There's no sadder sicht my een have ever seen than that of the maimed
and wounded laddies that ha' come hame frae this war that is just
over. I ken that there's been a deal of talk aboot what we maun do for
them that ha' done sae much for us. But I'm thinking we can never
think too often of those laddies, nor mak' too many plans to mak' life
easier for them. They didna think before they went and suffered. They
couldna calculate. Jock could not stand, before the zero hour came in
the trenches, and talk' wi' his mate.
He'd not be saying: "Sandy, man, we're going to attack in twa-three
meenits. Maybe I'll lose a hand, Sandy, or a leg. Maybe it'll be
you'll be hit. What'll we be doing then? Let's mak' our plans the noo.
How'll we be getting on without our legs or our arms or if we should
be blind?"
No, it was not in such fashion that the laddies who did the fichting
thought or talked wi' one another. They'd no time, for the one thing.
And for another, I think they trusted us.
Weel, each government has worked out its own way of taking care of the
men who suffered. They're gude plans, the maist of them. Governments
have shown more intelligence, more sympathy, more good judgment, than
ever before in handling such matters. That's true in America as well
as in Britain. It's so devised that a helpless man will be taken care
of a' his life lang, and not feel that he's receiving any charity.
It's nae more than richt that it should be so; it would be a black
shame, indeed, if it were otherwise. But still there's more tae be
done, and it's for you and me and all the rest of us that didna suffer
sae to do it.
There's many things a laddie that's been sair wounded needs and wants
when he comes hame. Until he's sure of his food and his roof, and of
the care of those dependent on him, if such there be, he canna think
of anything else. And those things, as is richt and proper, his
country will take in its charge.
But after that what he wants maist is tae know that he's no going to
be helpless all his days. He wants to feel that he's some use in the
world. Unless he can feel sae, he'd raither ha' stayed in a grave in
France, alongside the thousands of others who have stayed there. It's
an awfu' thing to be a laddie, wi' maist of the years of your life
still before you to be lived, and to be thinking you micht better be
dead.
I know what I'm talking aboot when I speak of this. Mind ye, I've
passed much time of late years in hospitals. I've talked to these
laddies when they'd be lying there, thinking--thinking. They'd a' the
time in the world to think after they began to get better. And they'd
be knowing, then, that they would live--that the bullet or the shell
or whatever it micht be that had dropped them had not finished them.
And they'd know, too, by then, that the limb was lost for aye, or the
een or whatever it micht be.
Noo, think of a laddie coming hame. He's discharged frae the hospital
and frae the army. He's a civilian again. Say he's blind. He's got his
pension, his allowance, whatever it may be. There's his living. But is
he to be just a hulk, needing some one always to care for him? That's
a' very fine at first. Everyone's glad tae do it. He's a hero, and a
romantic figure. But let's look a wee bit ahead.
Let's get beyond Jock just at first, when all the folks are eager to
see him and have him talk to them. They're glad to sit wi' him, or tae
tak' him for a bit walk. He'll no bore them. But let's be thinking of
Jock as he'll be ten years frae noo. Who'll be remembering then hoo
they felt when he first came home? They'll be thinking of the nuisance
it is tae be caring for him a' the time, and of the way he's always
aboot the hoose, needing care and attention.
What I'm afraid of is that tae many of the laddies wull be tae tired
to fit themselves tae be other than helpless creatures, despite their
wounds or their blindness. They can do wonders, if we'll help them. We
maun not encourage those laddies tae tak' it tae easy the noo. It's a
cruel hard thing to tell a boy like yon that he should be fitting
himself for life. It seems that he ought to rest a bit, and tak'
things easy, and that it's a sma' thing, after all he's done, to
promise him good and loving care all his days.
Aye, and that's a sma' thing enough--if we're sure we can keep our
promise. But after every war--and any old timer can tell ye I'm
tellin' ye the truth the noo--there have been crippled and blinded men
who have relied upon such promises--and seen them forgotten, seen
themselves become a burden. No man likes to think he's a burden. It
irks him sair. And it will be irksome specially tae laddies like those
who have focht in France.
