Midnight; we were sleeping in an orchard about a mile back of the lines; I was awakened by a sergeant and told to "Fall in." We did so, and the captain told us what we had to do.
"Boys, you are going to try and take Redoubt B; the artillery, what we have of it, will shell their first line for half an hour, and then will lift and play on their second line. While they are doing this you will go over. There's a lot of us who are not going to come back, but the job must be done and I know you will do it."
While he was speaking, thoughts of mother, father and home surged more vividly through my mind than at any other time, but moments for reflection were few. We swung out of the orchard on to the road and nothing could be heard except the dull sound of trudging feet. Flares would shoot up into the sky, to hang suspended for a moment, and die away leaving everything in gloom once more. Every now and then a muffled shriek or a coughing gurgle would tell of the passing or wounding of some gallant lad.
By that corner of hell we trudged silently, every man busy with his own thoughts. At last we turned up the death trap to our left, on the famous Z—— road. Over its ghastly piles of dead we filed on for many yards without touching solid ground, so thickly lay the dead.
At this time we were sighted by the Huns and treated to a fusillade of machine guns and rifle fire. We were now almost to shelter and the men made their way, as only men under fire can, to the safety of a well-constructed trench.
A short rest, then on again, this time up a shallow communication trench and then out behind a low-lying parapet. Three or four huge Bavarians lay with faces to the stars; they had been hurriedly laid to one side by our leading files.
The fitful light of the flares intensified the mute horror of the fallen jaw and the unspeakable terror of the dead faces. Still, such sights now failed to move us, and with but a perfunctory glance we passed on.
Here we waited in silence for the word. What an hour of mental agony. The steady hammer, hammer of the light guns, the monotonous bass muttering of the heavies, the shrill, hysterical crackle of machine gun and rifle and the shrieking and cracking of bursting shells seemed to sing hell's requiem to us poor mortals waiting. My God! that waiting. At such a time man's trivial thoughts sink into utter oblivion and the naked soul shows bare.
Apparently calm and indifferent, yet filled with a fear, the like of which no one except those who have waited as we waited can understand, we listened for the word.
READY FOR A RAID ON THE ENEMY'S TRENCHES. ~ THE RAIDING PARTY GOING TO "GIVE 'EM HELL."READY FOR A RAID ON THE ENEMY'S TRENCHES.THE RAIDING PARTY GOING TO "GIVE 'EM HELL."
"Over and at them," and the next thing I remember I was plunging forward through the mud of No Man's Land. On each side of me men were falling, cursing, praying and gasping, but unscathed I went on, two things mingling queerly in my head: One was the words of a doggerel song we sang on the march,
Wash me in the water that you wash the dixies inAnd I shall be whiter than the whitewash on the wall,
and the other, a dull wonder why I was not killed. After an "eternity" of plunging forward, we, a pitiful few, reached our objective, the Huns hurriedly leaving, that is those of them who had not joined their comrades in hell. Still our work was not yet done. The ground had been won, but to take it is one thing, to hold it another, and with all our officers gone and sixty per cent of the men, we must work to consolidate.
Just as I seized a sandbag full of earth to place in front of me, I felt a stinging smack on my ankle, as though I had been kicked. I turned to curse the man who I thought had kicked me and then I fell over with a scream of pain. My left foot was smashed completely by a soft-nosed bullet.
I had merely commenced to feel the sting of the pain when the Huns rushed us again and it was hand to hand. A Bavarian lunged toward me with rifle clubbed; I closed my eyes, as I was utterly helpless and waited for my skull to be smashed. The blow did not fall. I opened my eyes just in time to see our sergeant-major plunge his bayonet through the Bavarian's neck. Down flopped the Hun on all fours, with his hands one on each side convulsively clutching the bayonet, and he sat immediately opposite me, just a bare few yards intervening, during all the hours I was there, with a hellish grin on his face. When the pain of the wound would subside and I would doze away for a few minutes I would awaken with a shudder, as I thought the dead Hun was moving his face closer and closer toward mine.
At this time I had an undying instance of the devotion of my chum, Morgan. He also was wounded, not so badly as I was, but time and again, at a terrible risk to himself, he would crawl over and help me regain a more comfortable position, all the time suffering intensely from his own wound, which was very painful.
