Produced by Al Haines.
[Illustration: "HE IS A MAN AFTER MY OWN HEART!" EXCLAIMED MADAME
COUILLARD]
THE
FIRST CANADIANS
IN FRANCE
THE CHRONICLE OF A MILITARY
HOSPITAL IN THE WAR ZONE
BY
F. McKELVEY BELL
ILLUSTRATED BY
CHRISTOPHER FULLEYLOVE
MCCLELLAND, GOODCHILD & STEWART
PUBLISHERS :: :: :: :: :: TORONTO
COPYRIGHT, 1917,
BY GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY
PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
TO
SURGEON-GENERAL GUY CARLETON JONES, C.M.G.
AND TO
THE CANADIAN MEDICAL SERVICES OVERSEAS
THESE PAGES ARE DEDICATED
The wise and skillful guidance of the former and the efficient
fulfilment of onerous duties by all have given to the Canadian
Medical Service a status second to none in the Empire: The sick
and wounded soldier has been made to feel that a Military Hospital
may be not only a highly scientific institution--but a Home.
*PREFACE*
In glancing through these pages, now that they are written, I realise
that insufficient stress has been laid upon the heroism and
self-sacrifice of the non-commissioned officers and men of the Army
Medical Corps--the boys who, in the dull monotony of hospital life,
denied the exhilaration and stimulus of the firing line, are, alas, too
often forgotten. All honour to them that in spite of this handicap they
give of their best, and give it whole-heartedly to their stricken
comrades.
The pill of fact herein is but thinly coated with the sugar of fiction,
but if the reader can get a picture, however indefinite, of military
hospital life in France, these pages will not have been written
altogether in vain.
F. McK B.
*ILLUSTRATIONS*
"He Is a Man After My Own Heart!" exclaimed Madame Couillard (See page
166) . . . . . . _Frontispiece_
The Song Was Sad--But We Laughed and Laughed Until We Wept Again
Rene Had Risen in the Excitement of His Description
"How Can You?" She Cried Involuntarily, "How Can a Little Lad Like You
Bear to Kill Men with a Bayonet?"
German Wounded
*THE FIRST CANADIANS IN FRANCE*
*CHAPTER I*
We were a heterogeneous lot--no one could deny that--all the way down
from big Bill Barker, the heavyweight hostler, to little Huxford, the
featherweight hustler.
No commanding officer, while sober, would have chosen us _en masse_.
But we weren't chosen--we just arrived, piece by piece; and the Hammer
of Time, with many a nasty knock, has welded us.
One by one, from the farthest corners of the Dominion, the magic magnet
of the war drew us to the plains of Valcartier, and one by one it
dropped us side by side. Why some came or why they are still here God
knows! Man may merely conjecture.
Divers forces helped to speed us from our homes: love of adventure, loss
of a sweetheart, family quarrels, the wander-spirit, and, among many
other sentiments--patriotism. But only one force held us together: our
Colonel! Without him, as an entity, we ceased to exist. His
broad-minded generosity and liberal forbearance closed many an angry
breach. His love of us finds its analogy only in the love of a father
for his prodigal son.
Long after we reached France, when the dull monotony of daily routine
had somewhat sobered us, one early morning the sweet but disturbing note
of the bugle sounding the _reveille_ brought me back from dreams of
home. I lay drowsily listening to its insistent voice. The door of my
room opened softly, and the orderly stole in.
He was a red-cheeked, full-lipped country lad, scarce seventeen years of
age. He knelt down before the fireplace and meditatively raked the
ashes from its recess. He was a slow lad; slow in speech, slower in
action, and his big dreamy blue eyes belied his military bearing.
I turned over in bed to get a better view of him.
"What freak of fancy brought you so far from home, Wilson?" I queried.
"Dunno, zur," he drawled. "Not much fun hustlin' coals in the mornin'
nur pullin' teeth in the afternoon." For Wilson, among his
multitudinous duties, was dental orderly too.
"There's such an air of farm and field about you, Wilson, that
sometimes, at short range, I imagine I get a whiff of new-mown hay."
He sat up on his haunches, balancing the shovel upon his outstretched
hand. The pool of memory was stirred. A hazy thought was struggling to
the surface. He looked dreamily toward me for a moment before he
replied.
"I wuz born an' raised in the country, zur," he said. "When the war
broke out I wuz pickin' apples on dad's farm. I didn't like my job.
Gee! I wish't I'd stayed an' picked 'em now."
How we ever taught Wilson to say "Sir," or even his corruption of the
word, must remain forever shrouded in mystery; but it was accomplished
at last, just like many other great works of art.
The Canadian spirit of democracy resents any semblance of a confession
of inferiority, and the sergeant-major's troubles were like unto those
of Job. Military discipline commenced in earnest when the ship left the
harbour at Quebec, and has hung over us like a brooding robin ever
since.
It was an eventful morning to us (and to England) when our fleet of
thirty ocean liners, with its freight of thirty-three thousand soldiers,
steamed slowly into the harbour at Plymouth and dropped anchor.
For two glorious October weeks we had bedecked the Atlantic. His
Majesty's fleet night and day had guarded us with an ever-increasing
care. I can still look over the starboard rail and see the black smoke
of the _Gloria_ prowling along in the south, and, afar off in the north,
the _Queen Mary_ watching our hazardous course. The jaunty little
_Charybdis_ minced perkily ahead.
