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[Illustration: Private James H. Rawlinson]
Through St. Dunstan's to Light
BY
PRIVATE JAMES H. RAWLINSON
58TH BATTALION, C.E.F.
TORONTO
THOMAS ALLEN
1919
COPYRIGHT, CANADA, 1919 BY THOMAS ALLEN
CONTENTS
CHAPTER I
PAGE
My Ticket for Blighty 1
CHAPTER II
In Blighty 14
CHAPTER III
At St. Dunstan's 23
CHAPTER IV
Braille 32
CHAPTER V
The Spirit of St. Dunstan's 37
CHAPTER VI
Air Raids 45
CHAPTER VII
Royal Visitors 55
CHAPTER VIII
In Playtime 61
CHAPTER IX
Memories of the Fighting Front 68
CHAPTER X
The Point of View of the Sightless 74
ILLUSTRATIONS
Private James H. Rawlinson _Frontispiece_
The Boot-Repairing Workshop _Facing Page_ 12
Sir Arthur Pearson " " 16
St. Dunstan's: The House " " 24
The Carpenter Shop " " 30
The Braille Room " " 34
Mat Weaving " " 56
Sightless Canadian Four " " 66
Basket Weaving " " 84
THROUGH ST. DUNSTAN'S TO LIGHT
CHAPTER I
MY TICKET FOR BLIGHTY
In the World War, it was not only the men who went "over the top" to
assault enemy positions who ran great risks. Scouts, snipers, patrols,
working parties, all took their lives in their hands every time they
ventured into No Man's Land, and even those who were engaged in
essential work behind the lines were far from being safe from death or
wounds. On the morning of June 7th, 1917, before dawn had broken, I was
out with a working party. Suddenly, overhead, sounded the ominous
drumming and droning of an aeroplane. It proved to be a Hun plane; the
aviator had spotted us, and was speedily in touch with the battery for
which he was working. Fortunately for us, he had mistaken our exact
position, and evidently thought we were on a road which ran towards the
front line about thirty yards to our left. The enemy guns, in answer to
his signals, opened up with a terrific fire, and the scenery round about
was soon in a fine mess. Shells of varying calibre came thundering in
our direction, throwing up, as they burst, miniature volcanoes and
filling the air with dust and mud and smoke. This shell-fire continued
for about three-quarters of an hour, but due to the defect in the
aviator's signals and our own skill in taking cover we suffered no
casualties. We were congratulating ourselves that we were to pass
through this ordeal uninjured, when suddenly a 5.9-inch shell fell
short. It exploded almost in our midst, and I was unlucky enough to get
in the way of one of the shrapnel bullets. I felt a slight sting in my
right temple as though pricked by a red-hot needle--and then the world
became black.
Dawn was now breaking, but night had sealed my eyes, and I could only
grope my way among my comrades. I was hit about 2.30 a.m., and it
speaks volumes for the Medical Service that at 2 p.m. I was tucked
safely in bed in a thoroughly-equipped hospital many miles from the
scene of my mishap.
Willing hands tenderly dressed my wounds and led me to the foot of the
ridge on which we were located. I was then placed on a stretcher, and
carried up the slope to one of the narrow-gauge railways that had been
run to the crest of Vimy Ridge. I was now taken to the end of what is
called the Y Road, and thence borne to one of the ambulances which are
always in waiting there, grim reminders of the work in hand.