Nothing could be done for any of the wounded, so serious was the position of the remnant of the boys. Their business was to hold what they had won and the wounded must do the best they could. The remnant, however, were of the Fifth and they held until relieved and reinforcements arrived twenty-four hours later.
Once during that weary day, the Germans put over such a terrific barrage of shrapnel, that I, for one, thought it impossible for any of our wounded to survive. Such is the mercy of the Hun. Hour after hour passed, casualties mounted steadily up, but those laddies held. As time went on, the pain in my wounded leg became excruciating, and, forgetting the etiquette of the Western Front that a man must not squeal too much when he is hit, I groaned aloud. I shall be ashamed to meet many of my comrades in later days, for they remember my whimpering.
Night came, darkness being heralded by a storm of strafeing on both sides. The bullets thudded about the top of the water hole, while the noise of the strife drowned my yells, as the gangrene slowly ate its way up my limb. Hour after hour I lay, till at last that grand sergeant-major of ours came along and gave me a nip of rum. Oh, you psalm-singers, who raise your holy hands in horror at the thought of the perdition the boys are bound for, if they should happen to take a nip of rum to keep a little warmth in their poor battered bodies, I wish you could all lie shivering in a hole full of icy liquid mud, with every nerve in your body quivering with pain, with the harrowing moans of the wounded forever ringing in your ears, with hell's own din raging all around. Any one of you would need a barrel of it to keep his miserable life in his body.
Here and now let me say, the man who refuses the rum issue is considered a fool.
Picture to yourselves the dawn after a bitter cold night in the trenches. Weary soldiers wet to the skin, working all night in a most dangerous place, probably expecting an immediate attack from the enemy, dirty, vermin covered, muddy, and without one single comfort. If rum helps under these conditions who can say nay. Some people have the idea that the men are liberally dosed with rum before they go over the top. This may be true in some instances, but as far as I know, no British troops ever need that kind of Dutch courage to go over the top. All the rum I ever got during my whole term of service in Flanders would not make a man drunk, and it is a question whether the amount I had for three months in the summer would make a seasoned toper unsteady. All that a man gets is about the third part of a small cup every night and morning.
The following from the LondonWinning Postjust about expresses my thoughts in this regard:
I suppose we're a lot of heathens,Don't live on the angel plan,But we're sticking it here in the trenches,And doing the best we can.
When preachers over in Blighty,Who talk about Kingdom Come,Ain't pleased with our performance,And are wanting to stop our rum,
Water, they say, would be better;Water! Great God, out here?Why, we're up to our knees in water—Do you think we're standing in beer?
Oh, it sounds all right from the pulpit,When you sit in a cushioned pew;But try four days in the trenches,And see what water will do.
Some of the coffin-faced BlightersI think must be German-bred;It's time that they called in the doctor,For it's water they have in the head.
That nip of rum put hope into my heart once more, and I bit my lips and stifled my agony as well as I could.
Dawn broke, and just as the first streaks crept into the sky, the firing died down and that mystery which broods over the wonder of night turning into day pervaded outraged nature and even warring man. As I watched, the details of my watery retreat became plainer and plainer; I grew ashamed of my cowardice, and I did my best to stifle my groans.
At last Sergeant Purslowe, a replica of Campbell in coolness and leadership, noticed my plight and immediately set to work to get me carried out. My comrades were only too willing, but they waited in vain for a stretcher. Alas! There were entirely too few to accommodate half the wounded. Nothing for it but to carry me on their backs. Oh! the agony of that rough ride, and oh! the sacrifice of those blood brothers of mine. With my foot hanging by a shred of flesh, the bones grating against one another, shivering with cold, yet with perspiration standing out from every pore with the pain, I was gradually carried from the line we had taken. Once when passing a huge shell crater, the pain not yet having robbed me of my senses, I asked to be left till night-time in its shelter. It was broad daylight, and there was that little bunch of men risking utter annihilation just that a stricken chum might live.
They cursed my groans; they cursed the Huns; in fact, their language was sulphurous, yet I noticed I was saved from all jar or jolt, as far as they could prevent it; and when I asked to be left in the shell hole they cursed me for a blankety-blank fool, and profanely refused to do it. Think of it, you psalm-singers, who are worried over the morals of your soldiers. Picture those men, in full view of the Huns, in broad daylight, refusing to leave their chum at any cost. Any minute, any second, might blast them off the face of the earth, yet no thought for their own safety, until "Shorty" was at the dressing station. Since that time, Campbell, Shields and Cameron, have paid the supreme price, while Muirhead, Mead and Nish are crippled for life.
