Chapter IV: Epilogue

We are grateful to those who were beside James during his last days, for telling us about them, as well as for the loving care which they bestowed upon him, and the kind words of appreciation which they wrote.

Captain Campbell was one of the last to be with him. He writes:--

'Poor Lusk was hit shortly after noon on Christmas Day. He had come up to the trenches[1] for his usual morning tour along with Major Graham. He had looked into Keith's and my 'dug-out,' and then gone along into 'A' Company's lines himself, the C.O. (Major Graham) having preceded him by a few minutes, when the trench-mortar came that laid him out.

[1] This was near Thiepval.

'He apparently did not hear or see the mortar coming. It was one of these infernal 'oil cans' (a cylindrical shaped object about two feet long and nine inches in diameter, filled with explosive); it landed on the parapet, and blew him against the corner of a communication trench which he was just passing. His ear was badly lacerated, and he was buried up to the shoulders in the falling debris (sand-bags, mud, &c.). It was only a matter of seconds before there was somebody there digging him out, which was done in five or ten minutes. The M.O., who was in the trenches at the time, bandaged him up, and he was carried out. I believe he was more or less conscious all the time, though he didn't appear to hear properly. Either the shock of the explosion, or his fall against the trench, broke the vertebrae of his neck. He passed away in Hospital at Amiens on the evening of the 28th December.

'Major Graham, the Padre and our M.O., myself and twenty men were present at his funeral which took place at 3.30 p.m. on the 30th. He is buried a mile and a half or so out of Amiens.

'I can appreciate how great must be the loss to you all. He was out here for one thing, and that was to give his best for the job he was on, and he gave it all the time. He seemed to be everything the average fellow would like to be, but never is. He was the best of all.'

The Rev. Alfred Coutts, the Chaplain of the Battalion, wrote on the evening of Christmas Day:--

'Colonel Kay is home on leave this week, or I feel sure he would have wished to write to you himself, and express the profound sorrow of every Officer and man in the Battalion, that your son Captain Lusk was unfortunately wounded in the trenches this morning. He had not been long there before a German trench-mortar fired the 'oil can' as the soldiers call it, which exploded near the trench along which he was passing at the time. Happily the Medical Officer, Dr. Rawlins, was visiting the trenches, and was at your son's side within two minutes. He was very quickly got down to headquarters in the village, where he was further attended to, and the Doctor afterwards went to the Field Ambulance with him. There it was decided to send the patient to the Hospital at Amiens without delay. He is wounded in the head--about the left ear--but he spoke to the Medical Officer quite calmly and rationally, and asked about the nature of his wound. As you can readily understand, he is suffering considerably from shock, but the Regimental Doctor and the Doctors of the Field Ambulance were unable to say more. A further medical examination would take place at Amiens, where they have X-ray apparatus. He bore the journey by motor to the Field Ambulance well, and we are all hoping to hear good news about him in a day or two. It has been a sad Christmas for his comrades here, for Captain Lusk was the honoured and beloved friend and brother of us all. Absolutely fearless at all times, he has greatly impressed us by his goodness. I shall miss very much his kindly presence--for he has been most helpful to me in my work.'

Captain Lusk's orderly, Private Isaac Devon, has told us that when he was hit, he was in the act of distributing cigarettes to the men in the trenches, and wishing them a Happy Christmas. The following is from a letter which Private Devon wrote to his wife on the night of Christmas Day:--

'It is with a very sore heart I write to you to-night. My dear Captain was wounded to-day very seriously, and I can't tell how much yet. I am in Hospital just now with him; the doctors are operating on him with X-rays.... He is very done. I am so sorry for his poor Mother. This has been a bad Christmas for us. Oh, my poor Captain ... he knew me, and knows I am near him. His wounds are mostly about the head. It was a trench mortar. He was buried and we had to dig him out. But I hope he pulls through; the doctor that dressed him at the trenches told me the shock is the worst; but I am afraid he is disfigured for life. I am waiting to hear how the operation goes on. I can't tell you any more to-night, but I will be with him till he is sent to England if he is spared. I will give you full news to-morrow.... you know how I am upset about him.'

