THE POINT OF VIEW OF THE SIGHTLESS
When I began to write this personal narrative I had two main thoughts in
mind. My first was that no work written on the World War would be
complete without some account of the transference of the soldier back
from khaki to mufti; my second, and to my mind the more important, was
to show the man himself, suffering from a serious handicap, that one of
the greatest truths in this life of ours is: there is nothing that a man
cannot do, if he _has_ to. This needs explanation. There are few men who
have come out of this war just as they went into it. Apart from injuries
they have sustained, there is unavoidably a new outlook upon life,
gained by their sojourn in the trenches. No matter who the man is, no
matter how settled were his views on the management of this old world,
his stay "over there" has changed his point of view. His whole mental
attitude has undergone something of the nature of a revolution in the
crucible of war. Up the "line," he saw things stripped to the buff, saw
life and death in all their nakedness. The veneer of so-called
civilization has been worn off, and the _real man_ shows through. That,
to my mind, is why friendships made amid the blood, mud, hunger, and
grime of the trenches are friendships that will endure through life. It
is there _Man_ meets _Man_, and admires him. I have met men in the
trenches to whom, had I met them in ordinary life, I would not have
given a second thought. When they first came to the front they were
known as "sissies," but not for long. They, for the most part, quickly
acquired that character and bearing that is the rule of the trenches.
There were exceptions, of course, but not many. As I write there comes
to my mind a little incident that happened in a dug-out in a trench
known to the 9th Brigade as Mill Street. Those who were there at the
time will remember it from the fact that the body of a French soldier
was lying half buried under the parapet at one of the entrances. Poor
Frenchy's whole right side was showing from the foot to the waist line.
The day of which I write had been rather warm. A working party had been
out repairing a firing step and revetting the trench. A "sissy" came
down the steps of the dug-out, mopping his forehead with a
handkerchief;--fancy any one carrying a handkerchief in the front line;
one had essentials enough to carry without being burdened with such a
feminine article;--another of the boys was sitting writing a letter with
his ground-sheet under him in the mud. The sissified one blurted out:
"Holy gee! but I'm perspiring profusely." The kid writing the letter
looked up and sarcastically answered, "Wouldn't sweatin' like 'ell be
more to the point." Later in my military career I had a chat with the
commander of the company to which the "sissy" belonged, and he
incidentally remarked that the lad had turned out to be one of the most
reliable and plucky fellows in the battalion. I have often wondered
since if that little remark "sweatin' like hell" had not helped him to
buck up and fit into his general surroundings.
Since I have been sightless, two things have deeply impressed
themselves on my mind. The first is that no person with sight can, or
ever will be able to, see from a blind man's point of view; the second,
that no one who can see can ever understand or gauge a blind man's
capabilities or limitations. When I speak of a blind man in this sketch,
I, of course, refer to those who have suddenly been deprived of sight.
Of the man who was born blind or who became sightless early in life I do
not profess to know anything. But the viewpoint of the blind is, in the
majority of cases, different from that of the sighted--I mean in the
matter of earning one's living and making oneself independent of
charity. The man who has been blinded in battle has seen life--and death
for that matter--stripped of all its frills and flounces. His mind and
viewpoint have been enlarged and broadened by his life in the Army. But
he sees life from an angle that is denied the sighted. To be made into a
wage-earner he must be handled rightly. He must not be "mollycoddled";
to do so would be to leave him a burden to himself and to his friends.
He must not be made to feel that he is an object to be set in a corner
where he can hurt neither himself nor others. It does not do to treat
blind men in the lump; they must be handled individually. Each and every
case stands by itself. Tact, and a lot of it, patience, and perseverance
are the essentials for re-making a man who has lost his sight, into what
he desires to be--a being capable of earning a living and producing
results in the industrial world. For the attainment of this end, two
things are necessary--confidence and independence. Once he has learned
these, he has won half his battle--a hard battle, how hard he alone
realizes. For my own part, my first two months of blindness, at least,
were Hell with a capital H. Let me illustrate what I mean by confidence
and independence.
Whilst at St. Dunstan's, I was, for some reason or other, given the job
on quite a few occasions of meeting men who were feeling rather harder
than was thought necessary the darkness that enveloped them. If a man
came in feeling that there was nothing in life for him now that he was
blind, I was given the task of cheering him up and showing him, if I
could--and I have the satisfaction of knowing that I did not often
fail--that this old world was not such a bad place, even if one's lights
were put out. One case stands out with prominence, and when I look back
at the results of my work after twelve months have passed, it is not
without a measure of pride.
One Saturday afternoon, a young Canadian came to the Bungalow. He was
talked to by both the Adjutant and the Matron, who did all in their
power to "buck" him up. They failed hopelessly, as the "kid" felt too
far gone; he just would not try to look at the bright side of life. Then
some one suggested that he be brought over to "Rawly." When we met, I
began our conversation with: "Well, kid, how are things?" He snapped
back: "For God's sake, another preacher!" It was somewhat of a
staggerer, but I had been through it all myself, and understood the
boy's feelings perfectly. In the darkness that sealed his eyes he was
forced to grope his way about stumblingly, usually with the help of a
guide. He had not yet gained confidence in his own powers. I straightway
determined to inspire him with that confidence.
