, in the military tournaments from late in the Seventies, had stood at the very head of all the crack drill teams of the country. But, they could not only put on a prize-winning close order drill: they had, as officers, men who knew the value of shooting ability and, although the State and Federal authorities never appropriated a cent for the purpose, they managed to carry on target practice. Every member paid dues for the privilege of belonging to the Guard or, as it was then known, to the Indiana Legion. We bought our own uniforms and paid our own armory rent and we bought the necessary components for the ammunition which we expended on the range and which we loaded ourselves. Then we rented a part of some farmer’s pasture for a range and built our own targets. The company officers were all rifle enthusiasts; but one, above all others, kept the game moving in those early days—Major (then Lieutenant) David I. McCormick, the “Grand Old Man” of military rifle shooting in Indiana.

After a hitch in the infantry, in which I attained the rank of Sergeant, I signed up with the artillery—Battery A, First Indiana—known all over the country as “The Indianapolis Light Artillery.” You see, Indianapolis had both infantry and artillery organizations that ranked with the very best. Both of them had carried off the highest honors in many of the military tournaments which were held annually in those days. (I wonder if any of those old outfits still retain their original names—the Richmond Blues, the Washington Fencibles, the Chickasaw Guards?)

This Battery A was the 27th Indiana Battery in the Spanish-American War and the nucleus of the 150th Artillery (Rainbow Division) during the World War, and its then commander, Robert L. Tyndall, was the Colonel of that Regiment. (He’s now a Major-General—but that’s all right: he is just Bob Tyndall to his old tilicums.)

My work took me to Cincinnati and I joined Battery B of the First Ohio Artillery—Captain Hermann’s Battery. Too bad they have discontinued the practice of naming the battery after its commanding officer—(and I’ll bet that young lieutenant who was in Reilly’s Battery in China will agree with me—even though he is now a Major-General and Chief of Staff).

Now, this Battery B was peculiar in one respect—possibly unique: it was a Gatling-gun battery. With the Indianapolis outfit, I had learned about the Rodman muzzle-loading guns and, while with the 1st Illinois, had frequently seen Lieutenant Jack Clinnin playing around with a bunch of kids and some Gatling-guns, but I had never taken these contraptions very seriously. Now, however, that was all we had to do. Of course we had pistols and sabers and all such, but our real game was to learn how to use those Gatling’s to the best advantage. Captain Hermann was a very practical officer and saw to it that we had all the actual outdoor shooting that the law—and the state of the exchequer— would stand. I remember that I won a can of oysters at one of those shoots and I declare that no medal or other thing I have since won by shooting ever gave me the thrill that that did. It was probably about tenth place—we had turkeys, hams and a lot of other things for prizes— donated by patriotically inclined German-American citizens from “over the Rhine” (in Cincinnati), and I think that was what first put the machine-gun bug into my head.

During the Klondike rush, I got the gold fever and went off up there and spent more than two years in northern Canada. When I came out, or, rather, on my way out, I had the opportunity to help gather up a bunch of recruits for the Strathcona Horse, just then being mobilized for service in South Africa. I had hoped to go with them but, at that time, the regulations were such that none but British subjects were eligible. That was in 1900 and I came back to Indianapolis and again hitched up with my old outfit—Company D, 2nd Infantry.

Of course I had had considerable game shooting while in the North and had kept up pretty well on my marksmanship; so, when I got back into the military game, I was not so rusty but that I could do a fairly good job of it, either in the gallery or on the range. The commanding officer of the company at that time was Robert L. Moorhead, now Colonel of the 139th Field Artillery, and I am glad of this chance to make it a matter of record that he was, in my opinion, the keenest of officers and one of the first to recognize the fact that individual proficiency with the rifle was the very highest attainment of the “doughboy.”

Under his direction, that company won higher figures of merit than any similar organization in the United States services, before or since— and I do not even except the Marine Corps, for the shooting ability of which I have the utmost respect. One year we furnished, after long and arduous competition, every member of the Regimental team of twelve men and then went on to place ten out of the twelve men on the State team. Every man in his company had to qualify as at least a marksman during his first year or get out. In the second year, if he could not make sharpshooter, he also took the gate, and after three years, if he did not rate expert, he was no longer eligible for re-enlistment. That was a real shootin’ bunch. From it came Scott Clark, who won the National Individual Match in 1910; Jim Hurt who, with his son, Jimmy, Junior, are well known to the present day generation of National Match shooters; Hump Evans—and a lot more who have made life miserable for the young fellows trying to get along at Camp Perry. I became Captain, in command of this company in the early part of 1907.