There were other battleships, too, which picked us up from time to time;
and the _Monmouth_, on the last voyage she was destined to make, steamed
through our lines one day. The brave fellows, who were so soon to meet
a watery grave, lined up upon her deck, giving us three resounding
cheers as she passed by, and we echoed them with a will.
Captain Reggy, our dapper mess secretary, was pacing the hurricane deck
one day. From time to time his gaze turned wistfully across the waves
to the other two lines of ships steaming peacefully along side by side.
Something weighty was on his mind. Occasionally he glanced up to the
military signalling officer on the bridge, and with inexplicable
interest watched his movements with the flags.
"I say," Reggy called up to him, "can you get a message across to the
_Franconia_?"
"She's third ship in the third line--a little difficult, I should say,"
the signaller replied.
"But it _can_ be done, can't it?" Reggy coaxed.
"Yes, if it's very important."
"It's most important, I want to send a message to one of the nurses."
The signalling lieutenant leaned both elbows upon the rail and looked
down in grinning amazement upon his intrepid interlocutor.
"What the d----l! I say, you're the sort of man we need at the
front--one with plenty of nerve!"
"Be a sport and send it over!" Reggy coaxed.
"All right--I'll take a chance."
"Ask for Nursing Sister Marlow. Give her Captain Reggy's compliments
and best wishes, and will she join him on board for dinner this evening,
seven o'clock!"
There was a flutter of flags for several seconds, while the ridiculous
message passed across from ship to ship. Reggy waited anxiously for a
reply.
In less than ten minutes from across the deep came this very lucid
answer: "Nursing Sister Marlow's compliments to Captain Reggy. Regrets
must decline kind invitation to dinner. _Mal de mer_ has rendered her
_hors de combat_. Many thanks."
On the last day of our journey the speedy torpedo boat destroyers rushed
out to meet us and whirled round and round us hour by hour as we entered
the English Channel. Soon the welcome shores of England loomed through
the haze, and the sight sent a thrill through all our hearts.
We had scarce dropped anchor when, from the training ship close by, a
yawl pulled quickly toward us, "manned" by a dozen or more lads from a
training ship. They rowed with the quick neat stroke of trained
athletes, and as the boat came alongside ours they shipped their oars
and raised their boyish voices in a welcoming cheer. We leaned over the
side of our ship and returned their greeting with a stentorian
heartiness that startled the sleeping town.
Showers of small coin and cigarettes were dropped into their boat, and
the way in which they fought for position, scrambling over or under one
another, upsetting this one or knocking down that, showed that these
lads were quite capable of upholding all the old fighting traditions of
the British Navy. A tug-boat soon steamed alongside, too, and down the
accommodation-ladder scrambled those of us who were lucky enough to have
permission to go ashore.
"Come along, Reggy," I shouted. But Reggy shook his head sorrowfully,
and his handsome face was clouded.
"Just my rotten luck to be orderly officer on a day like this!" he
replied. "To-day I guard the ship, but to-morrow--oh, to-morrow!"
Reggy held out both hands in mock appeal to the shore: "Me for the red
paint and city lights!"
Progress up the streets of Devonport was slow. Thousands of troops
already landed were marching to the time of "The Maple Leaf Forever,"
and every foot of pavement or sidewalk was packed with struggling but
enthusiastic humanity shouting itself hoarse in delirious welcome.
We were on the upper deck of a tram-car, leaning over the throng, and
eagerly looking for the faces of friends in the ranks of a passing
battalion. They swung along to the music of their band--a clean-cut,
well-set-up, manly lot, who marched with the firm independent step of
the free born. Suddenly our colonel discovered a familiar face among the
khaki-clad below. There is no military precedent for what he did; years
of training fell away on the instant. He leaned from the car and
shouted:
"Hello, 'Foghorn'! What cheer?"
"Foghorn" looked up. His right arm was somewhat hampered, from a
military point of view, by reason of being about the waist of a pretty
girl, who accommodatingly marched along with the battalion in general,
and "Foghorn" in particular.
"Hello, Jack," he bellowed in a voice which easily accounted for his
nickname. "Lots of cheer. Can't salute. One arm busy! Other is glass
arm from saluting the brass hats. See you later. Good luck!"
And thus our cosmopolitan and ultra-democratic battalion passed on.
Some one has said that the Englishman is temperamentally cold. It can't
be proved by Devonport or Plymouth. His temperature in both towns
registered ninety-eight degrees in the shadiest and most secluded spots.
And the women and children! Banish all thought of British frigidity!
The Canadians in England never discovered it.
The passion of the Devonport children for souvenirs in the shape of
pennies and buttons became so violent in a few hours that our small coin
was likely to become extinct and our buttons merely things that used to
be. Every time a soldier appeared upon the street he was instantly
surrounded by a bevy of insistent and persistent mendicants.
Once we sought refuge in a cooling spot where glasses tinkle and the
beer foams high--and children might not follow there. The pretty barmaid
smiled. The second in command twirled his long moustache and fixed the
maiden with his martial eye.
"What will you have, sir?" she inquired sweetly.
The senior major was always gallant to a pretty girl. He drew himself
up to his full six feet, two, and saluted. A mellow line from "Omar
Khayyam" dropped from his thirsty lips:
_"A jug of wine, a loaf of bread, and thou_
_Beside me singing in the wilderness."_
How much further he might have gone one cannot say. The girl held up a
reproving finger and exclaimed:
"Ah, I see it is black coffee the gentleman requires."
But the major's poetic spirit was aroused. "Avaunt coffee," he cried.
