The First Canadians in France

The second morning of our stay at Boulogne Reggy awoke feeling that he really must have a bath. Why he should consider himself different from all the other people in France, is a matter I am not prepared to discuss. A bath, in France, is a luxury, so to speak, and is indulged in at infrequent intervals – on fête days or some other such auspicious occasion.

He rang the bell to summon the maid. In a few moments a tousled blonde head-of-hair, surmounted by a scrap of old lace, was thrust inside the door.

"Monsieur?" it enquired.

Reggy prided himself upon his French – he had taken a high place in college in this particular subject, but, as he remarked deprecatingly, his French seemed a bit too refined for the lower classes, who couldn't grasp its subtleties.

"Je veux un bain," he said.

He was startled by the ease with which she understood. Could it be that he looked – but, no, he appeared as clean as the rest of us. At any rate, she responded at once in French:

"Oui, monsieur. I'll bring it in to you." She withdrew her head and closed the door.

"What the deuce," cried Reggy, as he sat up quickly in bed. "She'll bring in the bath! Does she take me for a canary?"

"A canary doesn't make such a dickens of a row as you do," growled the quartermaster, "looking for a bath at six a.m."

I tried to console him by reminding him that it was much better to have Reggy sweet and clean than in his present state, but he said it made small difference to him as he had a cold in his head anyway. Reggy, as an interested third party, began to look upon our controversy as somewhat personal, and was about to interfere when a rap at the door cut short further argument.

Two chambermaids entered the room, carrying between them a tin pan about two feet in diameter and six inches in depth. It contained about a gallon of hot water. They placed it beside his bed.

"Voici, monsieur!" cried she of the golden locks.

Reggy leaned over the side of the bed and looked down at it.

"Sacré sabre de bois;" he exclaimed. "It isn't a drink I want – it's a bath – 'bain' – to wash – 'laver' ye know!"

He made motions with his hands in excellent imitation of a gentleman performing his morning ablutions. They nodded approvingly, and laughed:

"Oui, monsieur– it is the bath."

"Well, I'll be d – " But before Reggy could conclude the two maids had smilingly withdrawn.

Reggy explored the room in his pyjamas and emptied our three water pitchers into the pan.

"Now I'll at least be able to get my feet wet," he grumbled. "Where's the soap?" he exclaimed a moment later. "There isn't a bally cake of soap in the room."

It was true. This is one of the petty annoyances of French hotels. Soap is never in the room and must be purchased as an extra, always at the most inopportune moment. After half an hour's delay Reggy succeeded in buying a cake from the porter, and his bath proceeded without further mishap. He then tumbled into bed again and fell asleep.

The maids shortly returned to carry out the bath, but when they saw how Reggy had exhausted all the water in the room they held up their hands in undisguised astonishment.

"Monsieur is extravagant," they exclaimed, "to waste so much water!" Fortunately "Monsieur" was fast asleep, so the remark passed unnoticed.

Later we approached the concierge, and asked here if there were not a proper bath-tub in the place. She laughed. Les Anglaiswere so much like ducks – they wanted to be always in the water.

"But I will soon have it well for you," she declaimed with pride. "I am having two bath tubs placed in the cellar, and then you may play in the water all the day."

At the time we looked upon this as her little joke, but when, weeks later, one early morning we noticed a tall Anglais walking through the hotel "lounge" in his pyjamas, with bath towel thrown across his arm, we realised that she had spoken truth. The bath tubs were really and truly in the cellar.

It was ten days before we succeeded in locating the building which we wanted for our hospital. All the suitable places in Boulogne were long since commandeered. Every large building, including all the best hotels, had been turned into hospitals, so that we were forced to go far afield. Finally, twenty-two miles from the city, we found a summer hotel exactly suited to our needs. It was in a pine forest, and close to the sea shore, an ideal spot for a hospital.

During these ten days the talent of our corps conceived the idea of holding a concert in the Jean d'arc hall.

At this time all theatres, music halls, and even "movies" in France were closed, and music was tabooed. France was taking the war seriously. She was mourning her dead and the loss of her lands. The sword had been thrust deeply into her bosom, and the wound was by no means healed. The streets were filled with widows, and their long black veils symbolised the depth of the nation's grief.

