THE LAST CHAPTER
by
"HERSELF"
War! It was the first of August, 1914, and I almost ran home from the city
to tell the news to my people.
War! It was like we'd be in it. War between England and Germany. That war
we had all heard of and knew was inevitable. The war of the ages was
imminent.
I had been free-lancing in Fleet Street for the past three months. Left
_The Daily Chronicle_ over the Home Rule questions, as well as other
things.
I was in Ireland for the Ulster gun-running. Ireland was a seething mass of
German-inspired sedition south of the Boyne. The authorities apparently
would not listen to the warnings of Ulster. But Ulster was ready for
anything. There were hospitals, clearing stations, bases. There were
despatch riders, signalers, transport men, all in readiness, besides the
ordinary infantry volunteers, who were pledged by all means in their power
to keep Ireland under the flag of the Union.
I was in a little country church one Sunday morning. A roll of a drum and
the skirl of a fife came wafting across the valley on the April breeze. The
minister paused a moment in his sermon. Two, three, half a dozen men rose
and softly left. They were going to the rendezvous in case of alarm. No one
knew what might happen. A conflagration might flare out at a moment's
notice.
But in August there came war, real war. Civilization was threatened. Ulster
handed over men, guns, ammunition, hospitals and nurses to the Imperial
government. Hundreds of the Ulster Volunteers in the Ulster Division have
died for Britain. Hundreds of the men south of the Boyne who have not been
bitten with the microbe of revolution, and a mistaken idea that England is
a tyrant, have died for the cause of world Liberty.
How we lived through those first electric four days of August! Would the
Liberal government funk? We doubted them unjustly. Then came
the devastation of Belgium, and Britain gave Germany its
disappointment--Britain declared war. Ireland rallied round the brave old
Union Jack; the colonies, rather we call them now the dominions overseas,
India, Africa, Canada, Australia, New Zealand and the smaller islands, sent
word that they were with us to a man.
And then the fight commenced. Those casualty lists of the first Imperial
Army! God in Heaven! The thud of distant guns, and then nearer and nearer
we could hear in London the rumble of the enemy artillery as though of
thunder. Smoke drifted over, and we lived in a pall of death.
It was in October that Fate's apparent working showed itself.
"This war will alter our lives very greatly," said my aunt one evening in
this month, as we sat around the fire. We have all a trace of second sight.
Most old families of the north of Ireland can claim to be "fey."
"It will," said I, "for free-lancing is getting played out. I shall have to
get steady work."
No more was said, and no special work came my way. It was useless to
attempt to train for nursing. I had no aptitude for that, and munition
workers of our sex were not called yet.
Then the Canadians came. The First Contingent. For the most part big,
strong, hefty-looking men; well uniformed, well set up. Eighty-seven per
cent. of them Old Country born.
Among them my cousin, Peter Watson. Dear old man Peter, I wonder do you
know of my happiness which is the outcome of your journey "West"? I wish
you might know it, and share some of the joy. Yours was a lonely and a
sensitive soul.
Peter had been in the Suffolks. A lieutenant in the Imperial Army. Money
was scarce and he threw up his commission. He tried Canada as a fortune
making ground. Lingered a while in Calgary, and when war broke out enlisted
in the now famous Fighting Tenth.
Peter came up from Salisbury to see us. He met me in town a few times. We
lunched, dined, did a theater. He brought pals with him. There was Sandy
Clark. Poor old Sandy! I have his collar badge C10. Another soldier took it
off his tunic for me before they buried him. A sniper got Sandy in June,
1916.
There was Farmer. He was a signaler, and was transferred. I saw his name
listed killed, too. I don't know where. There were half a dozen other
Canadian boys, Peter and myself. We lunched one day at Pinoli's in Rupert
Street. We pledged to our next meeting after the war at the same place. We
shan't meet at Pinoli's. There is none of the boys alive. I only live of
all the party. It was a strange thing that day. I did not know it would be
the last time I should see Peter, but he came back from down the street and
kissed me "good-by" a second time. I wondered. Old man Peter.
The war has come home to our family. There is none of us left. Tom Small,
my step-brother, is still living and still fighting. I pray his safety to
the end. They all went, one after the other. The last to go was Hugh. July,
1916, on the eleventh day he was killed. Dear old boy, it is unrealizeable
yet. You won the military Cross and you won yet another undying honor. You
were sniped in the glory of completing a fine piece of work. Your six feet
of glorious young manhood lie deep in French soil. Good-by, Hugh!
Peter was reported missing. All of us who were left alive tried every means
of which we knew and of which we heard to find a trace of him. We got none.
At last I decided that an advertisement in a daily paper would bring
replies from wounded soldiers. I advertised in _The Daily Express_. The
advertisement appeared on a Wednesday, and on the Thursday morning I had a
letter from a young Canadian soldier of the Third Battalion who was in the
Royal Herbert Hospital at Woolwich. He told me of knowing something of what
may have happened to Peter. The possibilities were that he was blown up in
company with a trench full of other soldiers. There is little reason to
doubt this awful ending to a young life; there is no evidence of anything
else.
The letter of the young Canadian soldier was kindly and frank in tone. I
answered it, and asked if he had any relations in the Old Country. He
replied that he had not, and we decided that we would go and see him in
hospital and try in some way to help him in his loneliness.
[Illustration: ©_Famous Players--Lasky Corporation. Scene from the
Photo-Play_
"THEY LOOK BIG ENOUGH, DON'T THEY?"]
[Illustration: A close shave in Flanders]
Before seeing the soldier I received several other letters, notably from
Sam J. Peters, who came to see us, and was positive that he knew Peter as a
man who had aided him on his being wounded himself. Lance-Corporal Carey
was another who wrote, and Corporal George A. Vowel, known as Black Jack,
then of the Tenth and now of the Thirteenth Machine Gun Corps, wrote a
kindly letter.
