SKETCHES FROM A LABORATORY WINDOW.
_The Bandstand in the Square._
Many interesting little affairs happened in the Bandstand in the Grand
Place beneath our laboratory windows. One Sunday evening in June a
khaki-clad figure ascended a pulpit which had been improvised there;
the seats in front of him were filled with rows of generals, colonels
and other officers. In a rich, stentorian voice he gave out the lines
of a verse, and led by a cornet, the strains of the grand old hymn "O
God our help in ages past" swelled on the summer evening air, sung as
only soldiers can sing.
The crowd of soldiers about the bandstand grew, and little French
children playing about in their best Sunday clothes, stopped in
curious wonderment to hear "Les Anglais" sing. A few of their elders
strolled over and even though they could not understand, they listened
attentively.
Our thoughts flew thousands of miles over the ocean to other Sunday
evening services at our home in Canada. We could see the old family
pew; we could hear father and mother and the old friends singing that
same old hymn, while our youthful minds were likely busied with
recollections of a lacrosse match or baseball game that we had seen
the day before, or maybe of a visit to the old dam where we had had
the finest swim of the season. We could see women attired in spotless
white, and men in frock coats and silk hats, walking sedately to
church, and we longed with an intense longing for one more such Sunday
in the old home town. It seemed ages since we had been there; we
wondered whether we would ever visit the old scenes again, and we had
a premonition that we never would. The theme of the brief sermon was
the old, old story of Christ's coming to save sinners, and the guns
boomed and a belated aeroplane overhead buzzed homeward while the
speaker appealed earnestly to his hearers to serve Christ by following
his example in true living even as they were now, by offering their
lives, serving humanity.
_General Haig presents medals._
One summer evening, after the battle of Aubers Ridge a number of
junior officers and private soldiers, including Indians, began to
gather about the bandstand. As ten o'clock approached, motor after
motor drew up, numerous staff officers descended and formed themselves
into groups. There was much saluting and hand-shaking, the saluting
being done by the junior officers and men, and the hand-shaking taking
place among the seniors.
Although furniture was none too plentiful a table which was secured
somewhere, was placed about six paces in front of the grandstand
steps. A cloth was placed upon the table, and two officers began
spreading on it in orderly array various small boxes. A list was
produced, names were compared and carefully checked. The officers and
men who were to receive decorations were then paraded, and as the
roll was called each man took his place in order in the line. The list
was again checked over, and compared with the boxes on the table.
At 10.20 a big car drove up and a figure stepped out--a figure known
to the whole world--Sir Douglas Haig. Well groomed, handsome, quick of
his movement, he looked as he was, every inch a soldier. As he
approached the groups everyone stood to attention; the senior officer
gave the salute, and the General acknowledged it.
After a few words with the officers in charge, General Haig took his
place behind the table and made a short speech, after which the
soldiers were called up one by one while he pinned on their medals or
decorations. Each soldier saluted as stepped forward, and as he
stepped back to his place he saluted again in acknowledgment of the
remarks of the General.
There was no fuss, no feathers; the affair was typically British. Such
decorations as the Legion d'Honeur and Croix de Guerre, had to be
presented, and they were, after which everybody shook hands and went
away. It was all very simple. In serving your country you risk your
life, and incidentally you may get a decoration for bravery. Why make
a fuss about it?
_An Old Flanders Hotel._
There are many kinds of hotels in the little towns and villages of
northern France, some good and some bad;--mostly good if you only want
bread, cheese and beer, and very bad if you want anything else. Still,
you do occasionally run across an hotel which is capable of providing
a decent meal, though the rooms and general accommodation are, as a
rule, exceedingly poor. Heat is a thing unknown. If you raise a row
and demand a fire, they will provide it for sundry francs and centimes
extra. In war time coal becomes more and more difficult to obtain, and
the inveigling of a fire out of mine host becomes increasingly
difficult.