It was curious to watch their hesitation, even in the face of the danger they were in, to get me over the parapet into what was now the second line trench. They hated to cause me pain. A sympathetic Cockney, of the L.R.B.'s, gently lowered me to the fire-step and proceeded to get a stretcher. My ride now, although terribly painful, was decidedly easier. They tied my wounded leg to the sound leg, thus preventing that horrible rubbing together of the fractured bones.
Reaching the dressing station I shook hands—for the last time, alas—with Campbell and Shields and the others, and received a huge draught of scalding tea. The dressing station was completely empty and it was thought I would have to wait until night, but one belated ambulance driver came to have a final look to see if any of the boys needed a ride down. I was hoisted aboard and oblivion promptly followed. I awoke to find myself lying in the middle of a road on a stretcher and a doctor smiling down at me.
"How are you, son?" said he.
"Not so bad," said I, "is it good enough for Blighty?"
"Yes," replied the genial saw-bones. "I'm going to take that foot off right now, and I'm going to hurt you, son. It's hardly worth while giving you any dope, since I've only to cut through that bit of flesh. Are you game?"
"Go ahead," I replied, "I'm sick and tired of seeing the thing."
Smiling down at me, to reassure me, he reached in his pocket, produced two cigars, placed one in his mouth, lit it, then placed it in mine. The other he placed in the pocket of my shirt. I lay back, averting my eyes, expecting every minute to feel a horrible cutting sensation. Then I heard the doctor sigh. I looked up and to my astonishment my foot was gone. Such was the amazing gentleness and skill of the wonderful doctor; God bless him wherever he is!
My foot gone, I knew that my fighting and marching days were over, and the feeling of safety after what I had undergone brought on the inevitable reaction. I became light-headed, and shortly after my senses left me completely, and I remember only vaguely snatches of my journey from the firing line to the embarkation port for Blighty. Several more operations on my leg I knew had taken place, but except for a night at, I believe, Le Touquet, I remember little.
Here a little French nurse attended to six of us. As far as I can recollect, we were in the room of a chateau, for the walls were covered with old tapestry. Oh! the wonderful little French lady. No task was too mean for her to perform for us. In my weak condition I wanted to stroke her spotless apron, to see if she were real, and that little French nurse was the first angel I ever saw. I doubt whether I shall ever see any angels after this life finishes for me, but if anyone doubtful of their future in the next world wishes to see the real angels, let them go to any of our big hospitals in France or Britain; there they will see them. God bless those magnificent women of France and Britain. And I know, before the Hun is finally vanquished, the women of the United States will be vieing with their sisters overseas in their devotion to the land they represent and the holiness of the cause to which they have so freely given their stalwart men folk.
At last I was loaded on the Blighty ship, and my journey to heaven commenced. So far as I remember, nothing of moment happened on the trip. Southampton was our destination, and the first breath of air I took into my lungs, when lying on the deck of the ship there, seemed the sweetest thing I ever tasted—free from all smell of bursting shells, free from taint of rotting bodies, free from the danger of flying death, and, above all, the air of England.
And now I came near to losing what the Huns had failed to take. The people, when we were being moved from ship to train in their desperation to show their sympathy for us, showered kindness upon us. Right here and now I want to say I would lose fifty legs, if I had them, or fifty arms, for those wonderful people; and in my weak condition I was in danger of dying from sheer excitement and happiness.
Up through that wondrous green country side we sped, and oh, how I persisted in lifting myself from my cot, in spite of the protests of the nurses, to look out on that smiling land. What a change from the utter devastation of that hell's land from which I had come. At Birmingham we stopped for a space, being met by a party of nurses, doctors and Red Cross people. Oh, their wondrous kindness! In spite of the pain, I considered myself the luckiest man alive to be so spoilt. I often wish I was wounded again.