My first impression of my ambulance driver was that I had fallen into
the hands of a Good Samaritan. He was most solicitous about the welfare
of the "head-case," and kept showering me with questions, such as: "Are
you comfortable, Mac?" (everyone in the Canadian Corps was "Mac" to the
stranger). "Tell me if I am driving too fast for you; you know, the
roads are a little lumpy round here." I didn't know it, but I was
quickly to become aware of the fact. His words and his driving did not
harmonize; if he missed a single shell-hole in the wide stretch of
France through which he drove, it was not his fault. I shall never
forget the agony of that drive; but at length, bruised and shaken, I
arrived at the Casualty Clearing Station at--but, no, I will not mention
its name; some of my readers may know the men who were there at the time
of my arrival, and there is pain enough in the world without
unnecessarily adding to the total. At the Clearing Station I learned two
things: First, that all the best souvenirs of the war are in the
possession of men who seldom or never saw the front line; and, secondly,
the real meaning, so far as the wounded "Tommy" is concerned, of the
letters R.A.M.C. The official records say they stand for the Royal Army
Medical Corps; but ask the men who have passed through the hands of the
Corps. They'll tell you with picturesque vehemence, and there will be
nothing Royal or Medical in their answer. For my own poor part, here's
hoping that the thirty-eight francs that disappeared from my pockets
while in their hands did some good somewhere. But I sadly wanted that
money while in the hospital at Boulogne to satisfy a craving I had for
oranges. Perhaps the beer or _eau de vie_ that it no doubt purchased did
more good than the oranges would have done me. Again, let us hope so!
From the Casualty Clearing Station I was taken to the hospital at St.
Omer, which was later to be laid flat by Hun air raids. And here, for
the first time, I realized the full weight of the calamity that had
overtaken me, and what being "windy" really meant. I was first visited
by the M.O., who removed my bandage and had my head skilfully dressed;
after him came a priest of the Church to which I belonged, who
administered to me the rites of the Church; then followed the assistant
matron, who endeavoured to cheer me up by asking if I wished to have any
letters written home. Before my inward eyes there began to flash visions
of a newspaper notice: "Died of wounds." But although a bit alarmed,
more by the attentions shown me than by my physical condition, the
thought of pegging-out never seriously entered my mind.
I spent four days at the hospital at St. Omer, and was then transferred
to Boulogne, together with a New Zealand sergeant who was in the same
plight as myself, and whom I later had the pleasure of meeting under
more favourable and happier conditions at dear old St. Dunstan's. At
Boulogne, I was given a thorough examination, and the doctors concluded
that an absolutely useless member of the body was an unnecessary burden
to the bearer, and so they removed what remained of my left eye. I was
still vainly hoping that my right eye, which was remote from my wound,
might recover its sight; but as the days crept by while the blackness of
night hung about me I grew alarmed, and one day I asked the O.C.
hospital why he was constantly lifting up my right eyelid. Truth to
tell, I was scared stiff with the thought that they were contemplating
removing my remaining eye, but I gave no outward sign of my fear. No
matter how "windy" one is, it would never do to let the other fellow
know it, at least not while you are wearing the uniform of the
Canadians. I, therefore, quickly followed my first question with the
inquiry if he thought he might yet get some daylight into my right eye.
"When?" he questioned. And, still clinging to the hope that I was not to
be forever in the dark, I replied, "In five, ten, fifteen, twenty-five
years; any time, so long as I get some light." In answer, he merely
patted me on the shoulder, saying: "Never mind, things are not always
quite so bad as they look." Then he moved away from my cot, and a moment
later I heard him talking in undertones to another officer. This
officer, whom he now brought to my bedside, proved to be Captain Towse,
the bravest man it has ever been my privilege to meet, and while I was
up the line I met many brave men who, where duty called, counted life
not at a pin's fee.
Captain Towse is a double V.C. It is hard enough to get the Cross
itself, and there are few men who dare even to dream of a bar to it. I
was now in personal touch with a man who, in distant Africa, during the
Great Boer War, with both eyes shot away, had gallantly stood firm,
urging his men to the charge. He came to my bedside with a cheery:
"Good morning, Canada! How is the boy this morning?" My answer was the
usual one of the boys in France: "Jakealoo!" Then he pointedly asked me
a question that set me wondering at its purport.
"You are a soldier, are you not, Canada?"
I replied with a somewhat mournful: "Well, I was one time, but I can't
say much as to the truth of that now."
Then he hit me harder than any Hun shell could hit a man. He snapped out
in a voice penetrating, yet with a cheery ring to it: "Well, you are
blind, and for life. How do you like it?"
