When the Canadians commenced raiding, the Hun still held himself well

in check, in spite of the loss of a few men killed or taken prisoner

every night or two. He had a tremendous surprise developing for our

Fifth Army away to our right flank, and he didn't care to "start

anything" with us that might disarrange his plans. Not that we were

left severely alone, for it was on this same comparatively quiet

front, on Wednesday afternoon, April 3rd, that I saw more enemy

shells drop on one particular spot in a limited time than I ever saw

happen in any other sector.

Our Regimental Aid Post was a spacious comfortable place underground

off "Vancouver Road," and there some 3rd Field Ambulance "bearers"

had taken up their quarters along with our medical section. The

dug-out had only the one defect of not being any too deep for safety.

Well, it so happened that something had aroused the enemy's

suspicions about our Post. Maybe the fresh earth thrown out from a

little trench-improvement work near us had attracted the notice of

the German air-men. Whatever the cause they evidently had come to

the decision that it would be wise to "shoot us up," which they did

with a vengeance. Captain Mackenzie and I were coming down the

sunken road when the fusilade opened. At first we thought it was the

usual stray shell or two, but for three hours we couldn't get within

fifty yards of the place. The Hun gunners lobbed them over

unceasingly. The dust of an explosion was still in the air when you

could hear the hum of another shell coming. We were held up and just

had to wait for the "strafe" to cease, anxiously wondering if the

roof was holding and our men were safe.

It stopped at last and we ran down the road. One of the entrances

was smashed in but the other still held up. We went downstairs to

find our men crowded into one small portion of the Post that remained

intact. All around was evidence of their miraculous escape. I

shuddered to think what would have been, had a shell penetrated the

roof there and burst among them.

McClymont told me that their lights were blown out seventy-two times

by the concussion of shells exploding near the entrances, and that

when they went out about the twenty-fifth time Macpherson started

them singing some music-hall choruses to relieve the strain. About

the fiftieth time, by mutual unspoken consent, they changed to hymns!

I'd have changed long before that; indeed I doubt if I could have

found voice steady enough for song!

The foregoing facts I glean from an old notebook in which at the time

I further jotted down that "the Hun threw 235 "5.9" shells on and

around our R.A.P. in less than three hours. One entrance was

crumpled in and dirt and bricks heaped on our beds. Twenty men there

but no one hurt. The shelling represents a waste of twenty-five

thousand dollars, and our cosy home gone."

That night we moved across the road to a deeper dug-out, one that had

been built by the Germans, located by Sergt. Sims. Talking in the

evening after supper about the day's event, our conversation

naturally went afield to other adventures, and I was led to speak of

a narrow escape from death I had in very different circumstances in a

distant land.

* * * * *

In nearly eleven years of the Yukon trails, living on the creeks

among the mountains in early Klondike days, I could not fail to have

my share of memorable experiences, some of them with more than a

spice of hazard. I lived just the regular life of a "musher"--a man

on the trail--and while that mode of life assuredly held nothing of

monotony, yet I grew so accustomed to it that it all seemed part of

the usual, familiar course of things.

After the summer, beautiful but brief, there came the eight months of

grim, relentless winter. Then we had to face the long darkness and

the deadly cold; to travel vast, white valleys filled with an almost

terrifying silence broken only by the ugly howling of the wolves; to

battle through deep and drifting snow along miles of lonely summits,

with blizzards blinding and bewildering. But against each problem or

task that Nature set us we matched, with zest, our wits and skill.

There was the joy of conflict in it. Experience made us self-reliant

and we learned to love the life, so free and clean, so full of

stirring incident and victorious combat with the elements. Only now

am I commencing to get the true perspective of those Yukon days, and

by comparison with the soft conventional life of these later years,

recognizing how unique and interesting they were.

There comes to my mind a very unpleasant time I had one winter night,

when I lost my way, broke my word, and spoiled a happy gathering. If

it were a sermon, my text would be, "Let him that thinketh he

standeth take heed lest he fall."

The Christmas festivities in the Yukon long ago usually continued for

about a month. The weather was so frosty that work on the windlass

was both disagreeable and risky, so it became customary for the

mid-winter weeks to be occupied in visiting or entertaining

neighbours and friends. Small "parties" were held in a sort of

rotation at the larger cabins up and down the valleys. Everybody was

merrymaking. Hospitality knew no artificial bonds, for in those

golden days, there was neither prince nor peasant, rich nor poor.

Don't think from this that we had no right social standards. I know

that much of the fiction about the North is built on the theory that

the men in the Klondike diggings practically adopted the moral code

of the brothel. That assumption may make a novel "spicy" and

increase its sale, but nevertheless it is quite untrue. We, of the

creeks, had worthy moral standards, simple but definite, and rigidly

enforced. Our social grading, however, was not based on the length

and value of a man's "poke," nor on his grandfather's record. If he

lived an honest, decent life among us, he was barred from nothing.

In addition to the many smaller affairs, each gulch, where there were

miners, would have one big evening for all, church or roadhouse being

requisitioned for the occasion. These were called Christmas Tree

Entertainments, or simply "Trees" for short. It was one of my duties

to name the members of committees to have charge of all arrangements,

and I was also expected to be chairman at all the "Trees." To meet

this last requirement each creek had to choose a different date so

that I could make the rounds.

In the winter of 1905 we had carried through our entertainments at

Last Chance, Gold Bottom, and Gold Run. Sulphur Creek was the last,

and they had been working to make it the best of all. It was to be

held on Dec. 28th. One of the Sulphur men, Robertson, had come over

to Gold Bottom to "size up" the programme there and report to his

committee. He told me that Sulphur's Tree would easily eclipse the

others, and that I must on no account miss it. "You can depend on

me, Robertson," I said, "and I'll see whether you Sulphurites can

make good your boast. I'll have to 'mush' across from Gold Run that

afternoon, but I won't disappoint you."

At noon Dec. 28th a very happy party of six old "tillicums" were

gathered in Jordan's cabin on Gold Run. His partner Jim Prophet was

there, Coldrick the Londoner, Macgregor the Australian, Bousfield and

myself. Prophet had been lucky enough to get a moose that had

strayed into the valley within rifle-shot and it lay partly cut up on

some poles by the "cache." So he had invited his friends in to help

eat some of the choicest parts, moose-steak in ordinary being, of

course, too common for a special feast. I shall forbear entering

into details of that meal, but our meat-dish was young moose-heart

stuffed, roasted, with fresh Klondike river grayling as an entree.

Grayling are caught in the fall when slush ice is running in the

river. They are sluggishly heading for deep water. You fish for

them with rod and line baiting with raw meat. When you pull one out

he freezes stiff almost before you can get him off the hook. You

catch what you need, take them home, and stack them up like firewood

in the cache where they will remain frozen. There you have your

winter's supply of absolutely fresh fish.

We were sitting at the table when there came a knock on the door, and

in response to Jordan's hearty "Come in," it was opened and the form

of our good friend Corp. Haddock, of the North West Mounted Police,

emerged through the mist. He sat down a minute or two but wouldn't

stay. He was calling at all the cabins giving orders that no one was

to attempt to leave the valley until the weather moderated. The

barracks thermometer registered 65° below zero, and a dense fog had

formed. Under these conditions it was perilous to attempt any

journey away from human habitations. No one spoke of my intended

trip, (although I found out later that Haddock knew my plans), until

he had gone, when Coldrick said, "That puts the finish on your mush

to Sulphur, Pringle." "No," I replied, "I gave my word I'd be there

and they will be looking for me. I have crossed that divide fifty

times. I know every flake of snow on it. Unless the corporal

catches me and puts me in the 'cage,' I'll be chairman at the Sulphur

Church this evening."

This sounds boastful and foolhardy, but as a fact it was neither. I

realized perfectly what I was facing, and knew that, barring

accidents, I could keep my promise. I had fifteen miles in all to

go, and only one mile of it difficult travelling through deep snow on

the low summit, and for that I had my snowshoes. True, it was

extremely cold, but I was suitably clothed and knew how to take care

of myself, surely, after six years constantly on the trail.

So Jordan went out to get my snowshoes. He came in with the

unexpected news that my snowshoes, and likewise their two pair, had

disappeared from their pegs. It was plain that Haddock was "wise,"

and had taken them along with him down creek in a well-meant effort

to make me stay indoors. I would have to go six miles down the trail

and back to get another pair, and they also might not be there. That

was out of the question. I hesitated only long enough to picture the

trail. There was only that one mile on which I used the shoes, and

though the snow there was deep I could wade through without them. It

would mean perhaps an hour longer, but it wasn't two o'clock yet and

I had a full six hours to travel fifteen miles. I decided to go.

I set out and made fast time until I struck the drifts on the summit.

The short spell of gloom we called day had ended, and it was rapidly

growing dark. Before I got over that mile there would be no light,

and this unpleasant white fog would be blindfolding my eyes as well.