Leaving Birmingham, from where I sent a short message to my mother, acquainting her of the fact of having "got mine," the train did not stop till we reached Liverpool. We were met at the depot by ambulance cars, and on these we were loaded. I was so happy, I swore at the driver so picturesquely, and so fluently, that he stopped his car to congratulate me. Passing through the city we were bombarded by the populace with every conceivable dainty they could get. Some of them landed on my game leg, and I again earned the driver's profane admiration.
Suddenly I became aware that the man on the other stretcher was trying to attract my attention.
"What is it, chum?" said I.
In a husky whisper he answered, "Shot through the guts, and I ain't seen a bloody German. Ain't that the devil?" I agreed and nodded my acquiescence. To the anxious ones I am glad to say he recovered, and, although not fit for more active service, is still doing fine.
Arrived at the hospital we were unloaded and carried to our respective cots. When they set me down by the side of what was to be my bed, the orderly says to me:
"What's the matter with you?"
"Oh, just a bit of a wound in the foot."
"Is that all?" said he.
"Take a look," says I. He did so.
"Aw hell," said he, "I was going to cuss yer fer swinging the lead, and going to tell yer ter get on th' bed yerself, and I begs yer pardon. All right, son."
Next along came Doctor Evans, who, apparently oblivious of my yells and sulphurous remarks, proceeded to examine my leg.
"Another piece to come off," says he, "and it will have to be done in a few hours' time or you'll lose the whole limb."
I was sick of the wretched thing.
"Go ahead, sir," said I. Then after a few hours' waiting I started for the "pictures"—for my last carving. Now although I remembered little of my journey through France, I remembered sufficient to know that I had used some typical Canadian profanity while under the influence of ether. Out there I did not mind, for only men were present at the carving, but here was a situation. A nurse was accompanying me to the operating theater. "Oh, horrors!" thought I, "I know I shall cuss. What will she think? I mustn't swear, oh! I mustn't swear!" Trying to impress on my subconscious mind that I must not swear while under the influence of ether, I was placed on the table and—oblivion.
I came to myself with a yell. I fancied I had been rising to the surface of a deep ocean, as black as ink, and just as I was about to drown I awoke. Taking stock of my surroundings, I looked across the ward. A man was looking at me and laughing till I thought he would hurt himself.
"Well! what the devil is amusing you?" I asked irritably, the horrible nausea having its effect.
"Well, my son," was the reply, "I've been in Africa, India, Singapore, and a few places on this old globe, but I'm hanged if I ever heard language till I heard you a little while ago. Whew! it was an education."
Then he told me the story. All had gone well until I had been placed on my cot. Now a man will, under the influence of an anaesthetic, apparently seem to know what is going on around him, and will answer questions coherently, though he knows nothing about it. I had been lying on my cot a few minutes when an orderly came by, carrying a tray of enamel cups. He stumbled and fell, upsetting the tray and its contents with a crash. It was then I reached to heights of superb eloquence, and I was in disgrace.
It was curious to watch the nurses glance furtively in my direction with looks of mingled horror and curiosity. They, too, had heard swearing in their career of healing broken, fighting men, but in one apparently so young and unsophisticated—"it is just shocking!"
After the horrible nausea had left me, the nurse asked me what I would like, and what I had longed for a thousand and one times in France came to my mind. "A bottle of Bass or Guinness'," I said. Back she came with a little of the Guinness' in a cup, and I sank into the first dreamless sleep I had had for ages.
I was awakened by the pain in my limb, so began to interest myself in the other patients. Oh, the exhibition of patience, courage and suffering, both on the part of patients and the doctors and nurses.
Doctor, or Major Evans came to see me. "How are you, laddie?"
"Doing all right, sir."
"Good boy! From the prairies, aren't you?"
"Yes, sir."
"You need fresh air, for a constitution like you possess was never made indoors, and I will have you carted out into the open air every fine day we have."
He was as good as his word, and the orderly duly came and, with the help of the sister, I was taken out on to the lawn in front of the ward. I had been there about a quarter of an hour when another patient was carried out and his bed placed alongside mine. I turned to look at the other fellow and a familiar face glared at me. Spontaneously from both of us—"Well, I'll be damned!"
It was Bill Moore, of my own company, sometimes called "Rosie," for a pet name.
"When were you hit?" I asked.
"In the charge a week back."
"Not when we lost all but two of the officers at Z——?"
THE "WAR TWINS"THE "WAR TWINS"
My chum Moore and I enlisted at the same time, served together at the front, lost our left legs in the same fight, and are now engaged in the same work—trying to help the Cause.
