The First Canadians in France

While we were talking he walked in, got quietly into bed and reached for a cigarette. I bade him good morning, repressing, as well as I could, my astonishment.

"You are feeling better this morning?" I remarked, as casually as if he had had a cold in his head.

"Oh, yes, I'm very well in myself, sir," he replied with a contented smile, "but I have a little headache – I'm thinkin' the bandages are a bit tight."

I loosened them and gave him a warning not to get up again. He seemed disappointed, but promised not to transgress a second time.

It is surprising and pleasing to know that a large percentage of men shot through the brain recover. Seven out of nine who entered the hospital one day, some months later, made a good recovery, and when they left were apparently mentally sound.

A young lieutenant who arrived with one train load of wounded, walked unassisted up the steps, and smilingly addressed the Registrar:

"About a week ago, a sly bullet popped over the trench and caught me in the temple. Fortunately it passed out through the opposite side. They took me down to the Field Ambulance, and, as the surgeon wasn't very busy that morning, he said he'd like to take a look inside and see the works." He laughed aloud at this gruesome witticism and continued: "So he gave me a whiff of ether, opened the skull and, just as I expected, found 'nobody home.' He closed the door, and here I am, as fit as a fiddle. What a lucky devil I am to have no brains!"

A number of wounded officers had arrived with the men, and many of our private rooms were filled. We had retained the brass beds, a few practical chairs and small rugs for these rooms, and with a good fire in the grate they looked particularly cosy and attractive.

The nurses, too, took special pride in supplementing the meals of the patients, both officers and men, with delicacies of their own. To the hot roast chicken was added creamed asparagus or French peas, followed by appetising salads of fresh green vegetables – which may be had in France the year round. A bottle of ale or wine and hot-house grapes or Spanish canteloupe helped to make life pleasant and hastened them along the road to health. Oh, you may well believe that nothing was omitted which made for their comfort or well-being. We felt, and justly so, that for the men who "held the line" there was nothing in this wide world half good enough. As the inspecting general remarked to the colonel a few days later:

"Give the boys the best the land affords – if they want Malaga grapes, get them. If they want beer or wine, let them have it. Spare no expense that will make them happy and well – they deserve it all!"

As I entered the room of a young English captain, I found him propped up in bed with a few magazines and books beside him. He was looking very bright and happy.

"How are you feeling this morning?" It was our stock question.

He smiled pleasantly as he replied: "Splendid, sir, splendid. Your nurses are charmingly attentive and kind. The rooms and meals are delightful. I'm in great dread lest I get well too soon!"

He was wounded in the foot; it had been shot through with a piece of high explosive shell. The small bones were fractured, but he appeared to be suffering little. The nurse deftly assisted me with his dressing; after we had finished he said:

"I have a slip of paper here you might be interested to see. I shall always treasure it as a souvenir of a brave man."

He handed me a little crumpled square on which a few lines in pencil were scrawled, and continued: "I showed that note to my commanding officer before they carried me away. It was an humiliation, but it was my duty."

"What does it mean?" I asked him. "I'm sure this little bit of paper has a history."

He smiled reminiscently and began: "Our company had been holding a point in the lines which, under a terrific bombardment, had become untenable. The commanding officer ordered us to withdraw to a safer trench in the rear. I called my men and we succeeded in retiring to the position indicated, in good order and with few casualties.

"I thought every man had left the advanced trench, but a few moments later when a small body of Germans attempted to storm it, we were astonished to see it defended by rapid rifle fire from some unknown source. The battle raged for some hours all along the line, but still this little spot was stubbornly held. Again and again the Germans assailed it; but each time with the same lack of success – each attack they lost twenty or thirty men, and those who reached the trench were apparently unable to oust its mysterious defenders. When dusk fell the fighting ceased; and shortly after, I received this little note – it speaks for itself."

I spread the paper upon my knee and read:

"Sir:

"Two other men and I were left behind when the Company withdrew. During the fight we collected in eight stragglers from other battalions, so we are now eleven. We held the line against all the attacks. If you, sir, and the rest of the company wish to come back now, the trench is perfectly safe.

    "JAMES GUFFIN,
    "Sergeant."

CHAPTER IX

Every military unit at the front has its "mascot." Ours was no exception; in fact we overdid it, and became a sort of home for pets of all shapes and sizes, from Jean, a little French boy nine years of age, who wandered in one day from Soissons, to nursing sister Marlow's baby goat.

Jean's mother was dead; his father was fighting at the front, and the little chap being, as we discovered later, of a migratory disposition, forsook his native haunts and "took the trail." How or why he came to us, no one knows, but he liked our company, so he stayed.

