Colonel Guthrie must have been born a fighter. Certainly ever since
he was seventeen he showed the disposition of the warrior. His
military career began with the outbreak of the South African War, when
he proceeded to enlist in the Transvaal as a member of the famous
Fourth Canadian Mounted Rifles. Guthrie made just one complaint about
the campaign: “It ended too soon.” His adventurous spirit was not
satisfied. He enlisted in the naval police. That, however, was not
exactly what he wanted.
He returned to Canada in 1903. If civil pursuits were in order he would
take them in the same spirit as an army campaign in the Transvaal. He
studied law. When only twenty-seven he was elected a member of the
legislature of New Brunswick. He was a success.
Perhaps he would have lived his life without further intensive physical
experiences. The war saved him.
“It was August 4, 1914,” says the London _Telegraph_, “that fateful day
upon which England declared war against Germany, closely following on
the invasion of neutral Belgium. In a little theater up in the city of
Fredericton, capital of the Province of New Brunswick, a large audience
sat enjoying an interesting program. The second act had just ended.
From the left wing of the stage walked the house-manager. A raised
hand cut short the orchestra’s selection. Almost everybody knew what
was coming. They had been expecting it for the last thirty hours. A
silence fell over the entire house while nine words were pronounced by
the house-manager:
“‘Our mother country has to-day declared war against Germany.’
“For a second—only a second—a lull fell over the audience. Then, as if
prearranged, the orchestra struck up the strain of ‘God Save the King.’
From top to bottom the house was in uproar. Cheer after cheer rent the
air. The audience as one stood singing the national anthem.
“Seated well up in front in the orchestra as the manager’s announcement
was made was a man about forty-four years old. The audience, with
the exception of this particular man, began to settle back in their
chairs as the singing of ‘God Save the King’ was concluded. With a
stride which was noticeably military he walked toward the rear of
the theater and left the building. Less than two blocks away was a
telegraph-office. The lone night operator, half dosing, jumped to his
feet as the door opened, and the man who a few seconds ago had left the
theater entered. He addressed a telegraph-blank to ‘Sir Sam Hughes,
Canadian Minister of Militia,’ and then followed an offer to raise a
company of soldiers for an overseas expedition.