"Yes," said he.
"I got mine there too."
"The devil, you say!"
"Sure," I said.
"What you got?" he asked.
"An explosive bullet."
"Well, I'm jiggered, I was hit by one, too. But where did it take you?"
"In the ankle."
"This is some coincidence, kid, mine was in the ankle, too."
"Which one?"
"The left."
"Same here. When did you get your final chunk taken off?" I asked.
"About thirty hours back."
"Same here. But, say, who gave you the right to mimic me?"
We talked and talked until exhausted and we were told to stop it.
This wonderful chain of coincidences would scarcely be complete were I to leave out the fact that we are of the same age, enlisted at the same time, in the same company, and, as related above, were wounded at the same time, in the same battle, on the same day. And, to make the chain perfect, we received our artificial legs on the same day in the city of Toronto, Ontario. And, the finishing touch to the list, here we are again, working together for all we are worth in the task of getting recruits through the British-Canadian Recruiting Mission in Chicago. Little wonder is it that we are christened the "War Twins."
Time sped rapidly in the hospital, and the Angel of Healing, coupled with the untiring ministrations of two of the dearest women, my night, and my day nurses, rapidly brought me back to my normal condition of health.
I cannot go further without telling of the wonderful power that lies in a good woman. Nurse Daniels, the night sister, called me her "model patient." I suppose she called every other patient the same thing, unknown to the others. This woman could make men feel better by simply smiling at them. It was pitiful to see the eagerness with which the boys watched for her coming at night. In she would walk, erect as a guardsman, looking the perfect English lady in her uniform.
"Good evening, children."
"Good evening, sister."
"Have you been good boys today?"
"The little Canuck has been trying to swipe some of your photographs, sister."
"Oh, the little rascal! Doesn't his face belie his character?" With such light badinage she would make her way through the ward, smoothing a pillow, soothing some poor lad's agony with those wonderful cool hands of the born healer, jokingly chiding a few of us slightly wounded men for making so much of our wounds in order to get a caress from her, but we always got the caress.
One night, in my restlessness, I had completely removed the dressing from my stump, and that wonderful woman had redressed the stump, brushed my hair, or what remained of it at that time, and departed to other duties without even awakening me.
One of the things which most troubled me during the night was the recurrence, regularly for many nights, of a torturing dream, in which I fancied I was being rushed into the fighting again, with my foot hanging on by a shred, and the pain that I felt in my dream, as well as the terror, would cause me to wake up with a frightened shriek, but almost instantly the gentle, cooling hands of my angel nurse would be soothing my aching head, and in a few moments I would be myself again.
The blessed woman seemed to be possessed of a wonderful intuition, for never would I want a glass of lemonade, or some other soothing nourishment, but it was on the locker at my hand before I asked for it.
The attentions showered upon us by visitors were so many and varied that it would take a volume in itself to recount them. Some of them have afforded me a good laugh, more than once. They were all heartfelt and sincere, comical as some of them were, in their desire to do something for us, no matter how small the courtesy might be. Once when careening about on a wheel-chair, amusing the rest of the boys by my antics, the head sister brought in a lady visitor. This lady had befriended a Canadian boy before he went to the front, and she thought the world of him. The lad had been wounded in the same action as myself, and, learning of his being in the hospital at Liverpool, she hastened to try and find him. Incidentally the good lady had some little comfort for every Canadian boy she ran across.
The lady peered at me through her spectacles, and the head sister, noticing her short-sightedness, came to the rescue with the following:
"No, although this little fellow came over with the Canadians, he is not the one you are looking for, for he is only an Englishman."
"Dear, oh dear, you don't tell me! Only an Englishman," the old lady repeated, half to herself and, smiling at the thought, she resumed her search for the Canadian.
In the light of the detailed accounts given in the newspapers of the United States and Canada of the splendid work performed by the Canadian soldiers on the Western Front, it is barely possible that the lapsus lingua of the nurse may find a responsive chord in the minds of some in America. There is no doubt it would make an admirable talking point for German propagandists in the spread of a certain phase of their humbug.
Another dear old lady, in the fullness of her heart, and thoroughly sincere, came into the ward one visitors' day. She carried in her hand a bag of candy acid drops, which is often advised as an antidote for thirst. It would take a good many acid drops to ease the parched throat of a wounded man on a hot summer's night.