_"Shall I distress my ruddy soul_
_With dusky dregs from coffee urn?_
_Far sweeter, sweet, to quench its fire_
_With wine for which the 'innards' yearn._
A glass of beer, please."
The adjutant leaned over toward me and hazarded, in a hoarse whisper:
"I presume they have no ice."
The barmaid's red cheeks dimpled and two straight rows of pearly teeth
shone upon him, as she answered for me:
"Your presumption is ill-founded, young man. We have plenty of ice with
which to temper the hot young blood of the Canadians."
The adjutant looked helplessly up, bereft of repartee; then
apostrophised the ceiling:
"And these are the stupid Englishwomen we have been led to expect!"
Our education was going on apace.
A few moments later we emerged and discovered ourselves in a veritable
whirlpool of young monetary gluttons.
"Penny, sir! penny! penny!" they shouted in staccato chorus. Our supply
of pennies had long since been depleted. An idea struck me.
"See here," I said in serious tone. "We're only a lot of poor soldiers
going to the war. We can't always be giving away pennies. We need
pennies worse than you do."
A sudden hush fell upon the little circle. Some looked abashed, others
curiously uncertain, a few sympathetic. The silence lasted a full
minute. We all stood still looking at one another.
"Can any little boy or girl in this crowd give a poor soldier a penny to
help him along to the war?" I asked quietly.
Again silence. Finally a little ragged tot of about eight years of age,
carrying a baby in her arms, turned to her companions and said: "Here,
hold the baby for me and I'll give the poor fellow a penny." She dived
deep in the pocket of her frock, brought out a penny, ha'penny (her
total wealth) and held it out to me.
Lieutenant Moe stepped forward. "Look here, major," he said sternly,
"do you mean to say you'll take that money from a youngster?"
"I do," I replied, without a smile.
"I won't permit it," he cried.
Here was an embarrassing situation. I couldn't explain to him without
confessing to the child as well. I wished to gauge how much patriotism
beat in those little hearts, what sacrifice they were prepared to make
for their country; and here was one measuring up to the highest ideals,
I daren't either withdraw or explain.
"I must have the pennies, Moe, and I am going to take them," I replied
firmly. "Stand aside, please!"
Military discipline came to the rescue. Moe saluted stiffly and stepped
back. The little girl gravely handed over the pennies and took back her
baby.
"Any others?" I asked.
Some of the children declared they had none; a few looked sheepish and
hung their heads. I slipped a sixpence into the hand of the little
lady.
"Well, I'll be damned!" exclaimed Moe. "Here's another penny for you,"
and he handed the bewildered child half a crown.
A shout of surprise and dismay went up from the other children, who
realised too late that they had failed in the test.
"The drinks are certainly on me!" Moe cried. "About turn!"
Sometimes when I feel that the world is sordid and mean I go to my trunk
and look at those two coins, and I know that somewhere, in a frail
little body, beats a generous heart, and I feel that after all part of
the world is worth while.
*CHAPTER II*
Reggy was on shore at last. He said he felt much better walking alone
up street--more as if he owned the town!
It's a strange sensation stepping on solid ground after weeks on
shipboard. There is a lack of harmony between oneself and the ground.
You rock--the ground stands still; you stand still--the ground rocks,
like an angry sergeant.
The senior major was on the corner, holding an animated conversation
with a beautifully gowned young lady, to whom he bid a hasty adieu as
Reggy hove in sight.
"Corking girl, that," said Reggy mischievously.
"Where?" demanded the major, looking about.
"The young lady to whom you just avoided introducing me."
"It's rather a remarkable coincidence," said the major, avoiding
controversy, "that I should run across a relation in this far-away
place!"
"Very!" Reggy replied drily. "Family's fond of travel, I take it."
A tall, well-knit young subaltern elbowed his way through the crowd and
joined the pair. Reggy greeted him:
"Better come and have dinner with your brother and me, Tom. I feel he
needs good company and a chaperon or two!"
The trio entered the rotunda of the _Royal_.
A distinguished looking gentleman and a prepossessing lady of middle age
stood chatting together. Their voices were agitated, and the three
officers could not avoid overhearing snatches of the conversation.
"He is on the _Cassandra_, and in this medley of ships no one seems to
know where his is anchored," the man was saying.
"Dear me," sighed the lady. "To think that our boy should be so near
and that we should not be able to see him! It's dreadful!"
"But we must find him," the man declared reassuringly. "Surely there is
some way of reaching the ship?"
"They tell me no one is allowed on board; and when the battalion
disembarks they will be marched away. What shall we do?" she cried in
great distress.
Reggy's impulsive heart was touched. He approached them and
respectfully saluted.
"A thousand pardons, sir," he said, "for breaking in upon a private
conversation, but I couldn't help overhearing your words. Can I be of
any assistance to you?"
"It is very kind of you, indeed," the man answered in a rich voice of
unusual gentility. "Perhaps you can help us. My son is aboard the
_Cassandra_. We haven't seen him since he went to Canada four years
ago. He is only a Tommy, so cannot come ashore, and it seems impossible
to get into communication with him."
"What luck!" Reggy exclaimed. "His ship and ours are anchored side by
side; so close, in fact, that we have a connecting gang-way."
"Oh, do you think we could get out to him?" the mother asked anxiously.
"We have no permit to visit the ships."
"If you can get authority to enter the dockyards, I'll see what I can do
to get you aboard to-morrow noon," Reggy answered. "I'll meet you at
the quay."
"God bless you!" exclaimed the lady, with tears in her eyes.