The M---- Hotel was rather a pretentious hostelry. It occupied part of
the City Hall or Hotel de Ville which faced the Grande Place. The
Hotel de Ville is a rather good looking red brick building, three
stories high, and is said to be over 200 years old. In the centre an
arch way, protected by heavy iron gates, leads into an inner court,
occupied chiefly by stables. To the right is the entrance to the
police magistrate's office and court, and to the left is the entrance
to our Hostelry.
A typical old Frenchman, with a snow-white drooping moustache and
closely cropped white hair, runs the hotel with the aid of his rosy
cheeked daughter and a couple of maids. The old man spends his time in
dispensing wine and beer, looking after the maids, occasionally
cooking a meal for a particular guest, buying the food, and playing
billiards with the little groups of old cronies that foregather in the
common room each evening. Like all Frenchmen, he had been a soldier in
his time, and had never forgiven the Germans for 1870. His picture as
a young man in uniform, hung in the dining-room of the hotel.
Moreover, he was a musician, and before the war had played the French
horn in the town band. His banquet hall, which we were now using as a
laboratory, had been the band room and the home of all band practices
in the long winter months. How the old man did roll his eyes with
ecstasy and raise his hands with unutterable joy as he listened for
the first time to the wonderful mellow music of the British Grenadier
Guards' band as it played in the bandstand in the square. Handel's
largo, the overture to Tannhauser, and a fantasia on British
airs,--each brought forth a different series of gestures. "Monsieur, I
have not heard such fine music since I heard the Republican Guards'
band at Paris; in fact, monsieur, this is finer--the tone is richer,
rounder and more mellow. It is marvellous, Monsieur le Colonel,
marvellous; it is entrancing; a-ha! heavenly!"
M---- Hotel in the evening was an interesting sight. Little tables
were spread about upon the sawdust sprinkled floor, each table with
two or four guests discussing the official communiques of the day, the
flow of talk assisted by a bottle of red or white wine. M.X., the
miller, at heart more or less of a pessimist invariably got into an
argument with that fierce optimist, M.Y., the lumberman. Night after
night they would argue as to the progress of the war; whether Germany
was really short of food; whether there were really three million men
in "Keetchenaire's" army; whether the country was infested with spies;
or why Von Kluck's army turned back from Paris.
_An Indian Concert._
Towards four o'clock, one afternoon, we noticed an unusual clearing up
of the village square. Military policemen were ordering away motor
cars, wagons, and lorries, while everything in the square was made
spick and span. About four-thirty, Sikhs, Beloochis, Pathans, and
Ghurkas began to stroll into the square and congregate in groups,
shaking hands with acquaintances they had not met for some time, just
like typical Frenchmen. Those who came later carried drums and
bagpipes of the regulation kind. At five minutes to five the
bandmaster made his appearance, and the band lined up while they tuned
their chanters.
Sharp at five o'clock, with a punctuality that was remarkable, the
band stepped out across the square to the tune of "The Cock of the
North," played in perfect time and tune. At the far side of the square
they wheeled about and back they came with ribbons flying and chests
inflated, looking like real natives of the Scottish hills. It was the
most perfect pipe playing I had ever heard. The French were delighted.
As the strains died away in the wail of the chanters, a hearty round
of applause brought smiles to the serious faces of the Indians, and
away they went again to "Highland Laddie," followed by "The Campbells
are Coming."
Then another band followed with performance on the Indian pipe which
is something like a chanter, without the bag or drones. The effect was
awful. To make a hit they attempted "La Marseillaise," and it was a
hit. Had it been a farce it could not have been beaten--no two
instruments were in tune and some of the notes of the scale were
altogether missing, so that the most ghastly discords were sprung upon
us. No wonder such instruments can lash the hillsmen into fury. They
had us nearly fighting mad.
To hint that we were not entranced with their efforts, we clapped but
faintly--but the musicians took it as hearty applause, and burst forth
with fearful onslaught upon "Rule Britannia." When they were through
you could have heard a pin fall. Not a soul risked a sound lest the
players should mistake it as an invitation to renew their
entertainment; so the real pipe band came on for another whirl and we
were made happy once more.
