BACK TO EARTH
It was curious to watch the nurses glance furtively in my direction
with looks of mingled horror and curiosity. They, too, had heard
swearing in their career of healing broken, fighting men, but in one
apparently so young and unsophisticated--"it is just shocking!"
After the horrible nausea had left me, the nurse asked me what I
would like, and what I had longed for a thousand and one times in
France came to my mind. "A bottle of Bass or Guinness'," I said.
Back she came with a little of the Guinness' in a cup, and I sank
into the first dreamless sleep I had had for ages.
I was awakened by the pain in my limb, so began to interest myself in
the other patients. Oh, the exhibition of patience, courage and
suffering, both on the part of patients and the doctors and nurses.
Doctor, or Major Evans came to see me. "How are you, laddie?"
"Doing all right, sir."
"Good boy! From the prairies, aren't you?"
"Yes, sir."
"You need fresh air, for a constitution like you possess was never
made indoors, and I will have you carted out into the open air every
fine day we have."
He was as good as his word, and the orderly duly came and, with the
help of the sister, I was taken out on to the lawn in front of the
ward. I had been there about a quarter of an hour when another
patient was carried out and his bed placed alongside mine. I turned
to look at the other fellow and a familiar face glared at me.
Spontaneously from both of us--"Well, I'll be damned!"
It was Bill Moore, of my own company, sometimes called "Rosie," for a
pet name.
"When were you hit?" I asked.
"In the charge a week back."
"Not when we lost all but two of the officers at Z----?"
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[Illustration: THE "WAR TWINS"]
My chum Moore and I enlisted at the same time, served together at the
front, lost our left legs in the same fight, and are now engaged in
the same work--trying to help the Cause.
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"Yes," said he.
"I got mine there too."
"The devil, you say!"
"Sure," I said.
"What you got?" he asked.
"An explosive bullet."
"Well, I'm jiggered, I was hit by one, too. But where did it take
you?"
"In the ankle."
"This is some coincidence, kid, mine was in the ankle, too."
"Which one?"
"The left."
"Same here. When did you get your final chunk taken off?" I asked.
"About thirty hours back."
"Same here. But, say, who gave you the right to mimic me?"
We talked and talked until exhausted and we were told to stop it.
This wonderful chain of coincidences would scarcely be complete were
I to leave out the fact that we are of the same age, enlisted at the
same time, in the same company, and, as related above, were wounded
at the same time, in the same battle, on the same day. And, to make
the chain perfect, we received our artificial legs on the same day in
the city of Toronto, Ontario. And, the finishing touch to the list,
here we are again, working together for all we are worth in the task
of getting recruits through the British-Canadian Recruiting Mission
in Chicago. Little wonder is it that we are christened the "War
Twins."
Time sped rapidly in the hospital, and the Angel of Healing, coupled
with the untiring ministrations of two of the dearest women, my
night, and my day nurses, rapidly brought me back to my normal
condition of health.
I cannot go further without telling of the wonderful power that lies
in a good woman. Nurse Daniels, the night sister, called me her
"model patient." I suppose she called every other patient the same
thing, unknown to the others. This woman could make men feel better
by simply smiling at them. It was pitiful to see the eagerness with
which the boys watched for her coming at night. In she would walk,
erect as a guardsman, looking the perfect English lady in her uniform.
"Good evening, children."
"Good evening, sister."
"Have you been good boys today?"
"The little Canuck has been trying to swipe some of your photographs,
sister."
"Oh, the little rascal! Doesn't his face belie his character?" With
such light badinage she would make her way through the ward,
smoothing a pillow, soothing some poor lad's agony with those
wonderful cool hands of the born healer, jokingly chiding a few of us
slightly wounded men for making so much of our wounds in order to get
a caress from her, but we always got the caress.
One night, in my restlessness, I had completely removed the dressing
from my stump, and that wonderful woman had redressed the stump,
brushed my hair, or what remained of it at that time, and departed to
other duties without even awakening me.
One of the things which most troubled me during the night was the
recurrence, regularly for many nights, of a torturing dream, in which
I fancied I was being rushed into the fighting again, with my foot
hanging on by a shred, and the pain that I felt in my dream, as well
as the terror, would cause me to wake up with a frightened shriek,
but almost instantly the gentle, cooling hands of my angel nurse
would be soothing my aching head, and in a few moments I would be
myself again.
The blessed woman seemed to be possessed of a wonderful intuition,
for never would I want a glass of lemonade, or some other soothing
nourishment, but it was on the locker at my hand before I asked for
it.
