e admired as a
fighting machine. But there is one department where we of the Allies have
him licked to a frazzle. Talk to any man who has been out there and he will
say the same. The German soldier can not hold in a hand-to-hand fight. He
can't face the cold steel. The second he glimpses the glint of a bayonet he
is whimpering and asking for mercy.

The German bayonet is a fiendish weapon. It is well its owner can not use
it. For myself I do not know of one case where a comrade has been wounded
by enemy steel. His bayonet is longer than ours, and from the tip for a few
inches is a saw edge. This facilitates entrance into the body, but on
turning to take it out it tears and rends savagely.

It is impossible to describe the work of every battalion in a battle. In a
charge, a concerted charge, such as we went through on April twenty-third,
there was not one battalion that did better than another. There was not one
officer who did better than another, there was not one man who outdistanced
his fellow in valor. We all fought like the devil. It is only possible to
convey the doings of the whole by telling the achievements of the few.

Boys of the Fourth Western Ontario Battalion, commanded by Colonel Birchall
of St. Catharines, who came through this business, have told me that their
colonel lined them up and made a short speech to them. He took them into
his confidence. He told them that the whole battalion should advance
together; that he did not think it good policy to leave any part in
reserve. He said: "I am going to lead you, boys; will you come?"

There was a sonorous "Aye, aye, sir!" along the ranks.

Colonel Birchall pulled his revolver from its holster, looked at it a
moment and then threw it to the ground. Then he took his small riding
switch and hung the loop over the first finger of his right hand.

"Ready, boys!" he cried, and twirling the little cane round and round, he
strode ahead.

It was a terrible piece of work. On every side shells and bullets were
falling. Men went down like ninepins at a fair. But always ahead was the
colonel, always there was the short flash of his cane as it swished
through the air. Then he was hit, a bullet in the upper right arm. He did
not stop; he did not drop the cane.

"On, boys, on!" And the men stumbled up and forward.

Seven times Colonel Birchall was a mark for enemy fire. Seven times fresh
wounds gushed forth with his life's blood. He was staggering a little now,
bu