HELD FOR ORDERS
I remained a week with the Seventy-fifth before any further orders
came. The battalion was resting after the terrible fighting at
Paschendale. After dinner in the evenings we would gather before
the little open coal fire in our mess: the second in command, who
was a lieutenant-colonel, the doctor, the quartermaster, transport
officer, and chat pleasantly. They were very friendly, though at times
experiences were related; I think, for no other end than--in the
language of the army--to put my “wind up.” I tried not to let them
see how well they were succeeding. I found the medical officer, Dr.
Hutchinson, to be the friendliest of the officers. He was an American,
a young man with grey hair, whose home town was not very far from that
of Irvin Cobb. The way he came to talk of Cobb was on account of one
of his stories that he happened to be reading. I learned through the
papers later on, that Dr. Hutchinson had won the Victoria Cross.
There was another officer in the mess with which I was quartered, who
kept us all in a continual state of anxiety. He was a light-hearted,
merry, boyish fellow and just a wee bit reckless. It was on account
of the cane he carried. Of course, all commissioned officers in the
British army are supposed to carry a cane or a hunting crop, but not
the kind of cane the young officer in question carried. The cane was
in reality a miniature breech-loading shot-gun which took a very small
cartridge of very small shot. He had already wounded one man slightly.
One day while taking a walk out through the country from
Calonne-Ricouart I saw for the first time the transport section of a
battalion of the French army. It was drawn up on the roadside, all the
wagons, limbers, etc., were painted a grayish-blue color. The horses
were busy with their nose-bags, and the soldiers, in blue uniform, were
standing in little groups about limbers taking their dinner, which
consisted of cold beef, white bread and red wine. They were all small
men, most of them with long black, silky beards. They chatted among
themselves, and all along the village street French women and children
looked out from windows; I noticed tears in the eyes of some of the
women.
It was a scene that had been enacted many times in the history of
France. It was very interesting to watch those blue-clad soldiers of
the Old World standing in small groups in the little lane. Perhaps, I
thought, in the many wars of France there have been many such halts in
this tiny village.
I was walking along musing so, when for one reason or another I turned
my eyes from the transport column and looked down the road. Coming
towards me on horse-back was a trooper of the Canadian Light Horse.
He was a large, clean-shaven man under his wide-brimmed hat. He sat
with perfect ease in the saddle, and looked quietly over the French
transport section as he went. There seemed to be some indefinable
atmosphere about the man that made one think of great, illimitable
spaces, of unrestricted freedom of movement. A few seconds previous
I had been thinking of the romance of old France, but I had not been
prepared for this inset. A breath, strong and clear, of my homeland
came to me, and I felt proud of my countryman.
I used to say Mass every morning in the little church of the village,
the pastor of which was a very delicate looking young French curé.
Two black-bearded French soldier-priests said Mass before me. Then at
7:30, when the Masses were finished, the parish priest taught catechism
to the children of his parish. Later, in many places where we came to
rest, I saw early in the morning little children assembled in their
parish churches for catechism.