The following day, true to his word, Reggy, with a written permit in his
pocket, ushered Mr. and Mrs. Hargreaves aboard the ship.
"You will stay and lunch with me," said Reggy. "I'll get your boy
across, and we'll all lunch together."
"But I was under the impression that Tommies were not allowed to dine
with officers," protested Mr. Hargreaves.
"The deuce! I'd forgotten all about that," Reggy exclaimed, as he
scratched his head perplexedly. "Ah, I have it," he ejaculated a moment
later; "he shall be an officer during the meal. I'll lend him a tunic.
No one else on board will know."
"But I don't wish you to get yourself into trouble," Mr. Hargreaves
remonstrated.
Reggy laughed.
"I love such trouble," he cried, "and the risk fascinates me. I'll be
back in a moment." And he dashed off in his impetuous way.
In a short time he returned, bringing with him a handsome but much
embarrassed youth, wearing a captain's uniform. But the sight which met
his eyes banished all thought of clothes.
"Mother! Father!" he cried; and in a moment was clasped in his mother's
arms, while tears of joy she didn't strive to hide rolled down her
cheeks. The old gentleman turned his head aside to hide his own
emotion, and Reggy, feeling _de trop_, slipped quietly away.
A few days later our ship was dragged slowly into dock by two small but
powerful tug-boats. The boys who had been caged on board for a full
week in sight of but unable to reach the land shouted and danced for
joy. The noise of the donkey engine pulling our equipment out of the
hold was to us the sweetest sound on land or sea.
We were almost the last ship to dock, and a thousand boys were
impatiently awaiting their turn to step on English soil. Machine guns,
boxes of rifles and ammunition, great cases of food and wagons came
hurtling through the hatchway, vomited from the depths below. With
great speed and regularity they were deposited on the quay, while heavy
motor lorries, piled high with freight, creaked from dock to train.
From across the quay, and in awesome proximity, the great guns of the
battle cruisers _Tiger_ and _Benbow_ yawned at us. As far as one might
look heavily armoured men-of-war, ready to sail or in process of
construction, met the eye, and the deafening crash of the trip-hammer
stormed the ear. Britain may well be proud of her navy. Its size and
might are far beyond our ken. Patiently, in peaceful harbour, or on sea,
she lies in wait and longs for Germany's inevitable hour.
The hospitality of the citizens of Devonport and Plymouth will long
remain a pleasant recollection. First impressions linger and our first
impressions there still stir up delightful memories.
"Now, then, look sharp there! Stow them adoos an' get aboard!"
It was the raucous voice of Sergeant Honk which thus assailed his
unwilling flock. The boys were bidding a lengthy farewell to the local
beauties, who had patriotically followed them to the train.
The sergeant was hot and dusty, and beaded drops of sweat dripped from
his unwashed chin. His hat was cocked over one eye, in very unmilitary
style. The Tommies, under the stimulating influence of two or more
draughts of "bitter" purchased at a nearby bar, were inclined to be
jocose.
"'Ave _another_ drink, 'Onk!" cried one, thrusting a grimy head from the
train window and mimicking Honk's cockney accent. This subtle allusion
to previous libations aroused the sergeant's ire.
"Oo said that?" he shouted wrathfully, as he turned quickly about.
"Blimey if yer ain't got no more disc'pline than a 'erd uv Alberta
steers! If I 'ears any more sauce like that some one 'ull be up for
'office' in th' mornin'!"
The culprit had withdrawn his head in time, and peace prevailed for
moment.
"What's that baggage fatigue doin'?" he cried a moment later. "D'ye
think y'er at a picnic--eatin' oranges? Load them tents!"
The orange-eating "fatigue," looking very hot and fatigued indeed, fell
reluctantly to work.
Sergeant Honk was not beautiful to look upon--his best friends conceded
this. His nose was bent and red. He had one fixed and one revolving
eye, and when the former had transfixed you, the latter wandered
aimlessly about, seeking I know not what. He was so knock-kneed that
his feet could never meet. I think it was the sergeant-major in Punch
who complained that "it was impossible to make him look 'smart,' for
when his knees stood at attention his feet would stand at ease."
To see Honk salute with one stiff hand pointing heavenward and his
unruly feet ten inches apart has been known to bring a wan sweet smile
to the face of blase generals; but subalterns, more prone to mirth, have
sometimes laughed outright.
Some one had thrown a banana peel upon the station platform. Honk
stepped backward upon its slippery face. He didn't fall, but his queer
legs opened and shut with a scissor-like snap that wrenched his dignity
in twain.
"Fruit's the curse of the army," he muttered.
Somehow we got aboard at last--officers, non-commissioned officers and
men. The crowd cheered a lusty farewell, and amidst much waving of
pocket handkerchiefs and hats, Plymouth faded away, and the second stage
of our journey began.
It was midnight when we pulled into Lavington station. There is no
village there--merely a tavern of doubtful mien. Rain was falling in a
steady drizzle as we emerged upon the platform and stood shivering in
the bleak east wind. The transport officer, who had been awaiting our
arrival, approached the colonel and saluted.
"Rather a nasty night, sir," he observed courteously.
"Bad night for a march," the colonel replied. "My men are tired, too.
Hope we haven't got far to go?"
"Not very, sir; a matter of eight or nine miles only."
The colonel glanced at him sharply, thinking the information was given
in satirical vein; but the Englishman's face was inscrutable.
"Nine miles!" he exclaimed. "That may be an easy march for seasoned
troops, but my men have been three weeks on shipboard."
"Sorry, sir, but that's the shortest route."
