Chapter III: Part 3

"We should prefer another day or two of preparation, sir," I replied.

"How long have you been out there now?" he demanded.

"Two days, sir."

"What! At the end of two days you mean to tell me you're not ready! You're very slow."

It was the first time we had been accused of sluggishness. It was undeserved, and I resented it accordingly. I replied--not too politely, I fear:

"You will please remember we had to dismantle and remove the carpets and furniture of a large hotel, take stock of the fixtures and house-clean the building before commencing the setting up of our hospital equipment. We are ready for two hundred patients now--but we prefer another day or two to make everything complete."

"I'll send you two hundred patients to-night," he cried. "Be prepared for them."

The A.D.M.S., a typical English gentleman of the old school, interfered. He called his deputy aside and said to him:

"You mustn't rush patients into a new hospital in this manner. Give them a few days' grace." He turned to me and continued: "You will receive a trainload of patients three days from now. That will give you plenty of time. Kindly inform your commanding officer to this effect."

Some men brush one's fur the wrong way, and others smooth it back again. I had been so rumpled by the D.A.D.M.S. that every bristle of my not too gentle nature was standing on end--it was not only what he said, but the manner of the saying; yet the A.D.M.S., with one gentle, kindly stroke of common sense, had soothed and made me human once again. I felt my wrath slipping quietly away, and I basked for a moment in the sunshine of a genial personality. I gratefully murmured:

"Thank you, sir. I shall tell him."

"I trust your hospital will soon prove itself a credit to your staff and to Canada. Good night, and good luck," he said, as he shook me warmly by the hand.

It was midnight of the third day after this interview. The orderly on duty in the hall was suddenly startled by the sharp ring of the telephone bell. He sprang to his feet and put the strange French receiver to his ear.

"Yes, this is the Canadian Hospital," he answered; and a distant voice gave this message:

"A train-load of three hundred wounded will arrive at the station at two a.m. Be ready for them!"

*CHAPTER VIII*

At last the time for action had come. Three hundred wounded would arrive in two hours; one-fifth the number would throw the average city hospital into confusion. Nurses and officers hurried from their villas to the hospital. The cooks and orderlies were already on duty, and the hospital presented a scene of bustling but systematic activity.

Our ten wards, each named after a province of our beloved Dominion, were soon ready for the reception of patients, and the deft hands of the nursing sisters added the final touch of extra preparation.

The colonel's motor car throbbed in waiting at the door, and ambulance after ambulance, with its quota of stretcher-bearers, whirled away into the darkness of the forest on the road to the station. It was a clear, cold nights. The ground was hardened by the frost, and the pale quarter-moon cast a faint chill light over the trees.

Reggy and I clambered into the colonel's car as it started, and in a moment we were moving swiftly through the gaunt, trembling shadows of the wood. As we approached the turning of the road we could see in the distance the flashing headlights of other motors from the English hospital, as they too sped toward the train.

When we reached the station a constant stream of vehicles was pouring through the gates, and as fast as each car or ambulance arrived, it was backed into the waiting line. Every few yards carbide jets spluttered in the wind, adding their fitful glare to the strangeness of the scene.

After about an hour's wait the shrill whistle of the incoming French train warned us that our vigil was nearly over. In a few minutes the coaches, each with its big red cross, came clanking slowly into the station yard. Car after car passed by: one, two, three,--ten,--twenty; it was a tremendous train. At last it stopped, the doors opened and we had our first glimpse of the brave boys who had held the line.

Dozens of Scots and English battalions were represented, but there were no Canadians save ourselves as yet in France. Some of the boys could stand or walk, and they clambered slowly and painfully down the steep steps and stood in little wondering groups. God knows they looked tired, and their clothes were still covered with the dried mud from the trenches; for during a battle speed and the necessities of the moment are the important things--the refinements of civilisation must await time and opportunity. Many were smoking cigarettes; some had bandages about their head or hands or feet; some had their arms in slings; but from none was there the slightest groan or sound of complaint. They waited with soldierly but pathetic patience until we were ready to take care of them.