I shot along with them in all the National Matches up to and including 1911 and then my foot got to itching and I hit out again for the Northwest, where I spent something over two years, ostensibly helping to build a railroad through the Yellow Head Pass and on to Prince Rupert but really to get out somewhere so that I could shoot a rifle without having to spend a couple of months and all my money building a backstop.

Some way or another I managed to get a job that kept me out ahead of steel from a hundred and fifty to two hundred miles, so was in virgin game country all the time. Moose, caribou and bear were not only common; they were abundant. I have had moose wake me up and have to be driven away when they were rubbing their antlers on the ropes of my tent and the bears were so common around our garbage dumps that no person ever thought of harming them. Goats and sheep were easily to be found by taking a day off and going back a little way, up the mountain; in fact, I have seen bands of goats standing on a ledge of rock, not over one hundred yards above where a bunch of Swedes were putting in a blast of dynamite and have watched them scamper away when the shot was fired. Yes, I managed to keep up on my rifle practice.

Then, along in March, 1914, we heard about the disturbance down in Mexico. “Now,” says I to myself, “here’s where we get into something worthwhile. That means war and I’ll be double-damned if I am going to miss it.” (I did not know, at that time, nor for a long time after, what kind of an Administration we had.)

From where I was, it was 46 miles to the nearest telegraph station— back up the line. I remember now: it was St. Patrick’s day— 1914. Well, I got me a good feed and a bottle of Johnnie Walker and hit the trail. Ten hours later I sent a telegram to my father, asking for information. Did he think it meant war? He answered: “Seems like war, sure: hurry back.” Father, you see, had been a soldier and his father is still buried in the United States National Cemetery in Mexico City—(he went in with the Army of Occupation, in 1847 with the 7th U.S. Infantry, and got his at Chapultepec).

From where I then was, it was one hundred and twenty miles to the end of transportation. The steel had been laid into Ft. George, early in the winter—temporary construction, on brush and all that, in order to get in supplies for the winter—but the temporary roadbed had sloughed off until, now, no trains could come farther than “Mile 90”—and that was 120 long miles away. I made it in three days, through and over snow most of the way. That, taken with the 46 miles of the previous day, made 166 miles in four days. (The old man was not so bad at that, was he?) This Mile 90 place, by the way, is the station you will find on the maps and in the guide books named McBride.

When I got back to Indianapolis I applied for and was at once granted restoration to active duty. (I had been carried on the retired officers’ list all the time.) Being assigned to a company—Co. H, 2nd Infantry—I did my best to lick them into shape for the fight I knew was coming. We went through the annual maneuvers at Ft. Harrison and then sat around to wait for the call to go to Mexico. As is well known now, it did not come; but just about that time the big fire broke out in Europe.

When this so-called “World War” started, I was playing golf at Riverside, Indianapolis, with Harry Cooler and Willis Nusbaum. Along late in the afternoon we came up to the eighteenth hole. We were playing syndicate and I was loser to the extent of four bits. It is an easy par four hole—well, any golfer knows what that means—easy if you hit ‘em right and I had the luck to get on the green with my second while both the others found the rough and took three to get home, both of them, however, being outside my ball, which was only about ten feet from the pin. Then comes Mr. Cooler and rams down a thirty foot putt. As though that were not enough, Nusbaum, the robber, proceeds to do the same from about twenty-five feet. Still, the case was ...

Table of contents

• Title page
• TABLE OF CONTENTS
• AN APPRECIATION
• AN EXPLANATION AND AN INTRODUCTION
• Chapter 1-How Come?
• Chapter 2-Canada
• Chapter 3-England
• Chapter 4-Flanders
• Chapter 5-The Trenches
• Chapter 6-Record Scores
• Chapter 7-Scouting and Patrolling
• Chapter 8-Trench Raiding
• Chapter 9-Sighting Shots
• Chapter 10-The Pistol in War
• Chapter 11-The Battle of St. Eloi
• Chapter 12-Duds, Misfires and Stuck Bolts
• Chapter 13-The Somme
• Chapter 14-My Final Score
• Chapter 15-The British Army
• Chapter 16-Notes on Sniping
• Chapter 17-The Rifleman in Battle
• Chapter 18-The Emma Gees (Machine Guns)
• Chapter 19-The Soldier in Battle
• Retrospect