Precisely at five-thirty, the concert ended, and the cosmopolitan
crowd of French civilians and soldiers, British Tommies, Indians,
Highlanders, and Canadians, melted away. Five minutes after, save for
the presence of a few blue rock pigeons flitting about in search of
their evening meal, the square showed no sign of life.
_The Jail._
The town jail and dungeon is in the Hotel de Ville. Heavy barred doors
open into a little dimly-lit store room, with windows high up
protected by iron bars. Through this room a small doorway leads to a
dungeon without light of any sort. We always knew when this prison had
an occupant--in the morning a fatigue party under a corporal would
appear marching across the square carrying food rations. The corporal
would halt his men, step forward and give the signal on the door; it
would be opened by the sentry guarding the inner cell. The food was
then conveyed to the prisoner, the fatigue party marched away, and the
sentry with rifle on shoulder paced up and down the front of the jail
until his relief arrived. At no time was the guard off duty for a
moment until the prisoner, perhaps under sentence of death, had been
removed.
Once we had to report on a swab from a prisoner under the death
sentence. Military law says that no man can be shot while suffering
from any disease in hospital. Consequently when this man was found to
have a suspiciously sore throat, it was reported by the Medical
Officer and there was great excitement. Telegrams flew back and forth
about the matter while I had to stay up till midnight to obtain a good
culture. The culture, much to the relief of the staff officer who was
waiting for the report, did not show diphtheria bacilli, and at five
o'clock the following morning the poor chap met his fate.
_A Canadian Graveyard._
The road to Bethune was always of interest to us, because near the
pretty little village of Hinges was a hill; in fact Hinges was right
on the top of this hill--our area, elsewhere, was as flat as a board.
Hinges was interesting because it was full of trees and hedges and
gardens, and somehow reminded one of the beautiful little sequestered
villages of England, rather than a French village.
On the far side of the village, where the hill descending swept
away off towards Bethune, a fine big French chateau nestled in the
midst of a huge park of enormous trees. From the chateau a sweeping
view of the surrounding country was obtained. Not more than two miles
below it, on the La Bassee Canal, could be seen the spires and towers
of the real little city of Bethune. Away beyond Bethune one could see
the blue hills in which the Germans were strongly entrenched. To the
right among these hills projected three sharp-pointed, pyramidal
hills, indicating the location of the dumps of French coal mines, then
operated by the Germans.
[Illustration: FRENCH SOLDIERS ADVANCING UNDER COVER OF LIQUID
FIRE.]
For a time during the battles of Givenchey, one of our field
ambulances had been located in the spacious shady grounds of the
chateau. A little graveyard near the main gateway, on the roadside, is
the last sleeping place of a number of Canadians who died in this
ambulance. To-day a neat fence surrounds this little area of Canadian
soil and the graves are kept trim and covered with flowers. Even
before the authorities took any action I saw the French country people
themselves decorating the little mounds beneath which lay "Les
Canadiens" who had come so far "to fight for France" in this struggle
for the freedom of the world.
It is a beautiful little sleeping-place, and somehow it never seemed
to me so sad a spot as some of the other graveyards in France where
our Canadians lie. As the roar of the British guns increase as the
months go by, and the number of shells carrying death and destruction
to the Germans, multiplies--one can imagine that the spirits of those
who lie below are watching the enemy lines being pressed back towards
Berlin, and that they will understand that their sacrifice has not
been in vain.
And, one night as I passed the spot, during the battle of Loos, when
the sky flickered red as from summer lightning with the flash of
myriads of shells, and the horizon was defined in electric green from
the flares of the Germans, I fancied that I could see the shadowy
spirits of the departed ones hovering over this spot before their
final departure, and I felt that they must realize that the work of
our army in its struggle for the freedom of the world was being
carried on with increasing efficiency.
Indissoluble ties now bind France to Canada: her soil has been watered
with our very best blood and the bond of a common suffering in a
righteous cause has united us forever.
_A Hot Day in the Field._
One hot day in early June I made a tour of the ---- divisional area
with the sanitary officer. We had been asked to go over this area, and
make suggestions for the improvement of its sanitary condition. It was
the only time during two summers spent in France that I felt I was
really in the "sunny France" of my imagination. The sun beat down on
the floor of our open car so that when one stopped for a minute it
became a veritable little red hot radiator. So long as we kept moving,
the breeze created made it bearable; but when we left the car for a
minute the seats become too hot to sit on, and the perspiration
fairly streamed down our faces.