One tall young man who was standing apart from the others and whose face was unusually pale, approached me and saluted. His right hand was thrust into the bosom of his coat, with his left he nervously drew a cigarette from his pocket.

"Would you mind helping me light this, sir?" he asked respectfully. "I can't protect the match from the wind."

As I assisted him I enquired: "Have you had your right hand wounded? I see you keep it in your coat."

"It's not exactly that, sir," he replied, with a faint smile. "I have no right hand--had it blown off this morning." He drew the bandaged stump from his breast as he spoke and held it up for inspection.

"But you must be suffering frightfully!" I exclaimed in pity, surprised at his coolness.

"It does give me 'Gip' now and again. I can bear it better when I smoke," and he pulled tremulously at his cigarette.

I helped the brave fellow into one of the waiting motors and turned to see what I could do for the others. There were dozens with bandaged feet who limped slowly toward the ambulances.

"What has happened to you chaps?" I enquired, as I came to a group of six, all apparently suffering from the same condition, and who could scarcely walk.

"Trench feet, sir," they answered readily.

At the time this was a new disease to me, but we soon saw all too much of it. It corresponds quite closely to what in Canada is known as "chilblain," but is much more painful, and is in some ways equivalent to "frost-bite." It is caused by prolonged immersion in ice-cold water or liquid mud. In those days too, the trenches were not as well built as they are to-day, or the ground was lower and more boggy. Men were subjected to great privations, and suffered untold hardships. "Trench foot" has now almost entirely disappeared, and conditions in the trenches are altogether better.

"Were you standing long in the water?" I asked them.

"We've been in it night and day since Sunday," they replied---and this was Friday!

"Was the water deep?" I asked.

"The mud was up to the waist," one answered; "an' poor Bill Goggins stepped in a 'ole in the trench an' were drowned afore we could get to 'im."

Another spoke up: "A lad from my platoon got into a part of the trench that were like a quicksand, on'y 'e went down so fast--like as if there was a suction from, below. We seen 'im goin', an' 'e called fer 'elp, but w'en we got to 'im 'e were down to 'is chin, an' we couldn't pull 'im back."

"Good heavens!" I exclaimed in horror. "Was he drowned too?"

"'E were that, sir," he replied. "It were jolly 'ard to see 'im go, an' us right there!" and there were tears in the good fellow's eyes as he spoke.

"Climb into the motor, boys," I said. "We'll try to make up a little for the hell you've all been through."

There were others who had been severely wounded; some with broken arms or legs; some shot through the head or chest. It was wonderful to see the gentleness and kindness of our own rough lads as they lifted them tenderly from bed to stretcher, and carried them from the train to the waiting ambulances.

I stepped inside the train for a moment. It was a marvel of a hospital on wheels. It had comfortable spring beds and mattresses, and soft woollen blankets. There were kitchens, a dispensary, an emergency operating room and even bathrooms. A staff of medical officers, nurses and trained orderlies did all which human power can do to make the men comfortable during a trying journey. Every man had had his supper, and his wounds had been dressed _en route_ as scientifically and carefully as if he had been in a "Base Hospital."

The ambulances rolled slowly away from the train with their precious loads, the drivers cautiously picking their way along the smoothest parts of the road; for to the man with a broken leg or arm the slightest jolt causes pain.

We saw the boys again at the entrance to the hospital, lying in rows on stretchers, or standing patiently in line, waiting until their names and numbers were duly recorded. Each one, as this procedure was completed, was given a little card on which the name of his ward and the number of his bed was written. He was then conducted or carried to his allotted place.

How tired they looked as they sat wearily upon the edge of their beds, waiting for the orderlies to come and assist them to undress! But even here they were able to smile and crack their little jokes from bed to bed.

As soon as they were undressed, they were given a refreshing bath, in which they revelled after their weeks of dirty work and mud. After the bath came clean, warm pyjamas, a cup of hot cocoa or soup, a slice of bread and butter, and last, but to the soldier never least, a cigarette.

To him the cigarette is the panacea for all ills. I have seen men die with a cigarette between their lips--the last favour they had requested on earth. If the soldier is in pain, he smokes for comfort; if he is restless he smokes for solace; when he receives good news, he smokes for joy; if the news is bad, he smokes for consolation; if he is well--he smokes; when he is ill--he smokes. But good news or bad, sick or well, he _always_ smokes.