Kind letters came also from the Chaplains, the Doctor and the Sister in the South Midland Casualty Clearing Station at Amiens; and he was at the last laid to rest by the Chaplain and some of his comrades in the Battalion which he had loved so well:--

'JANUARY 10, 1916.

'I shall never forget Christmas Day here, and your brother will always be linked in my memory with it. Sorrow and joy were intermingled during that day in a strange and wonderful way. I dressed as Father Christmas, and went round all the Wards with a present for each man... Then at the close of the day came the summons to see your brother. He had been put to bed and everything possible had been done to restore his circulation. He was very glad I had come. He was too weak to bear much, but I sat by his side for about three-quarters of an hour. The lights had been turned low, but I prayed quietly by his bedside, as is my custom when quietness is an absolute necessity. It was a sad close to Christmas Day, seated by the bedside of one who had been so badly hurt.

'Next morning he had brightened up considerably, and was very grateful that I had seen him the previous night. He gave me his Mother's address, and was most anxious that I should not say too much about his injuries. There seemed a possibility of his recovery; my judgment was in suspense about that, but I was not without hope. Next day I brought a pot of white primulas. He wanted them put where he could see them. So I arranged them high enough where his eyes could always rest upon their white beauty. "These mean that Spring is coming," I said to him, but I did not know then how near Eternal Spring was to him....

'He was most gracious and gentle in his ways, and so thankful for all that was done.'

EDWARD SKILTON, C.F.

'DECEMBER 29, 1915.

'I grieve very much to tell you that your son, Captain Lusk, took a turn for the worse last night. Captain Skilton, the Presbyterian Chaplain who has written to you informing you of the serious wounds your brave son received, would naturally have written to you now, but he is away at the present time. However, he asked me to write and keep you informed about your son's condition in his absence. The turn for the worse which came last night was somewhat unexpected, in spite of the fact that we knew the serious nature of your son's condition.

'We hoped, however, that, please God, his life might be spared. But I grieve to have to tell you that He has ordered otherwise. After your son's collapse the end came very rapidly last night and he passed away....

'If it is of the slightest comfort to you to know it, I should like you to feel that your son, after what he has undergone for his country's sake, spent his last days among friends, for his doctor and his nurse, Miss Bulman, quickly formed a great regard for him. Miss Bulman, I know, is writing to you herself, and I know how she has nursed your son with the greatest tenderness and care.'

BASIL ASTON
(_Chaplain_).

'DECEMBER 29, 1915.

'My heart is very sad as I sit down to write to you again. You will have heard ere this that Captain Lusk passed away last evening,--so quietly he went, it was hard to realize that he had really left us, and there had been such great hopes of his recovery. After his first night with us the improvement seemed to be so steady, and yesterday he spoke so brightly and seemed so much more himself in every way. Several times he spoke of you, and his keen desire that you should not be told that he was seriously injured. He asked not to be moved from here till he was stronger, and remarked how he enjoyed the sounds of the children's voices playing in the Convent garden. Our Hospital is the other half of the Convent. He also asked to see his tunic, which I had brought up, and in examining it we admired the little "piece of ribbon." Then in his gallant way he remarked "Yes, they were very good to give me that; we had a rough time, but they certainly have been good to me." I could only feel how very much more we would do if we could, to save the lives of men like that.'

K. BULMAN
(_Sister-in-Charge_).

'JANUARY 5, 1916.

'He was quite conscious until breathing ceased. He never complained of any pain and I believe his suffering at the end was of very short duration....

'In the short time I looked after him I appreciated his noble character, his patience and bravery, and was particularly struck by the gratitude he showed both to myself and the Sisters who looked after him. I attended his funeral and realized what a loss his brother Officers had sustained by his death.'