The air rising from the fields and roads vibrated like that over a hot
stove; the dust raised by motors hung suspended for long minutes in
the motionless air, and filled one's nose and mouth. The chickens in
the farmyards stood with beaks wide open gasping for air.
Even military form was relaxed on account of the heat, and lorry
drivers, men on transports, and troops marched and worked with their
coats off. All the water ditches near the front were filled with
soldiers bathing themselves. It is extraordinary how war conditions
will break down conventions. Many times that day I saw absolutely nude
men bathing in a roadside ditch, and women passing only a few yards
away, neither of them being at all concerned about the others.
Sections of the Aire-La-Bassee canal looked like the "old swimming
pool" in midsummer. Hundreds of soldiers dived, swam, and rolled about
in the dirty waters. Finely built, rosy-skinned chaps they were too,
playing about like care-free boys, with aeroplanes buzzing by
overhead, and shells exploding in a village to the rear.
After a busy morning making our inspection and taking water samples
for examination, we dined at the divisional Mess B and set out again
to complete our tour. We visited the various filling points of water
carts and gradually drew nearer the front line trenches. Turning down
one arm of "the tuning fork"--a forked road near Festubert, we came
upon an advanced dressing-station. A little to our left was a grey
pile of bricks and rubble, all that remained of the village of
Festubert.
The medical officer of the dressing-station told me that only ten
minutes before the enemy had been shelling the spot about a quarter of
a mile farther on, which was our next point of inspection.
"What do you think? Shall we go?" asked the sanitary officer.
"I leave it to you," I said, and we proceeded.
As we approached our destination I picked up the next numbered bottle.
It was number 13. A curious sensation passed over me and I put the
bottle back, taking up number 14. "Why don't you live up to your
disbelief in superstitions," I said to myself and I put bottle number
14 back. When we arrived at the place I took up number 13, got the
water sample while the car was being turned and "beat it." Of course
nothing happened and we finished our trip at 5 p.m. after a 60-mile
tour through the area occupied by as fine a Scotch division as
Scotland ever produced.
There are compensations for almost everything in life if you can
discover them: I never enjoyed a bath more in my life than the one I
had when I reached home that night, sticky and dusty and hot, with the
aid of a sponge and half a gallon of water. (Baths are rare in French
houses.)
_The Fire Fete._
Merville is a staunch compact little town with a big church whose
lofty byzantine, rounded dome projected high into the air forms a
landmark that can be seen for miles. We have been able to pick up
this tower quite easily from a point in Belgium fourteen miles away--a
point from which we were actually watching the bombardment of our
lines at St. Eloi on the 10th of June 1916. The church is a very large
one for a town of the size, but as the people are very good Catholics
in that district, it was in constant use from early morning to late at
night. Funerals passed to and from it daily and the chants of the
resonant-voiced priests became such a frequent thing that we ceased to
pay any attention to them. Funerals in France are a most terribly
depressing sort of thing, anyway.
One Sunday there was evidence of something unusual on hand. A stage
twenty feet across had been erected against the wall of the Hotel de
Ville, facing the square and approached by a flight of a dozen steps.
During the course of the morning it was covered with green boughs and
flowers, a cross was erected on the top while various coloured banners
and the tricolors helped to make a very effective and pretty stage.
Meanwhile around the church square there was great excitement. Girls
of all ages in white, and boys with short white trousers, blue coats
and tam-o-shanters had been going towards the church since early
morning. From our laboratory window we could see these youngsters
being collected into groups and being instructed by nuns. Banners of
various kinds floated in the air and hung from the windows of the
houses round about.
We had settled into our daily work when the sound of children's voices
floated through the laboratory windows, and we looked out to see a
procession coming across the Grande Place, led by an old man carrying
a gilded staff and wearing a cocked hat. Right behind him walked a
priest between two altar boys, all three wearing elaborately worked
tunics of lace; the boys carried poles with lanterns on the top.