"Thanks; we'll camp right here." The colonel was emphatic.
"In the rain?" the Englishman inquired in some surprise.
"Yes. What of it?"
"Nothing, sir; but it seems unusual, that's all."
"We're unusual people," the colonel answered dryly. "Quartermaster, get
out the rubber sheets and blankets. The station platform will be our
bed."
The transport officer saluted and retired.
The adjutant was weary and sleepy. He had vainly tried a stimulating
Scotch or two to rouse his lagging spirit.
"Fall in, men," he shouted. "'Shun! Right dress. Quartermaster, issue
the blankets, please."
The quartermaster was disposed to argue the point. The blankets would
all be wet and muddy, and damaged with coal cinders; but he was finally
overruled.
The adjutant turned to look at the men. Their line had wabbled and
showed strange gyrations.
"_Will_ you men stand in line?" he cried. "How do any of you ever expect
to succeed in life if you can't learn to stand in a straight line?"
With which unanswerable argument and much pleased with his midnight
philosophy, he relapsed into his customary genial smile.
At last the blankets were distributed, and in an hour the station
platform and bridge over the tracks looked like the deck of an emigrant
steamer. Wherever the eye reached, the dimly-lighted platform showed
rows of sleeping men, rolled up and looking very like sacks of potatoes
lying together.
Five of us officers turned into the expressman's hut, and in the dark
fell into whatever corner was available. Reggy and I occupied either
side of an unlighted stove, and throughout the jumpy watches of the
night bruised our shins against its inhospitable legs.
Dawn was breaking, and breaking darkly, too, as the dim shadow of the
expressman came stumbling across the platform through rows of growling
men. At last he reached his office, and, all unconscious of our
presence, stepped within. He stepped upon the sleeping form of the
adjutant, and the form emitted a mighty roar. The expressman staggered
back in amazement, giving vent to this weird epigram:
"Every bloomin' 'ole a sleepin' 'ole!"
"You'll 'ave to get up," he cried indignantly when he had recovered from
his astonishment. "This ain't a bloomin' boardin'-'ouse!"
"Could you return in half an hour?" Reggy queried in drowsy tones, but
without opening his eyes.
"No. I couldn't return in 'alf an hour," he mocked peevishly.
"Run away like a good fellow, and bring some shaving water---have it
hot!" Reggy commanded.
"Oh, I'll make it 'ot for you all right, if you don't let me into my
office," he retorted angrily.
Might is not always right, so we reluctantly rose. We had had three
hours of fitful sleep--not too much for our first night's soldiering.
Hot coffee, cheese and biscuits were soon served by our cooks, and we
prepared for our first march on English sod.
No one who made that march from Lavington to West Down North will ever
forget it. Napoleon's march to Moscow was mere child's play compared
with it. Reggy said both his corns were shrieking for Blue Jays and
when Bill Barker removed his socks (skin and all) it marked an epoch in
his life, for both his feet were clean.
Every fifteen minutes it rained. At first we thought this mere
playfulness on the part of the weather; but when it kept right on for
weeks on end, we knew it to be distemper. By day it was a steady
drizzle, but at night the weather did its proudest feats. Sometimes it
was a cloudburst; anon an ordinary shower that splashed in angry little
squirts through the canvas, and fell upon our beds.
And the mud! We stood in mud. We walked in mud. We slept in mud. The
sky looked muddy, too. Once, and only once, the moon peeped out--it had
splashes of mud on its face!
Reggy loved sleep. It was his one passion. Not the sweet beauty sleep
of youth, but the deep snoring slumber of the full-blown man. But, oh,
those cruel "Orderly Officer" days, when one must rise at dawn! Reggy
thought so, too.
Six a.m. The bugle blew "Parade." Reggy arose. I opened one eye in
time to see a bedraggled figure in blue pyjamas stagger across the
sloppy floor. His eyes were heavy with sleep, and his wetted forelock
fell in a Napoleonic curve. The murky dawn was breaking.
Outside the tent we could hear the sergeant-major's rubber boots flop,
flop, across the muddy road.
"Fall in, men! Fall in!" His tones, diluted with the rain, came
filtering through the tent. It was inspection hour.
Reggy fumbled at the flap of the tent, untied the cord, and through the
hole thus made thrust his sleep-laden head.
"Parade, 'shun!" shouted the sergeant-major (a sly bit of satire on his
part). The warning wasn't needed. The sight of Reggy's dishevelled
countenance was enough; Bill Barker himself "shunned." Somewhere from
the depths of Reggy's head a sleepy muffled voice emitted this succinct
command:
"Serg'nt-major; dish-mish th' parade."
"Right turn! Dis-miss!" With a shout of joy the boys scampered off to
their tents.
A moment later Reggy tumbled into bed again, and soon was fast asleep.
And within two hours, at breakfast, he was saying, with virtuous
resignation: "How I envied you lucky devils sleeping-in this morning! I
was up at six o'clock inspecting the parade." And the halo of
near-truth hovered gently about his head.
Thus passed three weeks of rain and mud. In spite of ourselves we had
begun to look like soldiers. How we ever developed into the finest
hospital unit in the forces none of us to this day knows--and none but
ourselves suspects it yet. We had, and have still, one outstanding
feature--a sort of native modesty. Whatever in this chronicle savours
of egotism is merely the love of truth which cannot be suppressed.
And then, one eventful day, the surgeon-general came to inspect us. He
seemed pleased with us. Presently he passed into the colonel's tent,
and they had a long and secret conference together. Finally the pair
emerged again.