In the first days of my sojourn at St. Dunstan's, I, for a time, felt
that never again should I be able to step out into the world except with
halting step and a horror of what might happen. The management of the
institution had constructed an elaborate system of gravel paths, along
which were wooden palings which would prevent the students losing their
way. A knob in these palings told of a turning; a plank served to warn
that we were approaching steps or a steep incline. In the work-rooms and
through out the entire buildings, strips of carpet served as a guide to
the feet. But it took time to gain confidence even with these aids; and
then they were confined to the buildings and grounds. Confidence would
only come when one was able to navigate his way alone through busy
thoroughfares. Shortly after entering St. Dunstan's I determined to
venture out alone. A guide accompanied me on my outward journey, but I
dismissed him and determined to find my way back without help. I
cautiously kept to the outside of the walk, using my stick as a guide,
but I had not calculated on obstructing posts; bump I went into one, but
nothing daunted, I kept on. I was about to test the hardness of another
with my head when a sympathetic soul seized me by the arm and saved me
just in time. I asked him to direct me to the wall bordering the walk.
He did so; but I had not taken into consideration the fact that there
were stores with goods out for display in front of them. I was first
made aware of this by hitting a somewhat flimsily-constructed fruit
stand. At this moment a motorcycle a few feet away back-fired viciously.
It sounded like the explosion of a shell. Vimy and its horrors came back
on the instant, and I involuntarily ducked for safety, or, rather,
sprawled forward at full length. Down came the fruit stand, and there I
lay among apples, oranges, and bananas. Kindly hands helped me to my
feet, and set me on my way. My first experience of solitary walking out
had been a rough one, and for a time I felt beaten, and had very much
the attitude of this boy towards the future. But my experiences would
help him. I had conquered in time, and could journey about freely
without even the aid of a stick. I would not let him know that I was
"black" blind, but I would take him out with me and show him what the
blind could do unaided if they would only bring into play their latent
powers.
We chatted for a time about the war, and the prospect of his return to
Canada and his friends. He gradually thawed out, and took me in a
measure into his confidence. But he was still in the depths, and
continually referred to his deplorable lot. There was, he said, nothing
in this world for him now, and he added pathetically: "I'm only twenty
years old; I have seen practically nothing, and as both my eyes are out,
I never shall be able to enjoy life and nature. I wish I had got the
full issue instead of half of it; I should have been a lot better off."
Now, there is an unfailing means to get on the good side of any one who
has spent any time in "Blighty," and that is to suggest tea. So I asked
him if he would not like a cup and some cake: I knew, I said, a nice
tea-room where we could get a good cup.
"Yes," he replied, "I should enjoy something to drink; but who will take
me to your tea-room?"
"Come with me," I said; "I will be your pilot."
So away we toddled out of the Bungalow and down the rails which run
round the Outer Circle, right through Clarence Gate, down Upper Baker
Street, past the Tube, and across the road to Gentle's. Well, we had the
tea; and companionship and the refreshments seemed to cheer up the lad.
At any rate, he began to talk about things they told him he could learn
at St. Dunstan's; and I seized the opportunity to say: "Well, things are
not quite as bad as they seemed at first, eh? You see we got down here
all right." This was in answer to his saying that one would always be
compelled to depend on a guide in his ramblings.
"Yes," he replied, "we got here all right, but you can see some. It's
easy for you guys to talk about getting around by yourselves when you
can see, be it never so dimly; but remember that I have both my eyes
out."
This was what I had been working for and waiting for all afternoon. I
wanted him to think that I could see; my turn would come sooner or
later, and my answer to him would make him buck up if anything could.
"Eh, old boy," I said, with a degree of exultation; "I am as 'black'
blind as you are. I have one eye, it is true, but it is na-poo, finis,
just as much as your's are."
"Do you really mean that, Jim?" he asked.
"I certainly do; and you just fell into the bear-pit I had ready for
you."
"Well, let me tell you," he said, with stern determination, "if you have
done this, here's another boy who can do likewise."
That boy returned to Canada with a full knowledge of poultry-breeding
and egg-producing, basket-making, rough carpentry, and all kinds of
string work, such as hammock and net weaving. He became one of the
brightest and happiest students in St. Dunstan's, and, incidentally, I
might mention that that same lad, who felt himself down and out for all
time, developed into one of the best dancers that ever put foot in
slipper.
[Illustration: Basket Making]
Another lad--an Australian, this time--wanted to go over the House. I
acted as his pilot, and on our way back to the Bungalow he asked me how
much I could see. I told him, "nothing." He answered: "Say, Digger, I've
been taking some chances, haven't I? But this I will tell you, the
next time I want to come over here I am going to find the way myself."
All that those boys needed was to realize that others who were
handicapped as they were could work and move about on their own
initiative, and they would be quick to follow their example. Confidence
is infectious; it passes from one individual to another. Above all, it
is the absolute foundation for success in a man who cannot see--or, for
that part of it, in any man.
I have said sufficient to show that the man from whom the external world
is suddenly shut out is still able to "carry on." For my own part, I
have returned to Canada, and am busy in useful employment, working among
comrades similarly situated with myself. Three years ago, had any one
told me that a blind man could qualify as a stenographer I should have
ridiculed the idea. But I am now able to take dictation in Braille
shorthand at the rate of one hundred and twenty words per minute and
then transcribe my notes on any typewriting machine on the market just
as speedily as the ordinary sighted typist. And I never operated a
typewriting machine before I became a student at St. Dunstan's.
As I said, I am back in Canada, and not getting my living through
charity. What I am I owe to St. Dunstan's, and while labouring here my
heart ever goes back to dear old England. I feel towards St.
Dunstan's--and so do all the boys who have passed through her halls--as
does the grown man for the place of his birth. She is home for me. I was
born again and nurtured into a new manhood by her, led by her from
stygian darkness to mental and spiritual light, and my heart turns with
longing towards her. At times, separation from the genial atmosphere of
this paradise of the sightless, from contact with the dominating, kindly
presence of Sir Arthur Pearson and his noble assistants, weighs heavily
upon my spirits. But there is work to be done here in Canada, and, in a
humble way, I am able to continue the good work done at St. Dunstan's;
if not in a militant way, at least by example, taking my place among the
producers, toiling daily with hands and brain.