Following them came, two and two, the smaller boys of the village.
Then came a band of tiny boys carrying wooden guns over their
shoulders and dressed as Turcos; large groups of bigger boys followed
dressed in white trousers, blue coats and tam-o-shanter hats, and
headed by a bugle band.
These were succeeded by a number of girls dressed entirely in white,
the smaller ones being in front and the larger ones behind. Then came
the really beautiful part of the procession. In this section every
girl was dressed differently, each dress being of some period in the
history of Flanders. As a study in costume alone it was exceedingly
fine.
Some of the dresses were quite beautiful. One had a blue-laced bodice
over white and a red velvet skirt with a high pointed black straw hat;
another had a black bodice with a white under vest and a blue skirt,
the hat being of white lace. Others which I cannot now remember in
exact detail were very interesting and recalled all the historical
tales that I had ever read of ancient Flanders.
Next came a canopy supported by two of the older men but with choir
boys on the four guy ropes. Under it walked the priest who was to be
the master of ceremonies for the day. Then came other girls in white,
depicting various characters in French history, such as Joan of Arc.
The prettiest girl of the village was the one chosen to be the angel,
she wore a large pair of wings and was dressed in a white filmy
material which made her quite realistic according to the commonly
accepted ideas of angels. After these walked the older girls and women
of the village according to their age, the tottering old grandmothers
coming last. Finally came the men in the order of their age.
By this time the procession had doubled backward and forward on itself
as it gradually approached the altar under our windows. The
officiating priest, which on this occasion happened to be the
clergyman from our own hospital, slowly mounted the steps of the stage
as the chant swelled into greater volume, and the whole crowd went
down upon its knees in prayer. After certain offices had been
performed by the priest at the altar he descended and the procession
dispersed.
Such was the interesting "Fete de Feu" of Merville. We were told on
the very highest authority that at one time over two hundred years
ago, the town caught fire and that nothing could be done to save it.
In this dire extremity the parish priest prayed to God and promised
him that if he would save the village the town would each year for all
time have a memorial procession of thanksgiving; immediately the fire
went out and the thankful villagers and their descendants have since
that time never failed to keep the sacred promise then made.
_Toban's Pup._
Private Toban, contrary to army orders, owned a dog. It was a
nondescript pup, with a cross eye, and also a kink in his tail. It was
coloured a sort of battleship grey with two or three splashes of brown
on the flanks, and his nearest blood relative was probably a French
poodle--though his ancestry was a subject of prolonged and sometimes
heated debate between Toban and his mates. A Tommy who had scornfully
described him as "A 'ell of a lookin' dawg" had been promptly felled
by a blow from Toban's right.
Before the second battle of Ypres, when the division was in training,
the Canadians did a good deal of route marching. Toban used to take
the pup along with him and the pup used to become tired. Then Toban
would pick him up and carry him. Finally the medical officer noticed
his fondness for the dog and would, on occasion, take the pup in front
of him on the saddle.
Once the battalion was going into action and the M.O. was busy at his
regimental aid post, making preparations for a rush, when Toban came
in. "Say, Doctor," he explained, "I can't take the pup with me and I
tied him to a tree down the road."
"I will look after him" promised the M.O. and Toban disappeared.
"Here Corporal, find that dog, and label him with Pte. Toban's number
and company," ordered the M.O.
In a couple of minutes the Corporal returned.
"Say Captain," he reported, "I found the pup wrapped up in Toban's
blanket and tied to a tree."
The rush began and the doctor forgot all about the dog until an hour
later, when Toban, spitting teeth and blood, stumbled into the room
with a bullet through his jaw.
"Oh, say Toban," called the M.O., "I found your dog, and he's all
right."
When Toban's face was bound up the M.O. asked, "Do you think you can
make the field ambulance by the bridge?" Toban nodded and started off.
A minute later he thrust his head into the room--the pup was in his
arms, still wrapped in the blanket--and spluttering gratefully through
the dressings, "I got 'im, Doc, good-bye," away went Private Toban en
route to Blighty.