As I entered the ward a Highlander, not yet undressed, was sitting upon the side of his bed puffing contentedly at his cigarette. His tunic was still spattered with dried blood.

"Are you badly wounded?" I asked him.

"Not verra badly, sir," he returned, as he stood at attention.

"But you have a lot of blood on your tunic," I said, pointing to his right side and hip.

"It's not a' mine, sir," he replied as he grinned from ear to ear--"it's a souvenir from a _Bosche_, but he did make a sma' hole in ma thigh wi' his bayonet."

"And what happened to him?"

He laughed outright this time. "He's got ma bayonet an' ma rifle too," he cried. "Oh, man, but it was a gran' ficht!"

"Is he dead?" I asked.

"Dead?" he exclaimed. "I hae his top-hat wi' me noo;" and he held up a Prussian helmet to our admiring gaze.

I congratulated him and passed on; but I had little time just then for chatting. All the wounds had to be unbandaged, washed and freshly dressed, and although we worked rapidly, the nurses undoing the bandages and attending to the minor cases, while I did the more serious ones myself, it was broad daylight before we had finished. The morning sun, stealing gently over the trees, found patients and doctors alike ready for a few hours' sleep.

A similar scene had been enacted in every other ward. It was nearly six a.m. as the other officers and myself, with the exception of the unfortunate orderly officer, started down the road toward the villa. Our billet was about a quarter-mile away, but our "mess" was in the hospital building. I crawled into bed at last, very, very weary, and in a few moments was lost to the world.

It was Tim who finally roused me from this heavy sleep. He was standing at the foot of my bed with his head on one side in his customary bird-like attitude. His stiff black forelock hung straight over his brow. I was just conscious enough to hear him saying:

"Wake up, maje!"

Before strangers, or before brother officers, Tim was always respectful to us. He was a trained soldier, and, when occasion demanded, could be, and was, very regimental. But in the privacy of our home (of which he was in charge) Tim treated us like children whose pranks might be tolerated but must not be encouraged.

"What's the trouble, Tim?" I enquired sleepily.

"It's time to git up," he complained. "D'ye s'pose ye're goin' t' sleep all day, jes' because ye loss ye're beauty sleep las' night? Dis is war--dis is!"

"What's the hour?" I asked.

"It's ten o'clock," he replied, "an' dat Cap' Reggy's in de nex' room--chloroformed agin; wit his knees drawed up an' his mout' open ventilatin' his brain. Dey ain't a Pullman in de whole worl' dat's as good a sleeper as dat gent."

By this time I was fully awake, as Tim intended I should be. I turned over on my side and addressed him:

"Run downstairs now, Tim, and make me a good hot cup of coffee, and a slice of toast with fried mushrooms on top."

Tim stared at me a moment in open-mouthed amazement. We weren't supposed to eat at the villa, but Tim was a good cook and those he favoured with his "friendship" might coax a cup of tea before rising.

"Fried mushrooms," he repeated, as he went toward the door, shaking his head slowly from side to side. "Fried--mush--rooms! Gees, an' dey calls dis _active_ service!"

But in spite of this show of pessimism, he returned shortly with the breakfast as ordered.

When we reached the hospital that morning everything was as neat and clean as though nothing had happened the night before. No adequate description can be given of the trained nurse at the front. She is one of the marvels of the war. Patient, industrious, cheerful, self-sacrificing and brave, she has robbed war of much of its horrors. She has made the wounded soldier feel that a sister's care, a mother's love and a clever woman's skill follow him wherever he goes. Her smile has cheered his lagging day; her gentle touch has soothed his pain and the warm sympathy of her kindly heart has made the foreign land a home. Under stress of work and nervous strain, ever forgetful of self, always thoughtful for others, no truer or nobler band of gentle women ever left the shores of Canada.