"What about your horses?" the general queried.
The horses had been our greatest worry. They came on a different boat,
and the two best were missing or stolen. Once Sergeant Honk discovered
them in the lines of another unit, but was indiscreet enough to proclaim
his belief to the sergeant-major of that unit. When we hurried down to
get them they were gone. No one there had ever heard of a horse of the
colour or design which we described. We were discouraged, and in our
despair turned to the senior major, who was a great horseman and knew
the tricks of the soldier horse-thief.
"Don't get excited," he said reassuringly. "They've only hidden away the
horses in a tent, after you chumps recognised them. To-morrow, when they
are not suspicious, I'll go down and get them."
And on the morrow _mirabile dictu_ he secured them both.
So the colonel answered: "The horses are here, and ready, sir."
Ready for what? There was a tenseness in the air--a sense of mystery
that could not be explained. We listened again, but could only catch
scraps of the conversation, such as "Transport officer," "Nine a.m."
"Don't take the mess tent or any tents but hospital marquees."
Something was brewing and brewing very fast. At length the colonel
saluted, and the general left.
"What news, Colonel?", we cried breathlessly, as soon as discretion
allowed. And he let fall these magic words:
"We are under orders to move. We shall be the first Canadians in
France!"
*CHAPTER III*
It was exactly 10 p.m. as Bill Barker and Huxford, with the heavy team
and wagon, drove up to the colonel's tent.
"Do you think you can find your way to Southampton in the dark?" the
colonel asked Barker somewhat anxiously.
"Yes, sir. I've never been lost in my life--sober." The afterthought
was delivered with a reminiscent grin.
"Remember, no 'booze' until the horses are safely in the town; and a
glass of beer will be quite enough even then," the colonel admonished
him.
"Never fear, sir," Bill replied, as he saluted. With a last long look
at the camp he said: "Good-night, sir," and the horses started down the
muddy road.
Why we should still have any affection for that camp in which none of us
ever wore a dry stitch of clothes or knew a moment's comfort, is merely
another illustration of the perversity of human nature. Like Bill
Sikes' dog, our love is stronger than our common sense. For a moment we
stood watching the team pass down through the lines toward the unknown
south, and then we turned in to sleep.
At 3 a.m. our camp was all astir, and the dull yellow glow of candles
and lanterns shining through the tents dotted the plain. Here and there
brighter lights flitted to and fro, as the men proceeded rapidly with
the work of packing up.
And what a medley of goods there was! Blankets and rubber sheets were
folded neatly into their canvas covers; stoves and pots and pans were
crated; boxes of cheese, jam and bully-beef, together with bags of bread
were carried out of the tents into the open. At one side stood large
boxes of medicines, beds, mattresses, portable folding tables and
chairs, and a hundred other varieties of hospital necessaries, all
packed and ready for transport.
By 9 a.m. the motor lorries commenced to arrive. How the boys worked
that morning! The pile of forty tons of goods which represented our
home, and soon would be the home of many others, sick and wounded,
melted away before their united effort.
We had come to Salisbury Plain in the rain; it was but fitting that we
should leave in a similar downpour. We did!
The soldier is a strange creature; a migratory animal whose chief
delight in life is moving. Put him in one place for months, be it ever
so cheery and comfortable--he frets like a restless steed; but give him
the rein, permit him to go, he cares not whither--he is happy. It may
be from sunshine to shadow; it may be from chateau to trench; it may be
from heaven to hell--he cares not if he but moves, and, moving, he will
whistle or sing his delight.
The road was lined with envious Tommies who came to see us start.
"Yer colonel muster had _some_ pull with Kitch'ner t' git ye away so
soon," said one of the envious to Tim, the colonel's batman.
Tim was quite the most unique of all our motley tribe. He was born in
Ireland, educated (or rather remained uneducated) in the Southern
States, and for the past ten years had lived in Canada. He was a
faithful servant, true to his master and to all his friends. Like many
another "original," he was permitted to take liberties which shocked all
sense of military discipline, as well as every other sense; but he
amused us and was forgiven. He was a prize fighter, too, of no mean
ability, and carried the scars of many a hard-fought battle. No other
being in the world used a dialect like Tim's. It was a language all his
own, and negroid in character.
"Pull wit' Kitch'ner!" he replied disdainfully. "Wit George hisself, ye
means. D'ye s'pose my kernel hobnobs wit' anyt'ing lessen royalty? De
king sent fer him, an' he goed to Lunnon a' purpose."
"'Wot is yer Majesty's command?' sez de kernel.
"'Kernel,' sez he, 'when I seed yer men on p'rade las' Sunday, I turned
to Lord Kitch'ner an' sez: "Kitch'ner, it ain't right t' keep men as
good as dat in England; dere place is at de front!"'"
"You was sure needed there," Tim's vis-a-vis interjected sarcastically;
"good thick-headed fellers t' stop a bullet."
Tim ignored the remark, and continued:
"So he sez, 'Kernel, yer unit 'ull be de first t' leave fer France, an'
good luck t' ye!' Wit dat de kernel comed back, an' now we're goin' to
see de Pea-jammers."
"Wot's them?" the other growlingly inquired.
"Don't ye know wot Pea-jammers is yet? Ye muster bin eddicated in night
school. Pea-jammers is Frenchmen."
By what process of exclusion Tim had arrived at this strange decision
with reference to the French, none but himself knew; and he never by any
chance alluded to them otherwise.
"All in, men!" shouted the sergeant-major, and each man scrambled to his
allotted place.