With it all I didn't worry. This was a difficult job that faced me,

but I was in my own workshop, had my own tools, and was working at my

own trade. Fate, however, had decreed that I should botch things

this time.

Somehow, unwittingly, I turned a gradual quarter circle to the right

in the drifts, and was then travelling along the low, undulating

divide instead of across it. Laboriously but confidently I kept on

through the darkness and the fog, unconscious of my error, until,

after three hours, I found myself at the foot of a grade that I had

thought was the slope down into the Sulphur valley. I soon found my

mistake. It must have been some large cup-shaped depression on the

divide, its bottom strewn with a fearsome tangle of fallen trees

carried down by a snow or landslide. For two testing hours I fought

my way through that piled up brush and snow. When I got clear I felt

myself on an up-grade.

It was a long climb out of that hateful valley and I knew now that I

was lost. To try to retrace my steps would have been suicide. I had

given up all hope of reaching Sulphur in time for the Tree and was

growing a trifle anxious. It was terribly cold and dark. I had been

working extremely hard for hours and I was getting hungry. I didn't

dare to stand still or rest. My moccasin thong had come undone and I

had to take off my mitts to fix it. So sharp was the frost that my

fingers grew almost too stiff to do the work and I nearly failed to

tie the lace. They were white and numb when I thrust them into my

fur gauntlets, beating them against my chest as I went on. My whole

body sensed the chill and threat of that momentary stop. It told me

that if I were forced to take my last chance for life and try to

build a fire, I would almost surely fail; to find dry wood, to

prepare it, to light it, and wait nursing it into a flame sufficient

to warm me would be a succession of almost hopeless chances, too

desperate to take now unless there were no other way.

My climb brought me at last out above the frost-fog, and I thanked

God I could see His stars and get my bearings. Far away to right and

left in the darkness I knew the valleys of Gold Run and Sulphur lay,

but between me and them stretched impossible miles of rough country.

Puzzled a moment my anxious eyes caught the flicker of a light, low

down in the north, hardly to be distinguished from the stars on the

sky-line. This was indeed my "star of hope." It meant warmth, and

warmth was life to me. I fixed its location and with new heart

headed for it.

For six hours I travelled straight away like a hunted moose. I was

young, lean and fit as a wolf. I was tired but not at all exhausted.

In wind and limb I was good for miles yet. But I was becoming

exceedingly hungry, and felt the clutching, icy fingers of the frost

getting through my clothes, and I knew there was no time to waste.

Hunger and ninety-five degrees of frost on the trail combining

against you with darkness as their ally, will soon club you into

unconsciousness.

However the game isn't lost or won until the referee blows his

whistle. I was determined to fight it right out to the finish. The

light was my goal and I forgot all else. I must get to it even

though I might have to crawl at last with frozen hands and feet. In

the hollows I lost sight of it, picking it up again on higher ground,

until, when I knew I hadn't much time left me, it glimmered clear,

down hill, not a hundred yards away. I'll tell you the lights in

Paradise will not look so beautiful to me as did the Jo-Jo Roadhouse

bonfire that night, for they had a big fire outside under an iron

tank melting snow for water and it was the flame of this I had seen.

My fumbling at the latch roused Swanson, the owner, from his sleep.

He opened the door and pulled me in and I was safe. I had been

beaten in my endeavour to get to Sulphur in time for the Tree, but I

was victor in a more serious contest. I had won a game against heavy

odds in which the stakes were life, or death, or maiming.

They told me later at Sulphur, that at half-past eight the crowd at

the Tree got uneasy, and by nine o'clock the concert was declared off

and a well-equipped search-party set out with dog-teams. They went

the round-about but well-trodden trail down to the mouth of Gold Run,

and up that creek, until they found my solitary tracks turning off to

the divide. They sent their dogs back to the Gold Run cabin with one

of the party, and followed my trail all night on snowshoes, making

the Jo-Jo late next morning an hour after I had left on Swanson's

shoes for Sulphur.

I arrived at that camp by an easy route early in the afternoon. I

had made their Tree a failure, I had broken my word, I had disobeyed

Police orders, but I didn't get a scolding even, from anybody.

_VII._

_A Strange Meeting_

The German High Command had a big surprise to spring on the British

Army in France early in 1918. Their preparations culminated in the

smashing attack they made in March on the Fifth Army commanded by

General Gough. The Canadians lay facing Mericourt beyond Vimy at

that time. To our right, covering Arras and beyond, the Third Army,

under General Byng was holding, on their right lay the Fifth Army.

Before and during their great effort the Germans refused to be

"drawn" at Mericourt into any serious retaliation, no matter how

often we raided them. We knew why later when General Gough's line

went to pieces. The Huns were going to "get us," they believed, in

another and more thorough way than by counter-raids.

It looked for some weeks as if they might realize their hopes. The

Fifth Army's formation was broken, and in confusion, they were driven

back and back for miles, until with reinforcements they managed to

hold only a short distance in front of Amiens. In a few days the

British lost, in prisoners alone, 200,000 men. To save themselves

from being outflanked the Third Army had to withdraw from a portion

of their former line and swing their right wing back facing out.

They completed the difficult movement with brilliant success, and

presented to the enemy an unbroken front of fighting men,

well-munitioned, and supported by an effective artillery fire. This

move saved the British forces from what looked like imminent disaster.

Byng's men used Arras as their pivotal sector. It was only a few

miles from us, and it was with anxious hearts we heard, those days

and nights, the ceaseless thunder of the guns on our right, as the

terrific struggle continued. It was dismal news too, that came from

Belgium. There Mt. Kimmel had fallen, and the British had been

strategically forced to evacuate all the ground we had won at such

enormous cost around Passchendaele; and this, remember, was the

fourth year of the war.

Those were fateful days for the Canadians. Our front was quiet, but

we were nevertheless in an extremely perilous location. Vimy Ridge

was behind us, and behind it again was lower ground which would be

hard to hold in a flanking attack by our enemy. Many additional

batteries had been crowded in on the Ridge with their silent guns

trained on Arras lest the Third Army, which still occupied that town,

should be broken and the Germans get through. In that event the

Canadian Corps would probably have been cut off by the enemy's

advance through the valleys behind us, and our career, as a Corps,

would have ended. Certainly we would have sold our lives and freedom

dearly, but with lines of communication cut our position would have

soon been untenable, and successful retreat probably very nearly

impossible. Don't dream that the front-line men were panicky. We

knew that millions of brave men were still facing our common enemy

and that back of them and us was the indomitable will of our Empire

and our Allies. In this connection I recall a conversation between

our Col. Urquhart (a thorough Scot), and a visiting officer, in which

they referred to the situation at Arras. "It is very serious

indeed," said our guest, "for if the British break there, we

Canadians are in for our biggest tussle with the Hun." "Do you

know," asked Urquhart, "what troops of ours are engaged there?"

"Yes," was the reply, "the 15th Division." "Well," said the Colonel,

"that is a Scottish Division, and I can assure you, sir, there will

be no break at Arras." Nor was there. Those Scottish lads stood

firm. Repeated and determined attacks by the finest German troops

could not break their front, nor drive them from their ground. The

critical days passed, the enemy's progress was everywhere effectually

and permanently stopped. Then when we were thoroughly prepared we

took the initiative, and in August, the same year, commenced that

grand victorious advance which ended the war.

Those days we often keenly discussed the situation from many angles.

I was in "A" Company's dug-out one time when we were giving our

opinions as to the relative merits of some of the different units of

the British Army. We got away from the present war into history, and

were recalling other famous campaigns and the exploits of the troops

engaged in them. Someone said that while Canada, since she became a

Dominion, had not had much chance until now to become illustrious in

war, yet for forty years she had maintained the finest force of

military police in the world, the Royal North-West Mounted. I was

proud to mention that my brother had served in that crack

organization for thirty years, and from that remark I was eventually

entangled in the yarn which I here unravel.

* * * * *

I am the youngest of ten. My two brothers, John and James, were

grown up and away from home before I had got beyond infancy. John

visited us frequently after I had reached boyhood. James enlisted

with father's consent in the North-West Mounted Police, went west and

never returned. That force was organized in 1873 and my brother

joined them in 1878. When I was a young lad there was no doubt in my

mind which was my favorite brother. John was a minister, and

ministers were an unknown quantity to a youngster of my age, and so I

wasn't much taken with my preacher brother.

But it was different with James. He was a soldier and a specially

interesting sort of soldier. His business was chiefly, so I thought

anyway, to go galloping on horseback across the prairies of our wild

west, chasing bad Indians and horse-thieves, and having all kinds of

real adventures. How I longed for him to come home! I pictured him,

in fancy, riding down our main street in Police uniform, with pistols

in his belt and perhaps a knife too, his carbine slung by his saddle,

and handling easily a spirited horse! I would then point him out

with pride to the other boys as my brother, and maybe, when he saw

me, he would come riding over to the sidewalk and speak to me in

front of all the other fellows. My boyish heart used to glow as I

imagined what might possibly soon come true.