For about five seconds (it was no longer) the night that sealed my eyes
seemed to clutch my soul. I was for the moment "down and out"; but I
braced my spirits in the presence of this dominating man. I would show
him how a Canadian soldier could bear misfortune. So I gathered myself
together as best I could under the circumstances; swore just a little to
ease my nervous strain, and replied: "That's a hell of a thing to tell a
guy."
Then came words that rolled a mighty load from heart and brain. Captain
Towse praised my soldierly bearing under misfortune, and praise from
this blind double V.C. meant much. He had been sorely smitten at a time
when there was no St. Dunstan's, no Sir Arthur Pearson, to make his
blindness into just a handicap, instead of what it nearly always was
before the days of St. Dunstan's, an unparalleled affliction. But
Captain Towse beat blindness, and did it, for the most part, alone.
Now the cruel fact had to be faced; the only world I would see
henceforth would be that conjured up by the imagination from memories of
the past. Then the difficulties of the future crowded upon me. Even if I
were not to see as other people do I should still have to eat; and
dinners do not grow by the roadside, and if they did I could not see to
pick them up.
"Well, Jim," I said to myself, "you are in a fine fix; what are you
going to do to get those three square meals a day that you were
accustomed to in civil life?" Then I began to wonder what particular
street and what street corner in old Toronto would be best suited for
selling matches, bootlaces, pencils, and postcards. While in this vein,
I conjured up visions of cold, grey days, days when customers did not
appear, and imagined myself led home at night without having enough to
buy even a meal. My humour suggested strolling along the roadside
singing doleful songs. I even chose a song, "The Blind Boy," by the late
W. G. Chirgwin, on which I might try my voice.
All this passed through my mind while Captain Towse was still standing
by my cot.
I was suddenly startled from my gruesome speculations by the captain
asking me if I had made up my mind to go to St. Dunstan's. I had to
confess that I did not know the place, where it was, or what it was for.
Then he told me that he wished to take down some particulars regarding
me. He wanted to know my full name, regimental number, when I was hit,
where I received my wound, who was my next of kin, and many other
particulars, all of which I, at that time, thought a most unnecessary
and foolish proceeding.
While the Captain was questioning me, I heard a rapid, clicking sound
following each of my answers. The noise fascinated me, and after a brief
time I made bold to ask him what it was. The answer fairly staggered me.
"It's a Braille machine," he replied. "I am writing down your answers."
I knew he was blind--blinder than any bat; and, in my ignorance, I asked
him, in an irritated voice, if he thought that it was fair to try "to
kid" a man who had just been told that he would never again have the use
of his eyes. He uttered no word, but I had a feeling that a smile was
playing on his lips; and the next moment the machine he had been
operating was placed in my hands. He then began patiently to explain its
use, and what a moment before had seemed an utter impossibility I
realized to be a fact. Although the blind could not see, they at least
had it in their power to put down their thoughts without the aid of a
second party; and, not only that, the world of knowledge was no longer a
sealed book--they could read as well as write. The eye had been
accustomed to carry the printed word to the brain; now the finger tips
could take the place of eyes. I now recalled that I had seen a blind man
sitting at a street corner, running his fingers over the pages of a big
book; but I had paid no heed to it, thinking it merely a fake
performance to gain sympathy from the public. I told this to Captain
Towse, and he replied kindly that I should soon learn much greater
things about the blind. At St. Dunstan's, he said, there were about
three hundred men, all more or less sightless, making baskets, mats,
hammocks, nets, bags, and dozens of other useful articles, mending
boots, doing carpentry, learning the poultry business, fitting
themselves for massage work, and, what seemed to me most incredible,
taking up stenography as an occupation.
[Illustration: The Boot-Repairing Workshop]
Men--men who could not see as did other men, were doing these things;
straightway, the old street corner, the selling of matches and
shoelaces, the street strolling singing in a cracked voice while
twanging some tuneless instrument, vanished. Other men had risen above
this crowning infirmity; why could not I. Boulogne and this meeting
with Captain Towse had saved me. Gloom vanished, for the moment at any
rate, and my whole being was animated by a great resolve--the resolve to
win in the battle of life, even though I had to fight against fearful
odds.