A small boy being the only sort of animal we had not already adopted, was hailed with joy, and before two days had passed, we had taken up a collection and bought him a complete military uniform, from cap to boots. He couldn't speak a word of English – but he was a boy, and as we too had been boys not so very long ago we understood one another from the start. Jean picked up English words with disturbing rapidity. He had learned several distinct and artistic varieties of oaths before we were aware he understood at all.

Jean and the goat had much in common. They had both been cast upon a warlike world at a tender age. They had both adopted us, and both accepted their living from us with gracious condescension.

According to world-wide custom, the goat was promptly nick-named "Billy," although he was a mere bundle of lank grey wool with legs so long that it must have made him dizzy every time he viewed the earth below. He was just strong enough to stagger over to the nursing bottle which Jean held out in his grimy fist.

Jogman loved Jean; Jean loved the goat, and the goat loved Jogman. Thus was established an "odd-fellows" circle into which none might break.

"Dat's a hand fer ye," Tim commented to Jogman, as the pair watched Jean feeding the goat. "A hand like dat ain't friends wit' soap an' water, but de goat ain't too pertickler."

"I washed him about an hour ago," Jogman replied defensively, "but ye can't keep th' boy clean – he ain't happy without dirt."

Jean sat upon the ground as they spoke, still holding the nursing bottle up to Billy's greedy mouth. He understood only a little of what they were saying, but looked up quickly at the last few words.

"I'm happy here – me," he cried. "Bien content– damn!"

The expletive was addressed to Billy who with a sudden tug had pulled the bottle from his hand.

"Do ye know where small boys that swear go?" asked Jogman reprovingly.

"Big boys what swear go to de war," Jean contended, "an' me soldier too."

"If you do it again I'll send ye back to yer aunt at Soissons," said Jogman.

The child sprang to his feet at once, and catching him by the hand cried tearfully: "No! – No! – No! – not back to Soissons – Oh! Je vous en prie, non!"

What strange fear had driven him from home? He couldn't or wouldn't explain it; but he was in great dread of being sent back, and it was the one threat which influenced him.

"Well, well," said Jogman soothingly, "be a good boy, an' don't swear no more – then we kin keep ye with us."

Jogman had a good heart, but a bad stomach – it's difficult to get a perfect combination. Jogman drank; so did the goat, but they imbibed from different bottles and with different results. He had been on his good behaviour for almost two weeks – his money had run out. But pay day came at last and trouble always followed in its wake.

Thirty dollars – over one hundred and fifty francs in French money – was enough to turn the head of any soldier. With a bulging pocket the Tommy's heart throbbed nervously, until he got a chance to "blow it in." But before this fortuitous event was completed Jogman had signally disgraced himself and us. Tim accosted him as he was leaving the hospital grounds:

"Where are ye goin'?" he demanded.

"Goin' to town to see th' sights," Jogman returned with a grin.

"Some sights – dose gals," Tim growled. "Remember yer failin' an' don't hit de can too hard. I can't bear seein' ye doin' mor'n six days 'First Field' per week."

Jogman had good cause to know to what form of military punishment Tim alluded. He had already had several trials of it.

Paris-plage was only two miles distant, and its smart cafés and pretty girls called irresistibly to the lonely boys. The girls, however, never worried Jogman. His life was full when his stomach was full, and the fumes of "cognac" or "whiskey blanc" beckoned him like a siren's smile. Loaded down with his full month's pay and with a twenty-four hour pass in his pocket, he took the shortest path through the forest towards his objective.

The day was clear and almost warm, and the soft breeze droned lazily through the pines. As he reached the edge of the wood he saw before him the sand dunes rolling gently toward the sea. There was a weird fascination about those great hollows and hills of sand. Time and the wind had beaten them so firmly that one might tread upon their crusted surface and scarcely leave a footprint. Craters as large as the Roman Coliseum, surrounded by tufted grass, spread before his gaze, but he tramped stolidly on, hardly conscious of the lonely beauty of his environment. All that Jogman saw was the top of the large French hospital which marked the edge of the town and stood out clearly against the deep blue of the sea.

When he came to the highest point of the dunes he idly noticed the strange house surmounting it – a dwelling made from an overturned fishing-smack, with door and windows in its side. But a little farther on a habitation, stranger still, by accident attracted his attention. He had lain down for a moment's rest beside some bushes, and on turning his head was surprised to see a small window on a level with his eyes. The house was buried in the sand; its little door, scarce big enough to permit a man's body to pass through, was cunningly hidden by the brush and grass. Whoever lived within was hiding from the world.