On a Saturday afternoon we went down to Woolwich, and after a short chat
with a nurse in charge were allowed to see the Canadian who had written
first. Private Harold R. Peat was slight, small, and looked almost
emaciated. We talked for some time and he showed us several souvenirs which
he had. We liked him, and promised to come back. He agreed that he would
get a pass for the following Sunday so that we could see him in the
regulation hours.
He mentioned during conversation how he had seen the advertisement in _The
Daily Express_, and how he always had the desire to comfort those who had
lost relatives, especially when all the official information could give was
"missing."
On the next day it occurred to me that the days must hang long on such a
boy's hands, and I forthwith wrote him a card with some small joke on it.
He replied by a letter. Soon we wrote to each other every day. It was quite
amusing, and at times our letters amounted to a war of wits and repartee.
Our friendship grew, and then he got well enough to leave the hospital. We
wrote regularly, but finally there were more hospital visits to make when,
as a paralyzed wreck of a youth, he was sent back from France. Private Peat
rallied quickly, and to my astonishment one day he walked in to see me at
the offices where the Efficiency Engineers had their headquarters.
"Time for me to come and see you!" he exclaimed. I brought him into the
reception room, left him for two minutes until I made some arrangements as
to work. When I returned he was in a faint, from which it took some time to
rouse him. His convalescent camp was in the country, and he had trudged
some five miles of muddy road in the rain in his endeavor to reach a
railway station with the ultimate object in view of visiting me.
We saw each other frequently from this time. My dear friend, Amy Naylor,
jokingly warned me: "Be careful, Bebe, you are playing with fire." I
laughed. I had other ideas, but nevertheless her words made me think. I
found out that I, for one, was not playing. It remained to find out whether
the other party to the game believed it a pastime, or something of more
moment.
Soon there came word that certain of the disabled men were to be returned
to Canada for discharge. Private Peat was among them. He had word that he
would soon receive a commission, though he would not again be fit for
active service.
Without one word spoken, it came to be understood between us that it would
only be a matter of time before I would go to Canada to join him. Fate
seemed to arrange the matter silently that at some indefinite time when
"he" had had time to look around and "see how things were," he would send
for me.
It was a matter of weeks before I got a cable: "Come now." I came.
We met through tragedy. My husband has all the sacredness to me of having
come back to me from the brink of the grave. He has all the wonder of a man
who has offered, and is willing to offer his life again for right. He has
all the glory of a man who had not to be "fetched." He went.
He is friend, pal and husband all in one. Of Peter, the unconscious
instrument of Fate's working, we must say of him but one thing: "He died
for his country."
[Illustration: SIGNS OF RANKS FROM THE TRENCH MAGAZINE]
THE TEN COMMANDMENTS OF A SOLDIER WHILE ON ACTIVE SERVICE
1. When on guard thou wilt challenge all parties approaching thee.
2. Thou shalt not send any engraving nor any likeness of any
air-ship in Heaven above or on any postcard of the Earth beneath,
nor any drawing of any submarine under the sea, for I, the Censor,
am a jealous Censor, visiting the iniquities of the offenders with
three months C.B., but showing mercy unto thousands by letting
their letters go free who keep my commandments.
3. Thou shalt not use profane language unless under extraordinary
circumstances, such as seeing your comrade shot, or getting coal
oil in your tea.
4. Remember the soldier's week consists of seven days: six days
shalt thou labor and do all thy work, and on the seventh do all
thy odd jobs.
5. Honor your President and your Country, keep your rifle oiled
and shoot straight that thy days may be long upon the land which
the enemy giveth thee.
6. Thou shalt not steal thy comrade's kit.
7. Thou shalt not kill--TIME.
8. Thou shalt not adulterate thy mess tin by using it as a shaving
mug.
9. Thou shalt not bear false witness against thy comrades but
preserve a strict neutrality on his outgoings and his incomings.
10. Thou shalt not covet thy sergeant's post, nor the corporal's
nor the staff major's, but do thy duty and by dint of perseverance
rise to the high position of major general.
SOME THINGS THAT WE OUGHT AND OUGHT NOT TO SEND
Candies, cigarettes--and ordinary, plain cigarettes are good enough, so
long as you send plenty. If he chews, send him chewing. Cigarettes are an
absolute necessity because they are the only things soothing to the nerves
when under heavy shell fire. Powdered milk in small quantities, or
Horlick's Milk Tablets, are always welcome. Pure jam; don't ever make a
mistake in this and send plum and apple, because if he ever gets back
alive, he will surely take your life for making such a terrible
mistake--different fruit preserves they long for. Never send corned beef.
This would be even a worse crime than the plum and apple jam. A pair of
sox, home-made and pure wool, you ought to send once a week, because you
must remember the Red Cross takes care only of the wounded men and not the
fighters in the trenches; the government and home folks must look after the
fighter in the field. Three-finger mittens knitted up to the elbow, with
the first finger absolutely bare, are very welcome. Scarfs are quite
unnecessary. Tommy usually gives these to the French lassies. Different
insect powders Tommy likes to get, because he can't buy these out there.
There is no doubt about it that, although we get used to the "cooties," yet
sometimes they outnumber us and it is necessary to put a gas attack over on
them. Strong powders are the only thing. Candles, matches, and if possible
small alcoholic burners are very essential things. Of course, if you send
him a burner it would be necessary for you to keep sending him alcohol,
because this can't be bought in France. Nor can we get sugar out there. Any
of these things with a nice long "letter" will delight Tommy or Sammy or
Poilou.
Transcriber's note: Minor typographical errors in the original text have
been corrected.