_The Incorrigible._
Private Saunders of the ----th Canadian battalion was a hopeless
alcoholic. In England he had become such an incorrigible that the
regimental officers decided to get rid of the man. Major M---- hearing
the case being discussed by some fellow officers, said, "Let me have a
try at him" and with relief they agreed to his transfer to the Nth.
In due time the battalion went to France, and like all others in the
first division, took part in the second battle of Ypres. During one of
the attacks Major M. was shot through the chest, and left on the field
as his battalion was slowly forced back. Saunders learned that the
Major--the one man who had treated him like a human being, was
somewhere out in front. Under cover of night he left the trench and
crawling on his hands and knees searched about for hours amid a hail
of bullets and shrapnel, till he found the Major.
"You can't carry me, Saunders, leave me and go back," commanded the
Major.
"Now look here," said Saunders, "you have always been my boss and I've
done what you told me, now it's my turn; you do as I tell you," and
getting the Major on his back he carried him 200 yards to the shelter
of a ditch. Then obtaining assistance he went out and succeeded in
having the Major conveyed to a dressing-station.
Again taking his place with his battalion, Saunders went into another
attack the same night, and had his head blown off. Here was a case
where, as far as the officer was concerned, kindness had its own
reward; and here again was a case of an apparently useless man, when
his hour had struck, arising to the supreme heights of self-sacrifice.
_Dirty Jock._
You can't always tell the real worth of any man to the army. Some men,
who are efficient and valuable, in times of quiet, are not able to
stand up in the gruelling of a battle; while other men, ordinarily
useless and difficult to handle, will develop wonderful initiative,
resourcefulness, and daring under stress or emergency. The quality of
heroism may be surrounded by the most unlikely exterior--but at the
supreme moment the hero in every man will come out and he may
surprise us by rising to undreamed heights of self-sacrifice.
Jock Smith was a nuisance to the whole regiment; he was a constant
reproach to the Colonel, the Medical officer and everybody else. The
very day his regiment landed in England he got gloriously drunk and it
was only by the simple but very certain method of prodding him with
the point of a bayonet in the immediate rear that he was kept from
falling out of the ranks and going to sleep on the roadside.
"I didna know ye were gaun ta march the nicht oor I wudna hae got
drunk," he apologized.--So it was always. Smith was dirty. Smith was
troublesome. Smith, in short, could have well been done without. So
dirty did he become, in fact, and so verminous, that his medical
officer ordered that he be given a bath; and the order was carried out
by a squad of four husky Tommies with a considerable amount of
enthusiasm on the part of the squad and a tremendous amount of
profanity on the part of Smith.
One bright day "a show was pulled off." Like the rest of the
battalion, Smith was in it. As they went over the parapet with the
cheer that the Germans have learned to know and dread, Smith was well
up in the van. He did his part with an enthusiasm that was a credit to
his brigade. An officer passing through a captured trench found Smith
in a quandary with three prisoners backed up against the wall. "Come
along" cried the officer, "leave those men for somebody else." An hour
later Jock walked into the dressing station wounded. "Well, what is
the matter with you?" said the M.O., looking up from his work of
bandaging the wounded. "I think am hit, Doctor," he answered, and he
was, for a great chunk of flesh had actually been blown out of his
thigh.
About that time the officer of the trench episode came in with a
couple of bullet wounds. Catching sight of Smith he said, "Hello
Smith! Where did you leave those prisoners?" "Dinna ye ask foolish
questions," was the reply, and nothing more could be got from Jock.
Smith submitted to the surgical dressing without a murmur, and was
laid out on a stretcher to await the ambulance. Finally it came.
"Here, take Smith," ordered the M.O.
"No, never mind me, Doctor," said Smith, "jist tak the ither men, I'll
be walking."
"Do as you are told," commanded the M.O.
"Now Doctor, jist pit the ither boys in; they're worse nor me, I'll
walk."
"Damn your eyes," snapped the Doctor, "don't be a fool; get in there,"
and in spite of his earnest protests Smith was hoisted into the
ambulance to leave the firing line for all time.