To look at the rough exterior of our men one would not suppose that
music lurked within their breasts--nothing more unlikely seemed
probable; and yet, listen to the vibrant harmony of their chorus as they
sit upon their bags and boxes! It rolls in melodious waves over the
camp, and crowds of soldiers come running toward the road to listen.
Oh, you may be sure they had their good points, those lads of ours--so
many good points, too!
The lorries started, and the boys lifted their voices to the strains of
"Good-bye, Dolly, I Must Leave You." The little crowd which lined the
road on either side raised their caps and gave three cheers in kindly
token of farewell. As we looked back upon those stalwart soldier-boys,
many a wistful glance was cast toward us, and many a longing eye
followed the trail of our caravan.
Night had fallen before our train puffed noisily into the railway sheds
at Southampton. How hungry we were! And the sight of the crowded buffet
and its odour of steaming coffee gave us a thrill of expectant delight.
There are times in life when it takes so little to please or interest
one. In the ornate grandeur of a metropolitan hotel such coffee and
cake as we received that night would have called forth a clamour of
protest; but in the rough interior of a dockyard shed no palatial
surroundings mar the simple pleasures of the soul. What delicious
cheese our quartermaster produced out of a mud-covered box, and how
splendidly crisp the hard-tack, as we crunched it with hungry teeth!
Seated on our bags and boxes, we feasted as none but hungry soldiers
can, and the murky coffee turned into nectar as it touched our lips.
Through the big doorway, too, the eye could feast on the towering side
of the ship which was so soon to take us to our great adventure, as she
lay snuggled against the quay. But as we rested there, another train
pulled into the sheds and stopped. The doors were opened from within,
and we were surprised to see hundreds of great horses step quietly and
solemnly out upon the platform. There was a marvellous dignity about
those tall, magnificent animals, with their arched necks and glossy
coats. They drew up upon the platform in long rows like soldiers.
There was no neighing, no kicking or baulkiness. They seemed to be
impressed with the seriousness of the mission upon which they were sent.
A little later, as they passed up the ship's gangway, and were marched
aboard, no regiment ever stepped upon the deck with finer show of
discipline.
Our saddle horses were already aboard; but what had become of Barker and
the team?
"Where's Barker?" the colonel suddenly demanded. No one present knew;
but, as if in answer to his question, little Huxford came running down
the platform. By the look of distress upon his face we knew something
serious had happened.
"What is it, Huxford?" cried the colonel, as Huxford approached.
"Barker's been arrested, sir, by the military police, and the team are
in the detention camp, four miles from here," he gasped.
"Drunk, I suppose?" the colonel queried angrily.
"Well, sir, he _had_ had a drink or two, but not till after we got to
town," Huxford answered reluctantly.
"I might have guessed as much," said the colonel with some bitterness.
"It's useless to depend upon a man who drinks. Here, Fraser," he called
to Captain Fraser, "take a taxi and make the camp as quickly as
possible. The boat sails in two hours. Don't fail to bring both Barker
and the horses--although, Lord knows, Barker would be no great loss."
It was characteristic of the colonel that no matter what scrapes we got
into, no matter what trouble or humiliation we caused him, he never
forsook us. More than once in the days that were to follow he saved
some reckless youth from being taken out at early dawn and shot; not
because he did not feel that the punishment was deserved but because his
big, kindly heart enwrapped every one of his wayward soldier-boys with a
father's love.
An English regiment was embarking upon the same ship with us. The
donkey engine was busy again hauling their accoutrement and ours aboard.
Great cases swung aloft in monotonous yet wonderful array. Sometimes a
wagon was hoisted into the air; again a motor truck was lifted with
apparent ease, swayed to and fro for a moment high above our heads, and
then descended to the depths below. By midnight the ship was loaded,
but Barker and the team with Huxford and Captain Fraser had not
returned.
The transport officer addressed the senior major.
"I'm sorry," he said, "but I can't hold the ship more than ten minutes
longer. If your men don't arrive by that time they'll have to remain
behind."
The colonel had gone to meet the train on which the nursing sisters were
to arrive. They were coming from London to join us, and were to cross
upon the same boat. But the colonel returned alone.
He was a tall, well-built, handsome man, and his winning smile was most
contagious. It took a great deal to ruffle his genial good nature, and
his blue-grey eyes were seldom darkened by a frown, but this was a night
of unusual worry.
He called out to Captain Burnham:
"Have your luggage brought ashore, Burnham. You and I will remain
behind to chaperon the nurses. They can't possibly make the boat."
"What's the trouble, sir?" Burnham inquired, as he descended upon the
quay. "Was their train late?"
The colonel laughed a trifle impatiently.
"No; the train was quite on time, but I have been having a new
experience. I under-estimated the baggage of thirty-five women, that's
all. It's astounding! I don't know how many trunks each nurse has, but
the _tout ensemble_ makes Barnum's circus train look foolish. I
ventured to remark that we were only going to the war, not touring
Europe, but this precipitated such a shower of reproach upon my innocent
head that I made no further protest. I was never able to oust one woman
in an argument. Imagine, then, where I stood with thirty-five! The
trunks, every one of them, will cross with us to-morrow, and if they
wish to bring Peter Robinson's whole shop, you won't hear a murmur from
me!"
At this moment the sound of horses' hoofs coming at the gallop broke
upon our ears; and Captain Fraser, himself driving the team, with Barker
and Huxford clinging to the seat for support, dashed upon the quay. As
the horses pulled up, Barker descended and stood sheepishly awaiting the
inevitable.