"Oh, you poor dear boys," said she, as she gravely placed two of the acid drops on our lockers, "how you have suffered for us! Sometimes in the night you may get thirsty, and one of these drops will quench your thirst."
Out of respect for the old dear, we held our outburst until she was well out of the door. The thought of some of those tough old campaigners alleviating their thirst with an acid drop was so irresistably funny that it is a wonder some of the fellows didn't crack some of the stitches of their wounds, so convulsed were they. One Tommy was particularly uproarious.
"Fawncy the old deah coming round of a morning in the ditch and 'anding us hout one of those hacid drops in plice o' the rum ration! Just fawncy!" And I thought he would split.
Another time when my war twin had laboriously wheeled himself to the hospital gates to see the visitors come in on visitors' day, he had his knee covered with a blanket, and no one could really tell what ailed him. Bill sat thoughtfully watching the "sweet-hearts, wives and muvvers everlastingly passing by," and fuming somewhat to himself at the tardiness of the demure little maiden who had claimed him as her especial charge. While waiting impatiently, a dear old lady approached. She carried a little bag of plums.
"Good-day, my boy, how are you feeling today?"
"Oh, fairly well, madam, thank you," said Bill.
"You are a Canadian," noticing the Canadian badge Bill wore proudly on the breast of his hospital jacket.
"Yes, I am a Canadian."
"From what part of Canada do you come?"
"Saskatchewan, madam."
"Dear me, and how far is that?"
"About five thousand miles."
"And are you badly wounded?"
"Oh, no," exhibiting his legs, "the canary flew out of its cage and bit me."
"How terrible! but how wonderful! how magnificent! Just fancy, you have come all that distance to fight for us, and lost your poor leg, too. How can we possibly reward you! Won't you have a plum?" holding out the bag, and Bill extracted a plum.
"Oh, that's nothing at all, ma'am," said Bill. "I'd do the same thing over again, and lose my other leg, if necessary, for the Old Flag."
"How perfectly splendid and noble of you! We never, never can repay you sufficiently. Oh, do have another plum."
Bill gravely and thankfully accepted the other plum, and the good old lady proceeded on her mission of kindness.
When I had become sufficiently strong to take notice of my surroundings, and the love of life had come back to me, I began to wonder how it fared with my own immediate chums. Campbell, Cameron, Muirhead, and Nish, and Shields were all right, for they had carried me from the line, but I was anxious about Libby and Morgan and little Fitzpatrick. Billy Meade, who has not had the prominence in this record that he deserves, was intact, for I remember he almost wept when I said good-bye to him at the dressing station. Bill had been one of my intimates, but so quiet and unassuming in his manner that, knowing him as I do, and knowing that he had returned recently to Canada, it is with diffidence I mention his name at all, but the spirit of Bill was so thoroughly akin to that of my comrades, I must relate a little story about him.
When we started for France, Bill Meade and his chum, Bill Richards, or "Farmer Jones," as we nicknamed him, were in London on French leave. Returning to Salisbury Plain they found the battalion gone. Immediately those two stowed themselves away among the baggage of a departing artillery brigade. They managed successfully to board the artillery transport, and when the ship was well on her way they showed themselves.
They were arrested and taken before a British officer at S——. Such men delighted the heart of this officer, and he saw to it that they were sent along to us. Our officers, of course, reprimanded them for their conduct, but I know that they often refer to these two boys as men to be proud of.
Little Fitzpatrick wrote me from a hospital in London, and I was relieved to hear from the laddie. In writing, though, he sorrowfully told me that Libby must be dead, for nothing had been heard of him since the night before the charge. As a matter of fact, he was reported as being killed.
And now I was to have another exhibition of Morgan's peculiar gift of second sight. My chum was located in a hospital in Dublin and at first chance he wrote me. I quote from his letter. He was referring to Libby and the general belief that our fearless little comrade had "gone West."
"Libby is alive! I know it. I saw him last night wearing sergeant's stripes, and you know they can't kill that little black-whiskered stiff."