The patients had had a refreshing sleep and a good breakfast and were now snugly tucked in their clean sheets and warm blankets, looking very happy and contented. Even those who were badly wounded had partly forgotten their troubles. Some had souvenirs--German rifle bullets or bits of shell which had been extracted at the Clearing Hospital farther up the line, and these they exhibited with great pride to their fellow patients. The German helmet was always an object of interest. The slanting cut in the glossy leather of one spoke better than words of a bayonet thrust which had gone home. Each little bedside table had a few priceless trinkets, bought with blood, and brought with great difficulty and care from the battlefield.

It was our custom to postpone surgical operations, except urgent ones to save life, for one or two days, in order to give the tired soldiers a chance to get a much-needed rest--a simple expedient whereby many lives were saved. The patients were grateful for this little reprieve, and showed their gratitude by recovering more rapidly.

But sometimes it was necessary to operate at once. That morning I found a poor chap who had been shot through the brain with a rifle bullet. The missile had entered the temple and emerged at the back of the skull, fracturing the bone both at the point of entry and exit. His heavy breathing and stupor told us the case called for immediate relief. In the operating room pieces of the skull were removed, the depressed bone lifted, and in about an hour the patient was taken back to his ward. We had little hope of his recovery.

The following day, when I entered the hospital, his bed was empty. I thought: "Poor fellow! He has died in the night and no one has sent me word." I turned with a feeling of disappointment to the man in the next bed and asked:

"What has become of your neighbour?"

"Oh," he replied, "he's just gone out to the wash room. He'll be back in a few minutes. He stole out of the ward while the nursing sister was in the other room."

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 cafes 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.

Jogman got upon his knees and thrust the brush aside; he pried open the window and peered within. He saw a small room, neatly furnished with bed and rug and chair. A dresser stood against the wall. An electric light hung from the ceiling, but no wires were visible without. The clothes still lying upon the bed, the overturned chair and the remains of a lunch upon the table all spoke of a hasty departure. Perhaps it had been the secret home of a German spy. If so, he had decamped some time since.

Dismissing idle speculation, but making a mental note for future reference, Jogman rose and proceeded on his quest. He soon found himself in the streets of that lively little town which has been aptly called the "Monte Carlo" of northern France. Its big gambling "Casinos" had long since been turned to better use, and the beds of wounded soldiers now replaced the gambling tables and _petits chevaux_.

Hurrying through the "Swiss Village" and scarcely taking time to acknowledge the greetings of a Belgian lassie who waved her hand from a shop window as he passed, he entered the _Cafe Central_ and seating himself at one of the little round tables forthwith called for a drink. The barmaid approached him.

"_M'sieur veut?_" she asked.

"Gimme a glass of Scotch an' soda," Jogman demanded.

"Ees eet wiskie m'sieur desires?" she queried in broken English.

"Yes--whiskey--big glass," said Jogman picturing the size with his two hands.

"_Oui, m'sieur._"

She filled his glass. He drank it thirstily and called for another. Several more followed their predecessors, and being now comfortably alight he proceeded up street, seeking new worlds to conquer.

The butcher-shop door stood invitingly open. Jogman entered unsteadily; what maudlin idea was fermenting in his brain none but himself might say. The fat butcher, meataxe in hand and pencil behind his ear, approached to take his order.

"_Bonjour, monsieur!_" he said.

Jogman placed one hand upon the slab, the better to steady the shop which, ignoring the law of gravity, was reeling in most unshoply fashion.

"Bone Dewar, yerself!" he cried, incensed at being addressed in an unintelligible language. "Why th' hell can't ye speak English--like a--white man?"

How often we too have been unreasonably irritated by a foreign and incomprehensible tongue! Jogman's sense of injustice was preternaturally keen just then. The butcher was a trifle alarmed at his attitude without in the least understanding the cause of complaint.

"_Quest ce que vous voulez, monsieur?_" he demanded nervously.

"Drop that hatchet!" cried his irrational customer, making a step forward. "Drop it, er I'll drop you."

The unfortunate shopkeeper grasped his weapon more firmly still, and stood tremulously on the defensive.

"I'll learn ye to do as ye're told!" shouted Jogman, and seizing a large knife from the slab he rushed at the frightened man who ran screaming into the street, with Jogman in hot pursuit.