It's no necessary that any man should do that. The miracles of to-day
are all at the service of the wounded laddies. And I've seen things
I'd no ha' believed were possible, had I had to depend on the
testimony o' other eyes than my own. I've seen men sae hurt that it
didna seem possible they could ever do a'thing for themselves again.
And I've seen those same men fend for themselves in a way that was as
astonishing as it was heart rending.
The great thing we maun all do wi' the laddies that are sae maimed and
crippled is never tae let them ken we're thinking of their
misfortunes. That's a hard thing, but we maun do it. I've seen sic a
laddie get into a 'bus or a railway carriage. And I've seen him wince
when een were turned upon him. Dinna mistake me. They were kind een
that gazed on him. The folk were gude folk; they were fu' of sympathy.
They'd ha' done anything in the world for the laddie. But--they were
doing the one thing they shouldna ha' done.
Gi'en you're an employer, and a laddie wi' a missing leg comes tae ye
seeking a job. You've sent for him, it may be; ye ken work ye can gie
him that he'll be able tae do. A' richt--that's splendid, and it's
what maun be done. But never let him know you're thinking at a' that
his leg's gone. Mak' him feel like ithers. We maun no' be reminding
the laddies a' the time that they're different noo frae ither folk.
That's the hard thing.
Gi'en a man's had sic a misfortune. We know--it's been proved a
thousand times ower--that a man can rise above sic trouble. But he
canno do it if he's thinking of it a' the time. The men that have
overcome the handicaps of blindness and deformity are those who gie no
thought at all to what ails them--who go aboot as if they were as well
and as strong as ever they've been.
It's a hard thing not to be heeding such things.
But it's easier than what these laddies have had to do, and what they
must go on doing a' the rest of their lives. They'll not be able to
forget their troubles very long; there'll be plenty to remind them.
But let's not gae aboot the streets wi' our een like a pair of looking
glasses in which every puir laddie sees himsel' reflected.
It's like the case of the lad that's been sair wounded aboot the head;
that's had his face sae mangled and torn that he'd be a repulsive
sicht were it not for the way that he became sae. If he'd been
courting a lassie before he was hurt wadna the thought of how she'd be
feeling aboot him be amang his wairst troubles while he lay in
hospital? I've talked wi' such, and I know.
Noo, it's a hard thing to see the face one loves changed and altered
and made hideous. But it's no sae hard as to have tha face! Who wull
say it is? And we maun be carefu' wi' such boys as that, tae. They're
verra sensitive; all those that have been hurt are sensitive. It's
easy to wound their feelings. And it should be easy for all of us to
enter into a conspiracy amang ourselves to hide the shock of surprise
we canna help feeling, whiles, and do nothing that can make a lad-die
wha's fresh frae the hospital grow bitter over the thocht that he's
nae like ither men the noo.
Yon's a bit o' a sermon I've been preaching, I'm afraid. But, oh,
could ye ha' seen the laddies as I ha' seen them, in the hospitals,
and afterward, when they were waiting tae gae hame! They wad ask me
sae often did I think their ain folk could stand seeing them sae
changed.
"Wull it be sae hard for them, Harry?" they've said the me, over and
over again. "Whiles I've thocht it would ha' been better had I stayed
oot there----"
Weel, I ken that that's nae sae. I'd gie a' the world tae ha' my ain
laddie back, no matter hoo sair he'd been hurt. And there's never a
faither nor a mither but wad feel the same way--aye, I'm sure o' that.
Sae let us a' get together and make sure that there's never a look in
our een or a shrinking that can gie' any o' these laddies, whether
they're our kin or no, whether we saw them before, the feeling that
there's any difference in our eyes between them and ourselves.
The greatest suffering any man's done that's been hurt is in his
spirit, in his mind--not in his body. Bodily pain passes and is
forgotten. But the wounds of the human spirit lie deep, and it takes
them a lang time tae heal. They're easily reopened, tae; a careless
word, a glance, and a' a man has gone through is brought back to his
memory, when, maybe, he'd been forgetting. I've seen it happen too
oft.