Let those who will admire the light-heartedness of Britain – Britain wears no mourning for her heroes dead. In Britain it is bourgeois to be despondent. We keep up an appearance of gaiety even when our hearts are heaviest. But France is too natural, too frank for such deception. What she feels, she shows upon the surface. At first our apparent indifference to our losses and hers was a source of irritation. France resented it; but now she knows us better. We are not indifferent – it is merely an attitude. The two nations now understand one another, and in that understanding lies the foundation of a firmer friendship.

With success and confidence in the future, France has risen out of the "slough of despond." She has recovered a portion of her old-time light-heartedness. We thought her effervescent, artificial and unstable; we have found her steadfast, true and unshakable. She has manifested throughout this desperate struggle a grim and immutable determination that has been the marvel of her allies and the despair of her enemies.

Realising the temporary distaste for amusement in France, our little concert was intended to be private and confined solely to our own unit. But a few of the new-found French friends of the boys waived their objections to entertainment, and as a special favour volunteered to come.

It was a strange and moving sight to see a Canadian audience in that far-off land, gravely seated in their chairs in the little hall, waiting for the curtain to rise. Our staff of Nursing Sisters honoured the boys with their presence, and every officer and man was there. Thirty or forty of the native population, in black, a little doubtful of the propriety of their action, were scattered through the khaki-clad.

The boys outdid themselves that night. How well they sang those songs of home! We were carried back thousands of miles across the deep to our dear old Canada, and many an eye was wet with tears which dare not fall.

But reminiscence fled when Sergeant Honk assumed the stage. Some one had told Honk he could sing, and – subtle flatterer – he had been believed. With the first wild squeaky note we were back, pell-mell in France. The notes rose and fell – but mostly fell; stumbling over and over one another in their vain endeavour to escape from Honk. Some maintained he sang by ear. Perhaps he did – he didn't sing by mouth and chords long lost to human ken came whistling through his nose. The song was sad – but we laughed and laughed until we wept again.

At the end of the first verse he seemed a little bewildered by the effect, but he had no advantage over us in that respect. At the end of the second verse, seeing his hearers in danger of apoplexy, he hesitated, and turning to Taylor, the pianist, muttered in an aside:

"They downt understand h'English, them bloakes – this ayn't a funny song – blimed if I downt quit right 'ere, and serve 'em jolly well right too!"

And under a perfect storm of applause and cries of protest, Honk departed as he had come – anglewise.

Tim and his brother then had a boxing-bout; and Cameron, who acted as Tim's second, drew shrieks of joy from his French admirers, between rounds, as he filled his mouth with water and blew it like a penny shower into the perspiring breathless face of Tim.

"A wee drap watter refraishes ye, Tim," he declared argumentatively after one of these showers.

"Doze Pea-jammers tinks it's funny," Tim puffed. "Let dem have a good time – dey ain't see'd nuthin' much lately – an' a good laff 'ull help dem digest dere 'patty de frog-grass!"

CHAPTER VII

It was my fate, or fortune, to be in charge of the advance party which was detailed to prepare for the opening of our hospital.

Captain Burnham and I, with about forty N.C.O.s and men, and with two days' rations, left Boulogne one cold November afternoon, a few days after the concert. After a slow train journey of three hours' duration, we were deposited at the railway station of a fishing village on the coast.

If Boulogne prides itself on its odour of dead fish, this little place must be an everlasting thorn in its side; for all the smells of that maladorous city fade into insignificance before the concentrated "incense" of the back streets of Etaples. We didn't linger unnecessarily in the village, but pushed on at the "quick-march" and, crossing the bridge, were soon on the broad paved road which runs through Le Touquet forest.

It was just dusk, and snow had fallen to the depth of about two inches; the most we saw in two winters during our stay in that part of France. It was a crisp, cold evening, and the swinging pace of our march did much to keep us warm.

From time to time we passed large summer residences and artistic villas partly hidden in the woods, but all the doors were closed, and all the windows were dark. Not a human being passed us on the road, and the noise of our shoes crunching through the crusted snow was the only sound which broke the solemn stillness of the air.

Our men too seemed oppressed with the weird solitude of the forest and seldom spoke above a whisper.

"Seems as though the world were dead," said Burnham, after we had walked nearly two miles in silence.

"Yes," I replied, "it gives one a creepy feeling passing through this long dark avenue of pines. The houses too look as if the inhabitants had fled and that no one had the courage to return."

"I understand the Bosches were through quite close to here," Burnham remarked, "in their first mad dash for Paris, and that some German soldiers were killed near the outskirts of this wood."