The prairies were undoubtedly a very long distance off in those days.

There were no rail-ways on them, none indeed to carry you to their

outer-boundaries in Canada. Parties of police recruits went down

through the United States to Fort Benton or other suitable points,

and then came north, mostly by trail, to the Canadian plains. It was

a long journey, I knew, but on the other hand mother used to get

letters from him, and he would say in them that he might be home for

Christmas, a treasured hope. Nearing Christmas mother would be

busier than ever in the kitchen, making the cakes and other good

things we always had in abundance at that festive season. I liked to

be on hand then for there were bowls, in which tasty confections had

been mixed, that required scraping out and it was my delight to

attend to them. She would often talk to me then about her soldier

boy, and I was an eager listener. "Maybe your brother James will be

home this Christmas," she would say with a glad note in her voice.

Then there would come the letter containing the unwelcome news that

he couldn't get a furlough this year, they were so short of men and

had such a vast territory to patrol, but we would surely see him next

year. Mother would go into her room for a while with the letter, and

when she came out she would take me on her knee, hug me up to her and

kiss me, then would go about her work strangely silent. Her soldier

boy never came home. He went farther west and north, and my story is

of the first meeting I had with my brother, the first anyway I had

any memory of. It occurred in the Yukon in a roadhouse on Eureka

creek.

I visited that creek regularly about once a month. To reach it I had

to "mush" down the Indian River valley, ten miles from the mouth of

Gold Run, and then cross the river to Eureka which flowed in from the

opposite side. Five miles up Eureka was the first cabin. Above that

on both forks of the stream there were miners. In summer I could

cross Indian by a shallow ford and in winter on the ice, but for a

trip or two in the Spring it was a tumultuous flood which I had to

navigate on a make-shift raft.

It was in the Spring of 1902 when making this trip I found the river,

as I expected, in spate. I was prepared with axe, rope, and a few

spikes, and in an hour or two had a small, rough float constructed.

I made and launched it a hundred yards above the point I sought to

reach on the other bank, for I knew the rapid current would carry me

down that distance at least before I could effect a landing. On this

side of the river there was no one nearer than ten miles, for this

was the "back-entrance" to Eureka, (Bonanza and Dawson lying off in

another direction), so I always wrote out a note stating what I was

attempting to do, dated it, and put it up on a tree by the trail.

Thus if anything unexpected happened, some "musher," coming by within

a week or two, would know the circumstances.

Then I pushed out into the water with my rough paddle. I had a light

pack on my back holding my shoes, a dry pair of socks, and other

trail accessories. That time I had made my raft rather too small. I

had to stand in the centre or it would tip me off, and it wasn't easy

to keep my poise in rough water with the logs mostly out of sight

under my feet. When within a few yards of the other side, my frail

craft caught for a moment on a hidden snag which tore some of the

lashings loose, and the two outside logs showed signs of getting

adrift. If that occurred I would shortly be swimming for my life in

the surging, ice-cold water. The raft was only about seven feet

across and to save it from breaking up I "spread-eagled" on it,

catching the rope ends with each hand and thus holding it together.

I had to lie almost flat to do this, and for the next five minutes

was giving a life-like imitation of a submarine about to submerge.

Luckily my raft struck the bank, I caught the limb of a tree and

swung myself ashore. I made the five miles to Macmillan's cabin in

double-quick time and stayed the day there in the bunk, with my

clothes drying out around the stove.

During the next two days I went around the cabins visiting, and

"ringing the church bell" for a meeting in the roadhouse. There we

gathered in the evening, not a man absent that could come. The

roadhouse became a church, with the bar-counter my lectern. On it I

had a lighted candle which I had to hold in my right hand, the book

in my left, when I read or we sang, so that I could see the words

distinctly. The business of the place was practically suspended

except the cooking at the kitchen end, and at odd times when a

traveller came in for a drink or a meal he would be served quietly,

and then go on his way or stay as he was minded. The stools and

benches were filled and some men were sitting on the floor around the

walls.

In the middle of my sermon two "mounties" entered at the door behind

me. They closed the door and stood near it listening. I turned my

head for a casual glance at the newcomers, stammered, stuck, and

couldn't go on. I turned from my congregation, and, taking the

candle in my hand, stepped nearer. There before me was the man whose

face I had so often gazed at, with silent admiration, as I saw it in

the photograph in my mother's room. It was indeed my brother James,

the hero of my boyhood days! Our hands clasped as I spoke his name.

I turned to the crowd, told them what had happened, and that I

couldn't go on with the address. They understood. We sang a hymn

and ended the service forthwith.

The talk I had with my new-found brother can be better imagined than

described. He had been sent from the upper country, the Tagish Post,

to the Eureka detachment, had arrived that evening and had heard that

a "George Pringle" was having a meeting on the creek. He had come

over confident that it was his "little" brother, for he knew I was in

the Klondike.

We spent a day together, one of the never-to-be-forgotten days of my

life. Then the next morning I started back on my circuit. He came

with me to Indian. We built a good raft together, and he watched me

safely over and until I was out of sight in the trees. Then I took

down my "notice" and hit the trail for Gold Run. George Earsman,

living in the first cabin I came to on that creek, was a sympathetic

listener while I told of the strange meeting. But he could not

forbear humorously remarking that I had in a sense, "turned the

tables" on my brother. Back in Gait, he said, no doubt James had

often put me to sleep, and when next we met I was trying to put him

to sleep!

I saw my brother only once more. Ed. Blanchfield brought me a letter

from Dawson some weeks after marked "urgent." It was from Jim,

stating that orders had been received requiring him to leave the

Yukon for Police headquarters at Regina, Saskatchewan. He had to

take the first up-river boat, the _Casca_, which sailed the next day.

I made record time over the twenty miles from Gold Bottom next

morning. John came in nine miles from Bonanza, and I spent a happy

afternoon with my two "big" brothers before the steamboat pulled away

for the south.

After those many strenuous years serving Canada in wild and dangerous

days on the prairies, and among the forests and mountains of the

northland, he now takes his rest. His is a lonely grave near one of

the outposts of settlement on the northern reaches of our prairies.

_VIII._

_Ben_

One of the pluckiest deeds I have ever seen done by any airman I

witnessed in 1918 on the Mericourt front. On a line two or three

miles behind us, and stretching roughly from Arras along Vimy Ridge

to the Souchez valley, we had our usual complement of observation

balloons. These were held by long wire cables and contained two

observers each.

One fine clear day five of these balloons were up, high in the air,

watching movements behind the German lines. Macpherson and I were

tramping along through one of our deep communication trenches on some

errand, when the sound of distant, anti-aircraft shells bursting in

the air, reached our ears. We climbed out at the Beehive dug-out to

see what was up. Far above the balloon nearest Arras there was

appearing, against the blue sky, many little white clouds of smoke

caused by exploding shrapnel, while near the ground we saw two open

parachutes descending, the observers had "jumped for it." From the

smoke above there emerged an aeroplane darting straight down on the

balloon. Almost quicker than I can tell it, a volley of incendiary

bullets from the plane had ignited the big bag, and it fell to the

earth like a twisted torch in smoke and flame.

The German never swerved, but headed away for the next balloon. The

observers from that one by this time were nearing the ground under

their parachutes, and in a few minutes the observers of all five were

either on the ground, or floating gracefully to the earth beneath

their big "umbrellas," seeking safety from this nervy Hun. By this

time everything along the Ridge that could reach him was turned

loose. There was a perfect storm of shrapnel, machine-gun and

rifle-fire. Hundreds of shells exploded around him and thousands of

bullets sped towards him, and it seemed impossible that he could

continue. But he didn't even try to escape. He went right on

through that deadly fusilade, courting death every second, until he

had reached the Souchez and had burned every one of our five

balloons. Then and not till then, did he turn towards Hun-land.

In spite of our irritation at his complete success, we could not deny

the pilot's great bravery. The recognition of his courage was

heartier because he really put none of our men in actual jeopardy,

although he offered himself and his machine-gunner as an absurdly

easy target to our guns throughout the whole affair. No doubt his

mate, he himself, and the plane were hit a good many times but not

enough to bring them down or stop their work. In all probability the

plane would have to go to the repair sheds and the men into hospital

after they landed.

The whole show, which we had seen clearly from start to finish, was

over in ten minutes, and we went down to tell the fellows in the

dug-out what we had just seen. The description called up memories of

other deeds of bravery, and some stirring stories were told. I

offered one about my dog Ben who, I claimed, had a place by right in

the world's list of heroes.

* * * * *

It is hard to believe that dogs do not think along much the same

lines as we do in the simpler relations of life. I find it

impossible to disbelieve in affection existing between dogs and men,

and in a marvellous readiness on the part of the dog to go the whole

way in laying down its life for the man it loves. I do not know how

to interpret their actions otherwise.