The attentions showered upon us by visitors were so many and varied
that it would take a volume in itself to recount them. Some of them
have afforded me a good laugh, more than once. They were all
heartfelt and sincere, comical as some of them were, in their desire
to do something for us, no matter how small the courtesy might be.
Once when careening about on a wheel-chair, amusing the rest of the
boys by my antics, the head sister brought in a lady visitor. This
lady had befriended a Canadian boy before he went to the front, and
she thought the world of him. The lad had been wounded in the same
action as myself, and, learning of his being in the hospital at
Liverpool, she hastened to try and find him. Incidentally the good
lady had some little comfort for every Canadian boy she ran across.
The lady peered at me through her spectacles, and the head sister,
noticing her short-sightedness, came to the rescue with the following:
"No, although this little fellow came over with the Canadians, he is
not the one you are looking for, for he is only an Englishman."
"Dear, oh dear, you don't tell me! Only an Englishman," the old lady
repeated, half to herself and, smiling at the thought, she resumed
her search for the Canadian.
In the light of the detailed accounts given in the newspapers of the
United States and Canada of the splendid work performed by the
Canadian soldiers on the Western Front, it is barely possible that
the lapsus lingua of the nurse may find a responsive chord in the
minds of some in America. There is no doubt it would make an
admirable talking point for German propagandists in the spread of a
certain phase of their humbug.
Another dear old lady, in the fullness of her heart, and thoroughly
sincere, came into the ward one visitors' day. She carried in her
hand a bag of candy acid drops, which is often advised as an antidote
for thirst. It would take a good many acid drops to ease the parched
throat of a wounded man on a hot summer's night.
"Oh, you poor dear boys," said she, as she gravely placed two of the
acid drops on our lockers, "how you have suffered for us! Sometimes
in the night you may get thirsty, and one of these drops will quench
your thirst."
Out of respect for the old dear, we held our outburst until she was
well out of the door. The thought of some of those tough old
campaigners alleviating their thirst with an acid drop was so
irresistably funny that it is a wonder some of the fellows didn't
crack some of the stitches of their wounds, so convulsed were they.
One Tommy was particularly uproarious.
"Fawncy the old deah coming round of a morning in the ditch and
'anding us hout one of those hacid drops in plice o' the rum ration!
Just fawncy!" And I thought he would split.
Another time when my war twin had laboriously wheeled himself to the
hospital gates to see the visitors come in on visitors' day, he had
his knee covered with a blanket, and no one could really tell what
ailed him. Bill sat thoughtfully watching the "sweet-hearts, wives
and muvvers everlastingly passing by," and fuming somewhat to himself
at the tardiness of the demure little maiden who had claimed him as
her especial charge. While waiting impatiently, a dear old lady
approached. She carried a little bag of plums.
"Good-day, my boy, how are you feeling today?"
"Oh, fairly well, madam, thank you," said Bill.
"You are a Canadian," noticing the Canadian badge Bill wore proudly
on the breast of his hospital jacket.
"Yes, I am a Canadian."
"From what part of Canada do you come?"
"Saskatchewan, madam."
"Dear me, and how far is that?"
"About five thousand miles."
"And are you badly wounded?"
"Oh, no," exhibiting his legs, "the canary flew out of its cage and
bit me."
"How terrible! but how wonderful! how magnificent! Just fancy, you
have come all that distance to fight for us, and lost your poor leg,
too. How can we possibly reward you! Won't you have a plum?"
holding out the bag, and Bill extracted a plum.
"Oh, that's nothing at all, ma'am," said Bill. "I'd do the same
thing over again, and lose my other leg, if necessary, for the Old
Flag."
"How perfectly splendid and noble of you! We never, never can repay
you sufficiently. Oh, do have another plum."
Bill gravely and thankfully accepted the other plum, and the good old
lady proceeded on her mission of kindness.
When I had become sufficiently strong to take notice of my
surroundings, and the love of life had come back to me, I began to
wonder how it fared with my own immediate chums. Campbell, Cameron,
Muirhead, and Nish, and Shields were all right, for they had carried
me from the line, but I was anxious about Libby and Morgan and little
Fitzpatrick. Billy Meade, who has not had the prominence in this
record that he deserves, was intact, for I remember he almost wept
when I said good-bye to him at the dressing station. Bill had been
one of my intimates, but so quiet and unassuming in his manner that,
knowing him as I do, and knowing that he had returned recently to
Canada, it is with diffidence I mention his name at all, but the
spirit of Bill was so thoroughly akin to that of my comrades, I must
relate a little story about him.
When we started for France, Bill Meade and his chum, Bill Richards,
or "Farmer Jones," as we nicknamed him, were in London on French
leave. Returning to Salisbury Plain they found the battalion gone.