The sight of a British soldier brandishing a meat knife and chasing a fellow citizen along the main street was terrifying in the extreme to the peaceful denizens of the town. They ran shrieking for help, bolting into their shops or houses, and barring the doors as though the devil himself with a regiment of imps on horseback were at their heels.

Jogman had cleared the _Rue de Londres_ and in the pride of drunken conquest was about to attack the lesser streets, when the Military Police hove in sight. Much to his annoyance the disturbance interrupted Sergeant Honk in a monosyllabic conversation, which he was holding with a pretty French girl. He humped himself around the corner just in time to see the Sergeant of Police take the belligerent Jogman by the scruff of the neck and the seat of his breeches and heave him into a waiting ambulance.

Honk returned to his Juliette. She had retired to her balcony and refused to descend. Honk lifted his voice appealingly from the street:

"H'I say! Down't ye' be h'afeered--'e won't come back, an' 'e wouldn't 'urt ye when h'I'm 'ere. Come h'on down!"

But Juliette was obdurate, and turned a deaf ear to his entreaties.

"_Merci--je ne descends point!_" she returned. This was about as intelligible to Honk as Chinese script, but he understood the shake of the head all too well.

"Blast 'im," he grumbled; "them bloomin' blokes what drinks is goin' to 'ave th' 'ole bleedin' town h'about our h'ears. Th' gals won't look at a decent feller soon." And he forthwith went to drown his sorrow in a mug of beer.

Honk's complaint was soon verified by the facts. Jogman's fame flew from house to house with such infernal rapidity that in less than twenty-four hours the French had learned an English phrase which it cost our lads several months of good conduct to eradicate. It was simple and to the point: "Canadians no good!" For weeks afterward it was shouted at them every time they entered the village. The populace gathered in little groups close to their own homes, while a few of the more timid locked themselves in and shouted through the shutters these same humiliating words.

As Jogman was brought in to the Guard Room, Barker caught a glimpse of him.

"Well," Barker cried in scathing criticism; "the colonel said I wuz th' first t' disgrace th' unit. By cripes; I wuzn't th' last. You sure made a good job uv it!"

The colonel was a busy man. His day was as varied and colourful as Job's coat. When it wasn't the vegetable woman who had to be bartered with, it was the iceman who sought, with true French business acumen, to show him why he wasn't really overcharged, although the bill was three times what the natives had to pay.

"Alvred" had been installed as "Interpreter," and throughout all these ridiculous and unsatisfactory arguments maintained a face as impassive as an English butler at a club dinner.

If the electric light bill to the former tenant was eighty francs per month, and our bill was three hundred francs for the same period, monsieur was assured, on word of honour, that the party of the first part was undercharged, and would forthwith be requested to pay the difference. But one thing was certain; the account against us was _always_ correct.

When the colonel had finished these little business details he was hurried away to the operating room. A serious case was awaiting his skilled hand. The wounded man, whose thigh had been shattered with a rifle bullet, was lying upon the table waiting patiently to be etherised. The colonel stepped over to pass a kindly word with him before he was put to sleep.

"And how are you this morning?" he enquired.

"Oh, verra weel in me'self," the poor fellow answered, with a ready smile, "but ma leg is a bit troublesome. I hope ye won't hae t' cut it off, sir?"

"Oh, I think not," the colonel declared reassuringly. "I expect it won't be as serious as that."

"In course, sir, ye'll dae whichever ye think best--but I hae a wife and twa wee bairnies at hame, an' I were thinkin' as how I'd be better able tae dae for them wi' baith ma legs."

"We'll do our very best to save it," the colonel answered.

In a few minutes we were dressed in our white gowns and caps. The X-ray plates were brought in and placed in the illuminator for us to see the exact damage done. The thigh bone was badly splintered for a distance of three inches, and one large piece was torn away. We hoped to be able to put a steel plate upon the bone, and, by screwing it down, draw the fragments together with some fair chance of having them unite. This is a delicate operation, and not only demands considerable skill, but the operating facilities must be perfect.

Fortunately our operating room was ideal, with its white enamelled walls and marble basins, its rubber covered floor, the most modern of surgical appliances, and, most important of all, a staff of highly trained nurses--it was as ideal as science could make it.