One winter, among my dogs I had a half-mastiff, half-wolf, that I had

raised from a pup. He was my favorite, a big, awkward, good-natured

fellow who wanted to follow me everywhere, and when I left him at

home would cry, in his own way, with vexation. He would go wild with

joy when I returned. He also seemed to take upon himself the

guarding of the cabin. Strangers might come and go for all the

others cared, but Ben would always stop every man he didn't know at

the cabin door, not in an ugly or noisy way, but as a matter of duty,

until I opened the door and welcomed the stranger in. He never

interfered with those who had been once admitted to the cabin should

they come again, noticing them only to give a friendly whine and wag

of the tail. I suppose you can all match my story thus far, but let

me go on.

One hard winter in the Yukon, when the snow was very deep on the

hills, and there had been a prolonged spell of unusually extreme

frost, the wolves commenced to come down at night into the valleys

close to the cabins to hunt and devour stray dogs, or anything else

they could get. One night I was roused from sleep by the very

unpleasant noise of a howling, snarling, wolf-pack fighting over

something not far from my cabin. I wrapped my fur robe hastily about

me, and opening the door peered out. They were gathered in a circle

round what was apparently a crippled wolf, doing it to death. I shut

the door and hurried into my clothes. I wanted to have a shot at

them, for there was a bounty on wolves, and their furs were worth

something.

As I slipped out of the door after dressing, it occurred to me to see

if my dogs were secure under cover. They were whining and uneasy,

but I found them wisely keeping safe in their stout log kennels, all

but one of them. Ben's kennel was empty.

Instantly I knew what the brave young dog had done. Here was a band

of strangers, suspicious looking characters, coming towards the

cabin. He went out to meet them alone. He must have known by

instinct, as the others did, that savage death would meet him in

those dim, gray, howling forms. Maybe he trembled with fear, but he

went out for my protection to engage in a hopeless fight against a

pack of ravenous timber-wolves.

Immediately I grasped the situation I fired at the edge of the pack.

They commenced to run, disappearing like ghosts in the moonlight on

the white mountain-side, but not before I got two of them. Poor Ben

was badly torn. I carried him in my arms into the cabin, lit the

fire, and in the candle-light dressed the great, tearing gashes. A

few minutes more and they would have had him killed and eaten.

For two days I worked as best I knew to save his life. But he was

suffering agony, and at last I decided it would be more merciful to

put an end to his pain by having him shot. I went up to the N.W.M.P.

Post and got Corp. "Paddy" Ryan to come and do it for me. We carried

him a little distance from the cabin, and laid him at the side of the

trail. I confess I turned my head away while Ryan shot. Ben rolled

down the hill a few yards through the snow, until he stopped against

a bush. We watched to see if there was any move. "He is dead," we

said, but to be sure I gave my whistle. For a minute nothing

happened, and then I saw his faithful, battered head moving up very

slowly out of the snow, and swaying to and fro. Ryan shot again.

Ben's head dropped and he died.

I think I did what was best in the circumstances, and maybe I'm

imagining motives that weren't there, but all the same there comes an

ache in my heart whenever I remember that last shot. In his

death-throes, blind and broken, his controlling impulse was to come

to me when I whistled. Perhaps he thought I needed him. I believe

there are dogs in heaven. Because the Bible says there are dogs kept

out, it is not accurate exegesis to assume that there are none let

in. And if I meet Ben I feel as if I'll have to try to explain it

all and ask forgiveness. But I don't think he will bear any grudge.

He was too big-hearted for that. I gave him a good grave on the

hillside near my cabin door. It was all I could do for him then.

_IX._

_A Trail Sermon_

In October, 1917, orders came to join in the big push on the Flanders

front in what proved a vain attempt to cut the enemy lines of

communication with the Belgian coast held by the Germans and used as

a resort for submarines. The Canadians were asked to take

Passchendaele Ridge which rose abruptly about 300 feet above the

miles of mud flats its guns dominated. These muddy fields had been

captured by Australians and New Zealanders after desperate fighting,

but it was almost impossible to hold them without terrible punishment

from the concentrated German artillery fire, bombing, and

machine-gunning because of the enemy's position on the Ridge. No

trenches could be made in the mud for the sides would slip back in,

and there was practically no protection for our men outside the few

small concrete blockhouses or "pill boxes" the Huns had built. So we

had either to withdraw or go on and chase the enemy off the Ridge.

The 9th brigade of the famous Third Canadian division was chosen for

the post of honour. This was the task of capturing the almost

unassailable German positions on Bellevue Spur which was a part of

the Passchendaele heights lying immediately in front of us. Of the

brigade, the 43rd battalion (the "Camerons" of Winnipeg) and 58th

were to make the attack, with the 52nd in close support. The 116th,

junior battalion of the brigade, was employed as a labour battalion,

and a dirty, dangerous job they had, "packing" ammunition and

"duck-walks" at night through the mud up to the attack area, doing

pick-and-shovel work, and afterwards carrying back wounded men under

shell-fire.

Friday, October 26th, was the fateful day. Someone suggested that

Friday was unlucky and 26 was twice 13, but this was countered by the

seven letters in October and the lucky number at the end of 1917! It

wasn't luck in sevens or thirteens that won the battle, but simply

that we had men and officers with an unyielding determination to

carry on in spite of all obstacles, unless wounded or killed, until

their objective was gained. Contributing causes there were in

training, equipment, and leadership that helped our men to do the

impossible, but the deciding factor, the real cause of victory, lay

in the brave hearts of the soldiers who faced the Spur that chill

October morning.

The ground had been reconnoitred by Lt.-Col. Grassie, our O.C., who

had to leave for Canada before the attack took place. Our operations

were carried out under the skilful direction of Major Chandler.

In one of my old note-books I find a description of the affair

scribbled Oct. 27th during a leisure moment in Waterloo pill-box.

"From Banks Farm we moved up to within striking distance of Bellevue

Spur taking over from a battalion of Wellington New Zealanders.

Headquarters occupied the concrete blockhouse near the foot of the

spur and about 400 yards away from the enemy lines. We were under

direct machine-gun fire and sniping from their posts on the crest of

the hill we had to capture. Our blockhouse was continually shelled.

The enemy guns had its location to a nicety and kept it under almost

constant fire. Twelve men in all were killed at the door at

different times during the few days we stayed there.

"In the attack yesterday morning, fifty of our men in the centre were

able to make and hold their objective, but the battalion on our right

was forced to fall back to the edge of the hill after being exposed

to a fire which cut it down to ineffective strength. One of our

companies on the left ran into a murderous fire from a group of

German posts opposed to them. We withdrew to the brow of the hill

and sent word back for re-inforcements. Our centre still held but

their position was precarious and before nightfall would have become

untenable if these Germans to their left were not dislodged. The

52nd were ordered to reinforce our left wing and renew the attack.

This time we were successful, 150 prisoners were captured in

half-an-hour and the whole front cleared. The 58th were enabled to

advance and we had no further trouble in consolidating our position."

Two V.C's were won that day. Bobby Shankland, a subaltern in the

43rd, under enemy observation with its consequent machine-gun and

rifle fire, made the trip from one of our advanced platoons back to

battalion headquarters and out to his men again. He brought accurate

information at a critical time when prompt action properly directed

meant victory; the lack of it meant defeat. The renewed attack on

the left wing with the definite objective he advised saved the day

for us. He was recommended for the highest award and it was duly

awarded him. Lt. O'Kelly of the 52nd won the coveted honor by the

gallant and effective way in which, regardless of personal risk, he

led a company of the 52nd against a group of pill-boxes filled with

machine-gunners.

Many other gallant deeds were done on the hill that day of which

there was no one left to tell.

During this time a stream of wounded had been coming back past

Waterloo Pill-box where our battalion Medical Aid Post was at work.

The floor of the blockhouse was a foot deep in mud and water. The

stretchers were almost submerged and the back of the man was almost

always in the water. At times the stretcher-cases were lying in

three rows outside in the cold, the rain, and the mud. There they

were constantly in danger of death from shelling. Twice shells burst

among them, killing and wounding again a dozen men on each occasion.

Half the cases never got into the dressing station. They were given

a look-over, fixed up as well as we could, and sent hobbling off over

the "duck-walks" to safer areas farther back. Only the most severe

cases were held for the attention of the overworked M.O. The long

stretcher journeys to the rear were terrible experiences for both

bearers and wounded. They had to pass through shelling, gas, and

bombing. The carrying parties often became stretcher cases

themselves on the way back, and the wounded in that rough journey

must have suffered tortures of both mind and body.