Next morning I received a letter from Libby himself. He was badly hurt, but alive and in a hospital at Boulogne. He had been hit by shrapnel, and one of them had actually pierced a valve of his heart. In spite of this he lived and actually re-enlisted to go back to the front. After his discharge in Canada, although he hated the thought, he said he felt that his place was back with the lads in Flanders. He lied to the doctors so artistically that he got back to the firing line. But the life had told its tale and poor Lib was again returned and discharged.
That his wonderful nerve has not yet deserted him, let me say that Bill Moore and I attended his wedding in Saskatoon, a few months ago.
Fitzpatrick, only sixteen years old, returned to Canada, but he felt just as Lib felt, and his wound healing perfectly he became sound as ever and again enlisted. He has since been wounded again, healed again, and at this time is probably fighting round Cambrai. Just think of it, you slackers! Only nineteen and the veteran of a dozen tremendous battles.
After being spoiled by everybody, I at last was sent from the hospital to a convalescent camp. Here I cut loose, the reaction setting in. I was arrested and cautioned, and, having thoughts of a visit home, I decided to behave myself for awhile and apply for sick leave. My repeated applications were for awhile ignored, but at last I said to myself that I must swing the lead. I asked to be paraded in front of the Colonel. I managed to acquire a look of awful suffering on my face, as I walked wearily in to see him on my crutches. Without waiting to be told, I flopped into a chair with a groan, the realism of which surprised myself.
"Well, what is the matter, son?" said the Colonel, as he subsided into his chair after the start he had at my wonderful groan.
In a husky voice, like that of a man absolutely worn out, I replied, "I would like a few weeks' leave, sir."
"Oh, and for why, pray? Are you not comfortable here?"
I began to unwrap my stump, and presently held it up for inspection. "Look at it, sir," with another splendid groan.
"What is the matter with it? Yes, it does look inflamed."
I knew it was inflamed; I had suffered quite a little pain making the stump acquire the inflamed appearance it had for this particular occasion, and I wanted him to see it before it lost its color. He touched it, and he nearly collapsed as I let a bawl out of me that shook the building.
"Gee whiz, sir, don't, for goodness sake, hit it again."
"Why, my man, I barely touched it."
"Oh! Oh! Oh!" I moaned.
"You will have to go back to the hospital," said he.
This did not suit me a bit, and I thought I had shammed too realistically.
"But, sir, I have people in England, and they'd look after me fine."
"Where do they live?"
"Derbyshire, sir."
"Hm! Can you get the best of medical attention there?"
"Why yes, sir. There is a military hospital within ten minutes' walk of my home." (It was twenty minutes by road, and an hour by car.)
"Your mother lives there?"
"Yes, sir."
He turned to the acting clerk.
"Write this man an indefinite furlough."
I nearly forgot to keep my look of agony in my delight, for that meant at least a month.
"You must report every day to the hospital there."
"All right, sir." (I just went once to square it with the matron, whom I knew.)
In my excitement and joy I was almost out of the room before I remembered I was a very sick man. However, the day was saved by a really marvelous yell of pain I managed to emit as I was crutching out of the door.
FEELING GOOD IN BLIGHTY.FEELING GOOD IN BLIGHTY.
My journey home was one long series of examples of the treatment of the women of England to their fighting men. I had to make two changes of trains and on both occasions I was literally carried by those tireless women from one train to the other. Nothing but the most luxurious traveling was good enough for me. In fact, I really was ashamed of myself, for the little sacrifice I had made was a drop in the ocean compared to that of many men in all parts of the land.
Home at last. As before, no wild hurling of ourselves into each others' arms, but just a prosaic question from my mother:
"Well, how are you, laddie?"
"Feeling fine. Got anything to eat, Mater?"
Thus was all emotion covered.
My father came in the morning to see me. I tried just for fun to surprise him into some display of emotion by suddenly slipping out in front of him. I did not know the real Englishman till then. All he did was to pale a little, and then, coolly eyeing me from head to foot, he remarked, "They didna get thee after all."
"No, Dad, I got away very lucky."
"Tha did; let's go and hae a look round."
Just like that grim old land today. No fuss, no braggadocio, just a quiet, grim resolution to see it through without wasting time on any heroics. Thus are the English misunderstood. Self-effacement is not comprehended by some people, and they mistake the quiet of the Old Land for lethargy, and believe that damnable lie manufactured so skilfully by German propagandists about the quitting Britisher. When the history of the war is really written, if other nations will be fair and forget their inherent prejudice toward the British, they will understand something of what they have done for the cause of humanity in this War of Wars.