"Barker, I'm ashamed of you," the colonel said in a tone of stern
reproach. "You have been the first to bring disgrace upon our unit, and
I hope you will be the last. In future Huxford will have charge of the
team. I shall have something further to say when we reach France. Get
aboard!"
Barker dropped his eyes during this speech.
"I'm sorry, sir, I--I didn't mean to disgrace you, sir!" With these
words he saluted and shuffled humbly and contritely aboard.
It was many a long day before Barker tasted liquor again. The colonel's
words burned with a dull glow in his heart, and kindled a spark of
manhood there.
Crossing the Channel in those days was not as comparatively safe as it
is to-day. Under the water, always prowling about, lurked the German
submarines. Every day reports of their dastardly deeds came to hand.
Being torpedoed was not the sort of end which one might wish. There was
no honour or glory in such a death, and besides, the water looked dreary
and cold. In spite of oneself the thought of being blown suddenly into
the air recurred occasionally to mind. It was not that we had any real
fear, for any form of death was part of the game of hazard on which we
had embarked. But we stood for some time upon the deck and peered
inquisitively into the darkness as we steamed rapidly out into the
Channel.
What was the dull glow at some distance ahead? Perhaps a ship--it was
impossible to say. We looked astern, and there in the darkness we could
just discern a ghostly shape which followed in our wake, and, hour by
hour, ahead or behind, these two mysterious phantoms followed or led our
every turn.
Dawn was breaking; the hazy shapes became more real. Slowly the
daylight pierced the mist, and there revealed to our astonished gaze,
were two sturdy little torpedo boat destroyers. It was a part of that
marvellous British navy which never sleeps by night or day.
What a sense of security those two destroyers gave us! The mist closed
round us again, and hid them from our view, but ever and anon the roar
of our siren broke the silence and presently, close by, a sharp
answering blast told us that our guardians were near. By and by the fog
closed round about us so densely that further progress was unsafe, and
so the engines were stopped, and for another day and night we remained
at sea.
*CHAPTER IV*
During the day and a half that we stood out in the Channel fog,
wondering whether we should ever reach land, or whether a stray German
submarine would send us to a higher sphere, we had plenty of time to
look about the ship. She was an India liner which had been pressed into
service as a troop ship; and the Hindu stewards looked after our many
wants as only the Oriental can.
What a far-reaching cosmopolitanism emanates from that little land of
Britain! Here were English officers giving orders to the Hindus in
their own mysterious tongue; and the deference with which these men
obeyed helped us to realise Britain's greatness. To conquer a country,
tame it, civilise it--sometimes by force--and still retain the love and
respect of its inhabitants, is a power given to but few peoples; yet
Britons possess it to the full.
On Sunday morning--a bright warm day in early November--our ship steamed
slowly into the port of Le Havre. We lingered a few minutes near a high
stone quay. Close beside us was a Belgian hospital ship, its white and
green paint and big red crosses contrasting strangely with our own dull
grey. We could see the nurses and medical officers on board ministering
to their patients with tender care and solicitude.
We were steaming slowly through a narrow channel between block after
block of wharves, where ships unnumbered piled their ocean freight.
Finally we emerged into a great basin filled with craft, both large and
small, some of which were dismantled. Across the bay a splendid ocean
liner reared her four smokeless funnels toward the sky; she was one of
that great fleet of passenger ships, so recently the pride of France,
now thrust aside by the stern demands of ruthless war.
At length we docked, and as we stood leaning over the rail, some little
children came running down the quay to greet us.
"_Messieurs! Messieurs! Bon jour!_" they cried; and then for the first
time we realised that we were in a foreign land.
_France, la belle France_! How often have we dreamed of you in better
days! Bright, vivacious France, whose wit and laughter sparkled like
champagne, whose joy was ever rampant! How soon your smiles and tears
were to intermingle with our own!
But the soldiers on board had not yet learned to speak in French, and
they responded in our own dull tongue: "Good-day, little girls. Hello,
little boys," and they dropped silver coins and pennies on the quay.
The French children had already learned a word or two of English, and
they had also discovered that the Tommy understood two very useful
French words. Not to be outdone in courtesy, they flung them up to us
in piping chorus: "Good-night, cigarette, souvenir!"
How many thousand times we have since heard this same greeting! It has
become the children's formula, and as a gracious concession to our
ignorance of French has met its just reward--in pennies.
Dusk fell before we had completed the unloading of our equipment and had
it all stowed away in the _hangar_. Then we formed up and, with a
French boy-scout as guide, started our march toward camp.
The senior major, on his splendid black horse, led the van; the men,
contrary to military custom, carrying a Union Jack, followed, and
Captain Reggy and I, mounted, brought up the rear.
The first half-mile of our march was uneventful, as there were few
people in the streets of the _basse ville_; but as we passed farther up
into the city the sidewalks became crowded with spectators. At first
the French mistook us for English soldiers on the march, the sight of
whom, while an almost hourly occurrence, was still a matter of keen
interest. But as the crowd, becoming larger and larger, and pushing one
another off the sidewalks into the road, caught a glimpse of our
shoulder badges marked "Canada," the word was passed from mouth to mouth
with lightning-like rapidity, and the excitement became intense.
They broke forth into the wildest cheering and shouted again and again,
"_Les Canadiens! Vive le Canada!_" until the clamour was deafening.
Men, women and children surrounded us in thousands, laughing, singing
and talking, shaking the soldiers by the hand, embracing and even
kissing them in the excess of their welcome.