The outstanding memory of it all is that of the mud. It would seem

impossible for a sensible man to develop a bitter hatred towards an

inanimate and apparently harmless thing like mud. But it was "the

very devil" to our minds. We walked in it for endless miles. It

held our feet and wore us out. If you fell sideways you would

probably break or sprain your ankle. We sat down in the mud, slept

in it, fought in it. It clogged our rifles and machine-guns. We

cursed it with intensity. We ate rations that tasted of mud, wore

clothes that were loaded with it, carried with aching muscles

stretchers and wounded that were made heavy with mud. Many wounded

were lost in it, and many of our dead, that we never found, were

swallowed by it. Hindenburg in his memoirs considers Passchendaele

the most terrible affair his armies had anywhere engaged in. It was

bad for them but it was worse for us attacking, and the thing that

made conditions almost unbearable for both sides was that omnipresent

vampire of those rain-soaked Flanders' fields.

On the 28th we were relieved and moved back and, in a day or two,

found ourselves in tents in the mud of a ploughed field near Nine

Elms back of Poperinghe. We had done nobly, so they told us, added

fresh laurels to our fine record, fought a fight and won a victory,

the praises of which would resound throughout the Empire. Needless

to say we were glad we had not failed but for all that there was much

unspoken sorrow in the men's hearts. So many of our comrades had

been killed. What a remnant our 100 men looked when the battalion

paraded to hear some fine words of heartsome praise from our brigade

commander, Gen. Hill.

On the Sunday morning we had a parade service. It lasted altogether

only fifteen minutes. It was a prayer for the mourners at home, a

hymn of thanksgiving, and a word of cheer to ourselves. Towards

evening Sergt-Major Lowe told me that some of the men wanted me to

come over and talk to them. In one of the tents, I found thirty or

so crowded in to hear a story of the Yukon, and in the tents close

around others were listening as I talked. We were all in a serious

mood, and somehow the consciousness of this influenced me, that

night, to weave my stories into a message in which there would be

comfort and cheer for men who had been hard hit, and had faced in

roughest form the stern realities of life, and death, and suffering.

There was help in it, I know, because I spoke of Jesus of Nazareth.

When you want to minister to men in such times, don't your thoughts

just naturally turn to the Man of Nazareth? So I spoke of Him and

clothed my message in Klondike phrases and imagery. Here it is very

much as I gave it that evening at Nine Elms.

* * * * *

We are all feeling a little bit down these days. The savagery of war

and our heavy losses in men we knew and loved has stirred deep

thoughts in us, grave inner questionings why these things should be,

perplexing difficulties about the meaning of life and the power of

death, the reason of suffering and the goodness of a God who permits

it, criticisms of a social order, nominally Christian, which produces

the barbarities we have witnessed and taken part in. We are groping

for light like the blind, and wishing we could find a sure guide in

our thinking on these tangled problems, in whose solution we might

find satisfaction and assurance.

There is one song of all our soldier-songs that I think will live and

that is the one where we sing of "a long, long trail a-winding into

the land of our dreams." There's something true to experience about

the thought of the long road of life. It takes me back to old trail

days in the North, and I picture the long, long, trail of life

winding its way from out of the mists of the past, through pleasant

valleys and over windswept mountain summits, on and on into the

unexplored land of the future. My message is simple enough. It is

an appeal straight from your padre's heart that in your sorrow and

uncertainty you decide to take Jesus of Nazareth as your guide down

the trail of life for all the days that are to come. I ask you to

follow Him because He is the very guide you need to find the right

trail and keep it under your feet to the end. Life is all we've got

and it is therefore too precious to risk in any unnecessary way. It

is so important that we find and keep the right trail and save our

lives from spiritual death, we cannot afford to accept any guide who

has not the very finest credentials. What are the credentials of

Christ when He offers himself as our Guide? They may be spoken of in

many ways, but I am going reverently to put him to the three tests

any guide in the Yukon would have to face before he could qualify to

lead anyone on a mid-winter trip into new country over an unknown

trail beset with dangers.

But before I can get to this examination of His credentials I know

many of you are mentally stumbling over difficulties you have with or

about the Bible. It has been said with much truth that "the Bible

has kept many an earnest man from Christ." It is not going to do it

with you if I can prevent it. I have heard you wondering about the

truth of the Garden of Eden story, about a God who hardened Pharaoh's

heart so that he could slay the first-born of all the Egyptians, the

story of Jonah and the fish, the difficulties of accepting Biblical

science and history, the miracles, and such like things, and when you

all have given your special stumbling-blocks I could probably add

some of mine that you hadn't thought of. I am not going to attempt

just now to deny or remove any of these particular difficulties but

show you a way round them, a right way of approach to the Bible, so

that instead of keeping you from Christ it can fulfill its divine

mission of revealing Him.

I had a partner with me for one winter in my log-cabin at Gold

Bottom, way in the Klondike hills. His name was Jack Crowe, a Nova

Scotian, who had come out from Dawson to teach the little school we

had started for the dozen children on the creek. We took turns at

cooking. One winter morning, the mercury clear out of sight in the

bulb of our thermometer, it was my turn to get out and light the fire

and make breakfast. This consisted principally of oatmeal porridge,

bacon, bread of our own make, and coffee. There were two big bowls

of porridge with nothing left in the pot. We sat down, asked a

blessing, and commenced our breakfast. The first spoonful I took my

teeth struck on something hard. It wasn't porridge and I took it out

of my mouth. It was a button. What did I do? Throw my bowlful of

porridge away and do without half a breakfast on account of that

button which I couldn't swallow? No, I did just what you or any

other ordinary man would have done. I placed the button beside my

plate and ate the porridge with relish, and I think if there had been

twenty-five buttons in that porridge I'd have done the same, an odd

button or two out of place wasn't going to deprive me of my needed

breakfast. Fifty below zero makes you too hungry to be fastidious.

Further, let me take you into my confidence, I found the place where

that button belonged before the day was over, sewed it on, and it did

good service.

Of course you see my point. I don't blink the difficulties in our

thinking about the Bible. They exist. Most of them can be explained

when we study the subject a bit, some few are still half-solved

puzzles to me which I enjoy working at when I have leisure, and some

I suppose I shall never quite see through; but just let us lay them

all aside for the time being and go straight to bed-rock and see if

there is gold in the claim of Christ himself. You know, by the way,

it is strange how what at one time we thought useless material in the

Bible finds its place as we gain more experience of life. When I was

very young the psalms seemed almost meaningless. Now some of them

voice the deepest longings of my soul for I have learned the

bitterness of life as well as its sweetness. The minor prophets at

the end of the Old Testament seemed to be "cumberers of the ground"

until I learned something of the crookedness of present day politics,

the prevalence of the cancer of sanctimonious hypocrisy, and the

power of Mammon-worship to obstruct social reforms long overdue.

Then it seemed that a book like Amos was not only up-to-date, but far

ahead of us. There are passages in the fifth chapter that should be

painted in giant letters on the walls of legislatures, in halls of

justice, in the market-place, and above the pulpits of Christendom.

But leave your lesser problems unsolved for the time and get the

first, biggest question settled as to the validity of Christ's claim

to be able to guide us safely through life.

In the old stampede days up there, and it's the same still, the first

qualification demanded in a guide was that he should know the trail.

It was impossible to talk business on any other basis. Every other

virtue your would-be guide possessed would be useless without that

essential one. Christ is prepared to stand that test, make it as

"acid" as you like. How can we test Him when we do not ourselves

know the way? We all have a God-given intuition by which we can tell

that the direction the guide would have us go is right or wrong.

Even a Canadian who had never been in Scotland and wanted to go there

would have "horse-sense" enough not to follow a man who offered to

take him to Edinburgh by going five thousand miles due West from

Halifax.

So with Christ. He asks no blind faith or sanctified superstition.

What direction would He lead us? What is the great burden of His

message accepted by all Christian Churches down underneath the load

of dogma, form and ceremony? Where would He lead us if we followed

Him? The road is marked by two parallel lines, the eternal

boundaries of the Christ trail, on the one side it is

heart-righteousness and on the other brotherly kindness; and to show

us what He meant, He walked that trail Himself His life through.

It's a great thing to have a guide who knows the trail not only "on

the map" but has been over every bit of it and knows it perfectly.

He shows by His own life just what He means, the heart right as His

was right, and a brotherly-kindness that gladly lays down its life to

help others. Doesn't it seem to you to be the right direction, the

right trail, the right guide?

This seems to me like trying to prove an axiom. You can't prove it

by process of logic. To state it is to prove it. We know by

intuition it is right and it is the only trail. Take the fundamental

need of heart-rightness. It is the heart of man in which evil

dwells. The cruel ambition that permitted this war originated in the

hearts of a group of men. The greed for money that refuses to permit

social iniquities to be removed has its habitation in men's _hearts_.

The whole horrid brood whose mother is selfishness exists only in

men's _hearts_. "_Out of the heart_" Christ said, evil comes.

Cleanse the heart and you clean the world. But you can't have your

heart right the way Christ teaches unless you have a place in it for

your brother. A Christian must be and will be deeply interested in

Social Reform. You can't follow Christ and forget your brother, for

the trail of Christ is the trail of self-sacrifice for others.

