When the war broke out, plain John Gallinshaw, a graduate of Harvard
University, was earning the hardest of all livings as a journalist by
the sweat of his pen. His home being in Newfoundland, he hurried back
there, enlisted, came to England with the draft in the 1st Battalion
N.R., and spent an arduous winter's training in Stevenson's favourite
Edinburgh. Then selections for active service were made, and Corporal
Gallinshaw's name was not among them. The men sailed from England late
in the spring; and shortly after leaving port a stowaway was found. It
was Gallinshaw. He wanted experience, and not even the fear of martial
law prevented him from getting what he considered his share of the
fun. The _Megantic_ landed her troops, and for the first few weeks on
Turkish soil, the preliminary baptism of fire once over, things went
on in the old round of dullness, for life in the trenches at Gallipoli
became very monotonous, as stereotyped as life at any popular seaside
resort.
Then snipers began to make themselves all agreeable. One of them, in
particular, gave our fellows a good deal of trouble. This sniper, armed
with an old German needle-gun, rarely missed his aim. One day Corporal
Gallinshaw, on duty in the trench, had occasion in the early hours of
dawn to repair some wire entanglements that had been badly wrecked by
shell-fire. He had not been long at his work when the crack of the
deadly needle-gun reminded him of the close proximity of the sniper. A
bullet flung up a rain of stones in his face. Altering his position,
he set to work again, this time more warily, but not warily enough for
the sniper. Another report rang out, and this time a bullet penetrated
his lungs. While he lay bleeding in front of the trench, some of the
Newfoundlanders took it into their heads to go out and bring in the
sniper. They returned before the sun was up with a gagged and bound
figure. It was the sniper. Now, Newfoundlanders are notoriously
democratic, and they wanted to take the law into their own hands and
hang the captive.
"It's the rule with snipers," said one. "They expect no mercy."
"String him up," said another. "He's been caught red-handed."
"Give the poor devil a chance," exclaimed Gallinshaw, whose wounds were
being bound up.
"As much chance as he gave you," responded one of his companions,
ironically. Apparently, however, Gallinshaw's words were heeded, for
nothing drastic was done until an officer came along and examined the
prisoner. Then, to everyone's astonishment, the captive was found
to be a woman. She was a young woman, too, and of prepossessing
appearance. The officer decided she should be sent to Egypt. Learning
this decision, the captive was full of gratitude towards the corporal
for his intercession. But neither the man nor the woman could make
themselves understood. And thus this romance of real life ended. But
who knows what _might_ have happened, had the affair been properly
conducted--say by Seton Merriman, Stanley Weyman, or some other
romantic novelist?
* * * * *
At the 3rd London General Hospital recently I was shown two X-ray
photographs, illustrating what may be considered a miracle of modern
surgery. The first plate depicted Private Coleheart's leg, shattered
by Turkish gunfire; the second picture, taken after the smashed bone
had been welded to a silver plate, showed the leg practically as good
as ever. When I saw Coleheart his thin, pinched face glowed with
happiness over the skill of the surgeon, and for the first time during
our hospital acquaintance of many months he was inclined to talk.