I cannot let this opportunity pass without a final word to the man, who, if he is of proper age and physically fit, has not, as yet, for some reason or other, come forward prepared if necessary to make the sovereign sacrifice for the cause of human liberty and those ideals which are our blessed heritage, and for which our fathers fought and bled and died.
It may be that some put forward as the reason for their staying out of khaki that the pay allotted them, together with the governmental allowance, does not admit of their families living in the same circumstances of comfort which they have been accustomed to enjoy; it may be there is someone who is helpless, depending on your effort for support; perhaps it is a fear that your business will suffer from your absence, as no one can care for it with the same practical efficiency as you yourself; or it may be that the fear of bodily injury—wounds or death—has deterred you from getting into the ranks.
If any of these be the cause and there is any human way of surmounting the obstacle, in the name of everything that the honor of freemen holds sacred, rouse your sleeping manhood and remove the obstacle. By all that you hold dear, do not go through life branded with the abominable taint ofslacker. Even if death should befall, it is unutterably more worthy to die serving the cause of all men, than to live in the ever-present consciousness of duty undone, solely because you are a coward.
If it should be your lot to receive a wound, serious or slight, or come through the fire unscathed, you will not then have to "hold your manhood cheap whilst any speaks" who fought with us in France.
Of course if your moral turpitude is of such a low order that the preservation of your life and limbs is of vastly more importance than any other consideration whatsoever, then there is no appeal of mine, or anyone else's, that can pierce your hide of self-satisfied consciousness. But I trust it will be my good fortune that none such will read this tale.
The aims and ambitions of the German high command, which have permeated the entire German nation, and which have caused them to prepare for this war for generations, and waged with a scientific brutality that out-Herods Herod—formulating and carrying out excesses, that in point of exquisite torture and overwhelming number, surpass the dreams of any ancient or modern potentate of fiendishness, has made them an outcast among the nations of earth that have for their ideal of citizenship the undying pronouncement of the constitution of the Greatest Republic—that all men are endowed with an equal right to life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness.
Therefore, I say, with all the earnestness that is in me, to you who have not settled this thing in your conscience, think what it means for you and your children and your children's children if through any mischance, the Fates should decree a victory in this war for the Teutons! Do not, I beseech you, lull yourself into a state of torpid inactivity with the idea that there are plenty of men to do the fighting without making it necessary for you to take the risk. If most of the men took that attitude, it would only be a question of time, and not a very long time, when the Hun would be knocking at our gates in America. Can you imagine anything worse that could befall the world?
And to those who cannot possibly go to the firing line by reason of physical infirmities or age, or other reasons, there are numberless ways in which you can assist the great work; there are many things to be done at home which are just as necessary as the fighting in the front line trench.
To my mind one of the most important things to be done here is to put the quietus once and for all upon the disloyal tendencies of several citizens whose sympathies are avowedly ranged alongside the Central Powers.
It is almost incomprehensible to think that any man, or set of men, who have made not only a comfortable living, but amassed fortunes in this land, and have enjoyed the freedom of our institutions and our laws, should avail themselves of the protection given them by that very freedom and those very laws to undermine the power of the land they have sworn to defend. Yet, such is the fact. They are so short-sighted and their skulls are so thick that they cannot discern the difference between freedom of thought and action, and German Kultur or German efficiency.
It is not necessary to enter into a dissertation here upon the German point of view, because those who read this book have, I take it, long since settled in their minds the absolute unrighteousness of the German proposition and the corresponding righteousness of that for which the Allies are contending, and if by chance the tale should fall into the hands of any of the proponents of Kultur, they would not understand the explanation if I made it.
So, I say, if any of these human snakes cross your path and their traitorous activities, either through the spoken word or the disloyal action, come under your observation, it is just as vital, if not more so, that you take the necessary steps to see that it is not repeated as it is to perform any other service for the cause.
In conclusion, let me say to you, prospective fighting men who have not yet signed up, and I say it in all humbleness of spirit and with a deep sense of regret that I was not permitted to do more than I did, that if I had it to do over again and knew beforehand that I was going to be maimed, as I have been, I would still go and thank God for the opportunity of going.