Christ then knows the right trail which would lead you and me and the

whole world unto a happier, sweeter day. I know no other way that so

completely satisfies my sense of what is right and true as the way of

Christ.

The second test of the worth of a guide, after I was satisfied that

he knew the way, was whether he was able and willing to help me when

I got into difficulties in hard places. The trail leads dizzily

round the mountain side with a precipice below. I'm a tenderfoot. I

have neither the nerve nor skill to take my dogs and my sleigh safely

past. I'd fall to my death surely if I attempt it. He tells me it's

the only way through, and he is right. I say I can't make it. He

replies that all he offered to do was to lead along the right trail.

It is up to me to follow. Or the mountain climb is so steep and the

snow so deep that I haven't strength for it. Again I appeal to this

imaginary guide. He says it is not his business to do anything more

than walk ahead and show me the way. But I can't follow him and I

know to camp on the mountain-side means death. No matter what

perfect knowledge such a guide would have it would mean tragedy for

me unless he had more than knowledge. But there is no guide, white,

Eskimo, or Siwash, that I have ever met would act that way. He would

take his own dogs round the mountain then come back and, with expert

strength, take me safely past the danger. He would help me somehow

to make the steep grade.

So on the trail of life there are the towering mountains of sin.

They lie across the right trail in every man's life. We are all

sinners. You remember how Christ once dispersed a mob. He said,

"Let him that is without sin cast the first stone," and while He

wrote on the ground they all took the chance, as we would have done,

to sneak away self-condemned. Well, no man can cleanse his own heart

of sin and yet no true man can rest content in sin. It must be done

and no human power can do it. If we are to get past the mountains of

our sins, and we must get past them or die, then our guide must be

able to get us over. That's why we need a Saviour. It meant

Gethsemane and Calvary to him. It is the Atonement, and whatever

varying interpretations it may have, it must ever mean that the Guide

is also a Saviour. He is getting us safe across to the God-ward side

of our sins. They are no longer in our way if we will but give

ourselves to Him to take us over. No longer are they a barrier

between ourselves and God as we journey on. Before we reach the land

of gold which we pilgrims are seeking, we also come to the dark

valley and mystery of death. Can He find a safe way for our feet in

the darkness? Will He leave us to follow when we cannot see him?

Not He. He found His own way safely through--that's the meaning of

His empty tomb--and He guarantees to hold us securely in that strange

experience at the end of the trail till, going on, we make through

the fog into the land beyond, and see the golden city of God. Our

guide is stronger than sin and death.

There is another test. My guide must not only know the trail and be

able to get me through safely but he must be one with whom I can

talk. Men used to go crazy in the North through sheer loneliness.

Days alone on the trail with your dogs amid the deep silences of the

sub-arctics makes you hungry for conversation with some other human

being. I have turned ten miles out of my way on a heavy trail simply

to get to some trapper or prospector where I might hear "the sweet

music of speech." I remember having as a guide on a three weeks trip

to the Lightning Creek Camp an Indian who was of the conventional

silent type. He knew the trail and his duties perfectly. I had only

one fault to find with him. He wouldn't or couldn't chat with me in

either English or Chinook. I paid him off at Lightning. I couldn't

stand it any longer. I hired another man for the return trip, not

such a capable guide, but one with whom I could have a little chat

around the camp fire in the evenings.

It is just like that on the trail of life. Many times we ache to

unburden our hearts to someone who will hear and understand and speak

comforting words to us. Our dearest earthly friends can't quite

enter into the intimate sanctuaries of a man's life. There are many

lonely places on our journey when heart and soul cry out for that

companionship that none can give but Jesus of Nazareth. "Comfortable

words He speaketh, while his hands uphold and guide."

He is my guide and I cannot do without Him. I would lose my life in

the wilderness if He should leave me to fend for myself. I have

utter confidence in Him. As I come to know Him better my faith grows

stronger. At the end of the trail, if I have time to think, I shall

have many regrets as I look back, but I know there is one thing I

shall never regret and that is that long ago I placed myself in the

hands of Jesus Christ for good and all.

So long thy power hath blest me,

Sure it still will lead me on,

O'er moor and fen, o'er crag and torrent,

Till the night is gone.

_X._

_How Cheechaco Hill was Named_

The war did the work of a can-opener on many national and individual

reputations, and discovered that their accepted labels were

misleading. The estimates we had formed of certain nations have

materially changed because of the part they took, didn't take, or

were slow about taking in this world-crisis. We saw the effect more

clearly on individuals. The standing a man had in his community

might be taken at its face value in the battalion for a few weeks,

but he was soon re-examined, and if necessary, the label changed to

be true to contents. This was especially evident overseas when we

were away from home and its influences. There is a camouflage

possible in civilian life where a man's real self is not known much

outside his own home. This camouflage was usually torn aside in the

army. We were thrown into such continuous intimate relations with

one another in the huts and outside them that there was little chance

for any man to travel under false pretences. It wasn't many days

before you were sized up physically, mentally, and morally. The

O.C., Adjutant, and senior officers were the only ones in a battalion

having more privacy and protected by military etiquette who, if they

wished, might wear a mask for a time, but not for long. The whole

battalion somehow soon got to know pretty much all about them, or

thought it knew, and labelled them accordingly.

Some men with fair reputations in their home town in Canada were

found in rare instances to be cads in camp and curs in the line. But

to the honor of those of the old British stock, our own Canadian men

in particular, the great fear in the hearts of multitudes of them was

that they might not be able to do or be all that the highest

traditions of race or family expected of them. They came from the

comfort of peaceful homes where war had meant only an old, foolish,

long-abandoned way of settling international disputes. At the call

of brotherhood, they left those quiet homes and came in their

hundreds of thousands to the old lands across the sea. There, in

training, they were surrounded with strange conditions of life, and

when later they went into the line were faced with tasks of

incredible difficulty and harshness. Throughout the long years of

war they were rarely disconcerted and never dismayed. Most of them

were just good, ordinary, Canadian boys, practically untested until

now, but in tribulation developing qualities that made them men "whom

the King delighted to honor." Labelled, if you like,

"plum-and-apple," when opened up they proved to be genuine

"strawberry." Faithful comrades, brave soldiers, they played the new

game so nobly and well during those weary, homesick, war-cursed years

that they won for Canada a name unsurpassed in honor among the

nations.

It was not so much the grand moment of an attack that revealed

character but the strain and monotony of the common round of a

soldier's life. It was the pack, the trenches, the mud, the dug-out,

and the hut, that showed you up for what you really were. When you

got a fruitcake from home did you "hog it" all yourself or share it

with your chums in generous chunks? Did you squeeze in near the

stove on a cold day no matter who else was shoved away? Did you

barely do your routine duty or go further and lend a helping hand?

These were the sort of tests in common-place forms that made it

impossible to hide your own true self from the other fellows. If you

asked me for instances I could fill a page with names from my own

acquaintance of young chaps previously untried who proved themselves

"gentlemen unafraid."

It was a severe test for the young men, but peculiarly hard for those

in our volunteer army who were middle-aged. With habits formed and

living a settled life at home, they abandoned it cheerfully, and

unflinchingly set about accommodating themselves in the most

unselfish spirit to necessary campaign conditions, which must have

been to them almost intolerable.

In this condition I have in mind Captain Turner, Medical Officer to

the 43rd Battalion for six months. He was a man near fifty years of

age, with wife and family left behind at home in a Western Ontario

town. "Doc" Turner joined us at Nine Elms, where we were resting in

the mud after our attack on Bellevue Spur. He came direct from the

base and had never seen any front line work. It was customary for

the M.O. and the Padre to live together and work together in and out

of the line, so he shared a tent with me. A few days after his

arrival we moved into the line for the second time on the

Passchendaele front. It was on the evening before this move that he

did me a service that I shall never forget. He "saved my face" in

the battalion. This is how it came about. That afternoon I sat in

my chilly tent writing some of the many letters which I had to write

to folks at home, telling about their heroic dead. Captain Turner

had gone over to Poperinghe. I sat too long at my work and got

chilled through. After supper I was feeling wretched and went to bed

hoping that a few hours warmth and rest would cure me. I got worse,

and about 10 o'clock to cap the climax, when I was feeling very

miserable, a runner came from the orderly room with the news that we

were to pull out for the line next morning, breakfast at five and

move at six. Then the horrible thought came to me that perhaps I

wouldn't be able to go with the battalion. If I weren't a great deal

better by morning I would have to stay behind in a C.C.S. at Remy.

What then would everybody think? It looked queer that I should be

going around quite well that day and then, when the order comes to go

back into the line, I take suddenly ill. I knew my own boys would

say nothing, but perhaps in the back of their minds they would wonder

if their padre was really scared. But no matter how charitable the

Camerons were it would look to outsiders deplorably like a genuine

case of malingering. My one and only hope seemed to lie in the magic

of Doc's medicines. "As I mused the fire burned." He had not

returned and the medical tent was a hundred yards away in the mud.

