Only a few months ago that entire collection poured into Valcartier camp
in pink shirts and straw hats, desperately afraid they might not be in
time. Since then they have been taught several things. Notably, that the
more independent the individual soldier, the more does he need
forethought and endless care when he is in bulk.
‘Just because we were all used to looking after ourselves in civil
life,’ said an officer, ‘we used to send parties out without rations.
And the parties used to go, too! And we expected the boys to look after
their own feet. But we’re wiser now.’
‘They’re learning the same thing in the New Army,’ I said. ‘Company
officers have to be taught to be mothers and housekeepers and sanitary
inspectors. Where do your men come from?’
‘Tell me some place that they don’t come from,’ said he, and I could
not. The men had rolled up from everywhere between the Arctic circle and
the border, and I was told that those who could not get into the first
contingent were moving heaven and earth and local politicians to get
into the second.
‘There’s some use in politics now,’ that officer reflected. ‘But it’s
going to thin the voting-lists at home.’
A good many of the old South African crowd (the rest are coming) were
present and awfully correct. Men last met as privates between De Aar and
Belmont were captains and majors now, while one lad who, to the best of
his ability, had painted Cape Town pink in those fresh years, was a grim
non-commissioned officer worth his disciplined weight in dollars.
‘_I_ didn’t remind Dan of old times when he turned up at Valcartier
disguised as a respectable citizen,’ said my informant. ‘I just roped
him in for my crowd. He’s a father to ‘em. _He_ knows.’
‘And have you many cheery souls coming on?’ I asked.
‘Not many; but it’s always the same with a first contingent. You take
everything that offers and weed the bravoes out later.’
‘_We_ don’t weed,’ said an officer of artillery. ‘Any one who has had
his passage paid for by the Canadian Government stays with us till he
eats out of our hand. _And_ he does. They make the best men in the long
run,’ he added. I thought of a friend of mine who is now disabusing two
or three ‘old soldiers’ in a Service corps of the idea that they can run
the battalion, and I laughed. The Gunner was right. ‘Old soldiers,’
after a little loving care, become valuable and virtuous.
A company of Foot was drawn up under the lee of a fir plantation behind
us. They were a miniature of their army as their army was of their
people, and one could feel the impact of strong personality almost like
a blow.
‘If you’d believe it,’ said a cavalryman, ‘we’re forbidden to cut into
that little wood-lot, yonder! Not one stick of it may we have! We could
make shelters for our horses in a day out of that stuff.’
‘But it’s timber!’ I gasped. ‘Sacred, tame trees!’
‘Oh, we know what wood is! They issue it to us by the pound. Wood to
burn—by the pound! What’s wood for, anyway?’
‘And when do you think we shall be allowed to go?’ some one asked, not
for the first time.
‘By and by,’ said I. ‘And then you’ll have to detail half your army to
see that your equipment isn’t stolen from you.’
‘What!’ cried an old Strathcona Horse. He looked anxiously towards the
horse-lines.
‘I was thinking of your mechanical transport and your travelling
workshops and a few other things that you’ve got.’
I got away from those large men on their windy hill-top, and slid
through mud and past mechanical transport and troops untold towards Lark
Hill. On the way I passed three fresh-cut pine sticks, laid and notched
one atop of the other to shore up a caving bank. Trust a Canadian or a
beaver within gunshot of standing timber!