Immediately those two stowed themselves away among the baggage of a
departing artillery brigade. They managed successfully to board the
artillery transport, and when the ship was well on her way they
showed themselves.
They were arrested and taken before a British officer at S----. Such
men delighted the heart of this officer, and he saw to it that they
were sent along to us. Our officers, of course, reprimanded them for
their conduct, but I know that they often refer to these two boys as
men to be proud of.
Little Fitzpatrick wrote me from a hospital in London, and I was
relieved to hear from the laddie. In writing, though, he sorrowfully
told me that Libby must be dead, for nothing had been heard of him
since the night before the charge. As a matter of fact, he was
reported as being killed.
And now I was to have another exhibition of Morgan's peculiar gift of
second sight. My chum was located in a hospital in Dublin and at
first chance he wrote me. I quote from his letter. He was referring
to Libby and the general belief that our fearless little comrade had
"gone West."
"Libby is alive! I know it. I saw him last night wearing sergeant's
stripes, and you know they can't kill that little black-whiskered
stiff."
Next morning I received a letter from Libby himself. He was badly
hurt, but alive and in a hospital at Boulogne. He had been hit by
shrapnel, and one of them had actually pierced a valve of his heart.
In spite of this he lived and actually re-enlisted to go back to the
front. After his discharge in Canada, although he hated the thought,
he said he felt that his place was back with the lads in Flanders.
He lied to the doctors so artistically that he got back to the firing
line. But the life had told its tale and poor Lib was again returned
and discharged.
That his wonderful nerve has not yet deserted him, let me say that
Bill Moore and I attended his wedding in Saskatoon, a few months ago.
Fitzpatrick, only sixteen years old, returned to Canada, but he felt
just as Lib felt, and his wound healing perfectly he became sound as
ever and again enlisted. He has since been wounded again, healed
again, and at this time is probably fighting round Cambrai. Just
think of it, you slackers! Only nineteen and the veteran of a dozen
tremendous battles.
After being spoiled by everybody, I at last was sent from the
hospital to a convalescent camp. Here I cut loose, the reaction
setting in. I was arrested and cautioned, and, having thoughts of a
visit home, I decided to behave myself for awhile and apply for sick
leave. My repeated applications were for awhile ignored, but at last
I said to myself that I must swing the lead. I asked to be paraded
in front of the Colonel. I managed to acquire a look of awful
suffering on my face, as I walked wearily in to see him on my
crutches. Without waiting to be told, I flopped into a chair with a
groan, the realism of which surprised myself.
"Well, what is the matter, son?" said the Colonel, as he subsided
into his chair after the start he had at my wonderful groan.
In a husky voice, like that of a man absolutely worn out, I replied,
"I would like a few weeks' leave, sir."
"Oh, and for why, pray? Are you not comfortable here?"
I began to unwrap my stump, and presently held it up for inspection.
"Look at it, sir," with another splendid groan.
"What is the matter with it? Yes, it does look inflamed."
I knew it was inflamed; I had suffered quite a little pain making the
stump acquire the inflamed appearance it had for this particular
occasion, and I wanted him to see it before it lost its color. He
touched it, and he nearly collapsed as I let a bawl out of me that
shook the building.
"Gee whiz, sir, don't, for goodness sake, hit it again."
"Why, my man, I barely touched it."
"Oh! Oh! Oh!" I moaned.
"You will have to go back to the hospital," said he.
This did not suit me a bit, and I thought I had shammed too
realistically.
"But, sir, I have people in England, and they'd look after me fine."
"Where do they live?"
"Derbyshire, sir."
"Hm! Can you get the best of medical attention there?"
"Why yes, sir. There is a military hospital within ten minutes' walk
of my home." (It was twenty minutes by road, and an hour by car.)
"Your mother lives there?"
"Yes, sir."
He turned to the acting clerk.
"Write this man an indefinite furlough."
I nearly forgot to keep my look of agony in my delight, for that
meant at least a month.
"You must report every day to the hospital there."
"All right, sir." (I just went once to square it with the matron,
whom I knew.)
In my excitement and joy I was almost out of the room before I
remembered I was a very sick man. However, the day was saved by a
really marvelous yell of pain I managed to emit as I was crutching
out of the door.
[Illustration: FEELING GOOD IN BLIGHTY.]
My journey home was one long series of examples of the treatment of
the women of England to their fighting men. I had to make two
changes of trains and on both occasions I was literally carried by
those tireless women from one train to the other. Nothing but the
most luxurious traveling was good enough for me. In fact, I really
was ashamed of myself, for the little sacrifice I had made was a drop
in the ocean compared to that of many men in all parts of the land.