How anxiously I listened for his footsteps but it was one o'clock

before I heard the welcome sound. He was very tired with the

six-mile walk and busy day and after I told what the orders were I

hadn't the heart at first to let him know how sick and worried I was.

He had taken off one boot before in desperation I poured out my tale

of woe. Good old Doc! He cheerfully pulled on his wet boot again

and went out into the night and rain and through the mud, roused

Sergt. Sims and hunted around till he got the stuff he wanted. He

was soon back and made me swallow fifteen grains of aspirin. I would

have swallowed an earthquake if he had promised it would cure me.

Then he piled his greatcoat and one of his own blankets on me.

Enough to say I was clear of the fever in the morning and devoutly

thankful that, although a little shaky, I was able to form up with

the rest at six o'clock.

Doc played the game just like that all through his first spell in the

line. Often I wondered at the matter-of-fact way he carried on like

"an old hand" under conditions which were bad enough in all

conscience to everyone, but must have been doubly so to him. But if

the real stuff is in a man it will show up "under fire" some day, and

Captain Turner is only typical of thousands of uncertain-looking

"prospects" that assayed almost pure gold in the crucible of war.

When our turn was over and the welcome news came to move back to

divisional rest, Doc and I travelled out together with two or three

of the boys. We had about five miles to go and the Hun artillery

seemed to be chasing us with his shells. They dropped just behind us

with uncanny precision for a mile or two blowing up the slat

duck-walks we had come over. I was in the lead and because of "the

general scarcity of good men" I was hitting a fast pace. At last I

heard him call out, "Hold on, padre, I can't keep this pace any

longer. They can blow me to Kingdom-come if they like but I'm going

to slow up whatever happens." Strange, too, that slowing up saved

our lives, for a few minutes after we were stopped by a salvo of

shells ahead of us bursting where we would have been if Doc hadn't

put on the brakes.

The battalion moved far back to the sleepy little farming village of

Westerhem where one day Captain Ross, of the Y.M.C.A. sent a request

to come over and give a Klondike talk to the men in a neighbouring

town. That evening they filled the big marquee and stayed for over

an hour while I told them how Cheechaco Hill got its name. It is a

story with a moral and has a logical connection with my prologue.

What that is I think you will have little difficulty in discovering

if you read the story.

* * * * *

The creek names of the Klondike are filled with the romance of the

early days. They tell in large something of the story of the

pioneer. The names all have color. They speak of incident and

adventure, of hopefulness and disappointment, of loneliness and

homesickness. There's Dominion Creek and Fourth of July Creek. You

hardly need be told that a Canadian "discovered" one and a Yankee the

other. "Whisky Hill," "Squabblers' Bench," "Paradise Hill" has each

a story of its own and the names hint at it. Mastodon Gulch with its

remains of bone and ivory found in the ever-frozen gravels takes us

back to the giant Tuskers of those prehistoric ages before the

northland was gripped by the frost. Bear Creek suggests an adventure

resulting perhaps in a juicy bear-steak or a hurried scramble up a

tree. All Gold Creek, Too Much Gold, and Gold Bottom have the

optimism of their discoverers boldly disclosed. Of these three only

the last paid to work. I asked Bob Henderson, from Pictou County,

Nova Scotia, the discoverer of the Klondike Gold-fields, why he chose

the name "Gold Bottom." "On the principle," he said, "that it's wise

to give a youngster a good name to inspire him to live up to it. I

had a day-dream, you know, that when I got my shaft down to bed-rock

it might be like the streets of the New Jerusalem. We old-timers all

had these dreams. It kept us going on and on, wandering, and digging

on these lonely creeks for years." Last Chance Creek has a story of

its own and sometime I may tell you what I know of it. It entered

Hunker Creek about fifteen miles back of Dawson. In the rush days a

roadhouse was put up there and named after the Creek. Later it was

assumed that the creek was named after the roadhouse and that the

roadhouse got its name because it was the last chance to get a drink

outward bound on that trail!

But I must get to my story of Cheechaco Hill. There are two words in

common use in the Yukon, one is Sourdough and the other Cheechaco. A

sourdough is an old-timer, cheechaco is a Chinook word meaning

greenhorn, tenderfoot, or new-comer. In every old prospector's cabin

on a shelf behind the stove-pipe you would see a bowl which contained

sour dough from the previous baking. This was used as yeast to be

mixed in with the dough at the next baking. When he used any he

would always replace it with the same quantity of fresh dough sure to

be soured before he made bread again. The cheechaco had to learn how

to bake and usually would borrow some of this yeast-dough from some

old-timer down the trail until he had his own sour-dough and so

earned his graduate title. Now for my story.

In the winter following the discovery of the Klondike diggings, two

Australians were sitting in their cabin on Bonanza Creek at No. 5

below Discovery, having a smoke after a hard day's grind down the

drift and on the windlass. One of them was telling with great relish

of a practical joke he had played that day on two cheechacos. The

winter trail in the creek valley ran close on their shaft. That

afternoon two men, evidently partners, hauling their outfit and

sleigh had stopped for a rest and one of them had climbed up the dump

to the windlass and, after a word or two of greeting, commenced to

tell their difficulties. They wanted to find some place to put in

their stakes, "open" ground that they could "claim" for their own on

which to prospect. They had come seven miles up the creek and there

seemed to be nothing open. They asked the Australian if he could

tell them where they could stake. This question revealed them as the

most verdant of cheechacos, for if you knew of any unstaked ground

likely to have paydirt in it you weren't going to give your

information to a stranger. You or your partner would slip away

quietly after dark. You would carefully endeavour to conceal your

movements until you had the ground securely staked and recorded.

Even then any information you might have would only be given to other

friends. So of course he told the strangers he could not help them.

The cheechaco then asked him if it would be any use staking on the

mountain side, overlooking the creek. This was too much for the

old-timer for everyone with any sense knows that alluvial gold can't

climb a hill. It was a natural law that the heaviest substances

always seek the lowest levels. Gold was no exception to this rule.

You find it in bed-rock in the valleys where it has burrowed its way

down whenever a run of water has loosened things up and given it a

chance. So the Australian couldn't resist the temptation to agree

that there was lots of room on the mountain-side, plenty of trees,

they'd be above the frost-fog and "nearer heaven" than in the creeks.

They took the thing seriously, asked a few more questions about

correct methods of staking and recording and then went on their way.

It was a right good joke and such green specimens were certainly

proper game; somebody would put them wise up at the Forks anyway, and

the two had a hearty laugh over the incident.

A day or two afterwards they saw a small tent and the smoke of a fire

on the hill opposite, sure enough the cheechacos had "bit." They had

staked two claims, a "bench" and a "hillside" adjoining, and were

cutting wood and hauling moss for a cabin. The news spread along

Bonanza until all the creek knew about it and laughed. The two men

didn't sense anything wrong and looked upon the Australians as their

friends. They often came down to the cabin to get advice about

building their cabin, how to fit the corners, what size to make it,

where to get the moss for the roof and chinking between the logs in

the walls. They needed pointers about cooking and a supply of

sourdough for their first batch of bread. Apart from their ignorance

of frontier ways, they were right good fellows. One came from

England, the other, Nels Peterson, from Sweden. They had fallen in

with one another in Seattle when they happened to be outfitting in

the same store, there they had spoken to one another, got acquainted,

and agreed to go north as partners. One was a professional Swedish

music-hall comedian and the other a London "cabby" with a witty

tongue and a kind heart. Such were the strange partnerships of the

Klondike.

In a few weeks the cabin was completed, seven feet by eight. The

next step was to sink a shaft. By this time the old-timers were

regretting their part in the affair. They decided not to say

anything until after the cabin was finished, because these strangers

would have to build a cabin somewhere in which to live. Now they

hesitated to confess the trick they had played on their new found

friends. They concluded that the best way out for all concerned was

to let them learn necessary lessons in cabin building and sinking a

shaft, and then tell them, when they had gone down a few feet and

found no gold, that probably they had better go and try again on some

outlying creek like Eureka or Black Hills. That looked the easiest

way out of a situation which had become unexpectedly embarrassing.

The best they could do now was to say nothing and give every

assistance in hurrying the farce to its finish. After the cabin was

completed the snow was shovelled away from a ten-foot patch where a

landslide had made it comparatively level. There a fire was lit to

thaw the ground, for it never thaws in the Klondike except by

artificial means. When this had been burnt out they dug down three

or four feet to frost, cleared out the hole, and put down another

fire. So by successive "fires" they slowly worked their way down.

At ten feet they had to stop digging operations to make a

hand-windlass, an "Armstrong hoist" we called it, and a wooden

bucket. The fires for thawing were still needed. Now one man worked

down the shaft and the other on the windlass hoisting the filled

bucket and lowering the empty one. They thawed and dug this way

through four feet of moss, then twelve feet of black "muck" before

they struck gravel. They had been told not to bother about "panning"

in muck. There was never gold in muck anyway. When they got into

gravel a pan of it was taken into the cabin and washed out. There

were no results.

Keenly disappointed they went down to their two friends that night

and told them of their bad luck in not getting gold when they got

into gravel. They were interrupted by excited exclamations and

questions. Surely it couldn't be really gravel, they must be

mistaken for no gravel could get up there. If it were true gravel it

meant the upsetting of all current placer mining theories, and the

prospect of unlimited possibilities of new gold deposits on hillsides

and benches. Such news would set the whole Klondike on the stampede

again. But of course there must be a mistake. It was broken up

slide-rock and not gravel. Next morning they would come up and have

a look. So they did and there was no doubt about the gravel. The

cheechacos were advised to go on "sinking" and on no account to

"talk" at store or roadhouse. After every thaw the Australians went

up to see how things looked. One day "colors" were found in the pan,

and after that the four worked together unceasingly in rushing the

digging as fast as the need of thawing would permit. The light

flakes of yellow gold continued but it wasn't "pay" yet.

One memorable evening, after an all-day spell of work without

panning, the four men gathered in the little cabin around the panning

tub in the corner to test dirt taken out eight feet lower than the

last sample. They were all bending over eagerly, watching in the dim

candle light one of the sourdoughs, an expert, who was squatted

beside the tub with the pan in his hands under water. Holding it

aslant, he twisted it back and forth with a sort of circular motion

until the top dirt was gradually washed off and the gravelly stones

left. These he scraped off with his hands and then repeated the

whole process. Slowly the pan was emptying. If there was any gold

it would be slipping down to the bottom of the pan at the lower edge

of it. The candle was held closer and breathlessly the four men

watched as the last few inches of the pan bottom cleared of dirt.

There was only an inch of black sand and gravel now. The miner

swirled the pan in the water again, then brought it up and near the

candle, ran his finger through the margin of dirt still remaining and

as he did so he left uncovered a shining track of yellow gold! There

was a moment's silence, a hurried, deft swirl in the water and the

pan was carried over to the table. There with bent heads they gazed

with tense emotion first at the slender thread of gold and then at

one another. Not much in itself, but it meant--well, who could tell

what amazing new finds it might mean? Perhaps richer than anything

yet known! Soon they were talking in earnest excited tones. The

impossible had come true and they had found, on that hill side, a

"prospect" which, if the pay dirt continued for any distance or

depth, would bring untold wealth to them. It was a great night in

that Klondike cabin. The sourdoughs confessed without reservation

their attempt to play off a joke and how they had long been ashamed

of it. The cheechacos laughed it off in good-will that was

heightened by the happy outcome of it all. The Australians were to

stake claims beside them that night and then to rouse their friends

who were near and have them stake on half interests. The hillside

was to be called on the records "Cheechaco Hill" in memory of its

discoverers.

By the next day the news had leaked out, the camp went crazy, and in

a week every piece of ground right over the Klondike summits from

creek to creek had been staked off in claims, no matter how absurdly

unlikely the locality was, although in the scramble many very rich

hillsides were found.

Some punster said that the only "benches" in the Klondike that

weren't staked were those of my log-church at Gold Bottom! And it

was practically true. I remember once when going down Indian River

noticing a tree with its trunk "blazed," and on the blaze these words

were written: "I, Ole Nelson, claim 25 ft. straight up in the air for

climbing purposes!" He had been chased up that tree by a bear and had

put the event on record in this way, and indeed about the only

direction by that time that was open for staking was "up in the air."

There was, however, much reason for this indiscriminate staking. It

seemed as if gold was likely to be found anywhere now that it climbed

up the hillsides. But in a year or two the mining operations showed

how the gold got there. Ages ago there had been an upheaval of some

kind that had changed the course of the streams and had made valleys

hills, and hills valleys. These deposits were in what had formerly

been river or creek bottoms. The hill-side seemed an unlikely place

but the gold was there, and the digging disclosed it buried deep

where God had placed it, not haphazard, but according to one of the

laws of nature.

_XI._

_The Lost Patrol_

In the Spring of 1918, following the smashing attack of the Germans

towards Amiens, orders came from the French Military Headquarters,

that all civilians were to move from towns near the line to safer

areas further back. This order nearly got me into a "mix-up." It

happened I was billeted at Madame Buay's humble home in La Brebis,

when the new regulation came to them like a bomb from the blue.

One day soon after, at 5.30 A.M., Madame and her boy came to my room

to bid me a tearful adieu. It was arranged by the authorities that

they must leave before nine o'clock that morning. There was much

talk, and would I help her so kindly by buying her poor little

rabbits. They would starve if left behind and she could not take

them. "There were just three," she said. I bought them for twenty

francs; thought they would make a savoury stew for our Mess.

About half past nine, I went to view my livestock. When behold, to

my dismay, I found that my three rabbits had increased, in the course

of nature, to ten, and there were signs of more "in the offing." On

the top of this came an unexpected message for the Battalion to move

out at 2 P.M. that day. I tried to sell my rabbits to the local

butcher, who had been permitted to stay until he cleared out his

stock of meat. But no, he wouldn't buy them. They weren't, of

course, fit to kill for food. At last in desperation, for I couldn't

leave the beasts to starve, I rounded up the half-dozen small boys

left in the place and unloaded my rabbits on them. I knew the

ordinary boy cannot resist the offer of a live rabbit, even though

father and mother might object. I would be gone by that time anyway.

I tell only the simple truth, (those who know rabbits will not

question it), when I state that I had not three nor ten, but sixteen

rabbits, big and little, to give away to the boys. A second

contingent had arrived numbering six! I was relieved to be quit of

them, for at the rate they had multiplied that day I could see

myself, before many weeks, marching at the head of a battalion of

rabbits!

It was pitiful to see these French people leaving the homes in which

they, or their ancestors, had lived for generations. Pathos and

humor combined, sometimes, in the appearance of the odd conveyances

and the motive-power used. I saw one dear old lady propped up in a

wheelbarrow, her son trundling her along. There were plenty other

strange and sorry sights. With it all they seemed cheerful, and

determined to make the best of everything.

This battalion-trek I stayed behind with a half-company of men who

had been held by fatigue-duties. When we set out we decided to try a

short-cut across the fields, but we wandered considerably, and had

not reached our destination when supper-time drew near. We had no

provisions with us. While the men were resting by the road, tired,

hot, and hungry, I sauntered off by myself to where I noticed a

wreath of smoke above the trees of an orchard. I saw a few soldiers

there, standing by a fire not far from the farm-sheds. As I got

closer two of them came hesitatingly towards me, saluted, and one

said, "Sir, is your name Pringle?" I said it was, and then we

discovered that eighteen years before we had knocked around together

in the Atlin gold-diggings.

They remembered me after all those years! They belonged to a

detachment of Canadian Railway Troops. The upshot of it was that

when I told them of my tired and hungry kilties, they got me into

friendly touch with the Q.M. Sergeant billeted in the farmhouse. He

showed himself a right good fellow and in short order I was on my way

back to my men heading a small but well-laden carrying-party. Our

boys could hardly believe their eyes when they saw us toddling along,

laden with two big kitchen dixies of hot tea, a dozen loaves of bread

and a full tin of good, fresh hard-tack. The tea and rations

refreshed us and made the remaining kilometres easy.

We found the battalion located in a picturesque little farm-village.

The group of houses lay snugly hidden among trees, while out on all

sides, over rolling land, one could see long stretches of cultivated

fields, in blocks of brown and varying shades of green. Other than

the farm buildings, there was only a small store, a blacksmith shop,

and a tavern. The houses were ancient, built with out-buildings to

enclose a court-yard, in the centre of which was, almost invariably,

a manure-pile and cess-pool.

The inhabitants were primitive in their ways, kindly farm-folk of

simple manners, hard-working and apparently contented.

One well, over 130 feet deep, served for public use. It was worked

by a hand-windlass and to get a pail of water was a laborious

process. The rough wooden shelter over it was erected, so the

inscription read, in 1879. I suppose it was an event in village

history when that shelter was added. There must be a wide variety of

things, besides water, at the bottom of that well. The water tasted

good enough, but one's imagination should not be allowed to work too

carefully over the subject.

Chatting along the way after we left the Railway Troops, my talk

naturally turned from the kindness done us through those Klondike

friends, to other fine men I knew in the North. I was made to

promise to tell "the bunch" a Yukon Story some evening after we got

properly settled in our new billets. Two or three nights afterwards,

I redeemed my promise. In one of the old barns, sitting on a low

beam, with the men lying around in the straw, I related to them the

grim tragedy of the Lost Patrol.

* * * * *