With a bright keen knife the incision was made down to the bone. Alas! It was hopelessly fractured. For a space of several inches there was nothing but tiny fragments, and the one long loose piece we had seen in the X-ray plate. The colonel turned, and said:

"What a pity! The space is so large, the bone will never regenerate. This leg should come off--but I promised to try and save it."

We discussed the situation for a few moments, and finally decided to try an experiment. The loose piece of bone had not yet been thrown away. Might it be used as a splint? We fitted it in between the upper and lower fragment--it was just long enough to be wedged between. We drilled a hole through either end and fastened it firmly with silver wire. Would it grow or decay there? We had grave doubts, and time alone would tell.

Let no one imagine that in the thousands of operations performed at the front surgeons become careless! Every case is a special one; every "Tommy" the private patient of the Empire. The surgeon's responsibility is as great--and he feels it, too--in that far-away land, as it is at home.

We put the limb in a plaster cast to hold it firm. It had been a clean wound--no infection--we had hopes. Six weeks later the bone had united fairly well, and in three months McPherson was able to walk!

But when this operation was done the colonel's troubles were by no means over for the day. It was ten o'clock, and "office" must be held. This miniature military "Police-Court" sits every morning, with the commanding officer as judge. If the court is small, it is by no means unimportant. Jogman realised this as he stood waiting with the guard and witnesses in the hall, the day after his great "debacle."

The colonel and adjutant were seated in due state, being in full "service dress," which, as distinct from undress, comprises belt and cap. The sergeant-major, in equally dread attire, ordered the guard and prisoner (the latter being minus both belt and cap--these appurtenances being denied him) to "'Shun!--Right turn; quick march!--Halt!--Right turn!" and the whole squad was in line, awaiting "office."

The colonel's face wore a tired and worried expression; his smile had disappeared. The sergeant-major announced:

"Private Jogman, sir!"

The adjutant read the charge sheet. "Number 17462, Private James Jogman, is accused with conduct to the prejudice of good order and military discipline, in that he, on the afternoon of the 21st instant at 4 p.m., in the village of Paris-plage, was disorderly."

The colonel turned to the accused: "Private Jogman, you have heard the charge against you, as read. Are you 'guilty' or 'not guilty'?"

"Not guilty,--sir," Jogman muttered shamefacedly.

Sergeant Honk, as a witness, expressed his surprise by an almost imperceptible lifting of the brush of red hair which did service in lieu of eyebrows. The sergeant-major's lip curled slightly. The colonel's face remained immobile.

"Read the written statement of the Military Police, Mr. Adjutant," he commanded.

The adjutant did so. Each line was correct and convincing. The accused, when asked, declined to express an opinion on it.

"Who is the first witness?" the colonel asked.

"Sergeant Honk, sir."

"Sergeant Honk, what do you know of this case?" demanded the Colonel.

"Sir, h'on the afternoon of the twenty-first, at about four o'clock, h'I was talkin' to a lady h'on the main street of Paree-plaige, when h'I 'eard th' devil of a row--beg pardon, sir, it slipped h'out afore I thought."

"Go on;" said the colonel drily. "I daresay what you state is quite correct."

Thus encouraged, Honk resumed with morose enthusiasm: "H'I says to th' young lady, says h'I, 'Somethin's broke loose 'ere.' The women and men was a-screamin' an' runnin' into their 'ouses. H'I run to the corner as fast as me legs could carry me--" Jogman looked instinctively at Honk's queer limbs, as if he were about to do a mental calculation of his speed, but was immediately called to attention by the sergeant-major.

"When h'I got there, h'I see th' prisoner goin' like h---- (h'excuse me, sir); well, 'e were goin' some, I tell 'e, with a butcher's' knife in 'is mit----"

"Did he appear intoxicated?" the colonel interrupted.

"'Orrible drunk, h'I calls it, sir--'e were that same, sir; and afore h'I gets to 'im, th' Sergeant o' Police 'ad 'im by th' seat of 'is pants an' 'oisted 'im into the waggin!"

"Have you any questions to put to the witness?" the colonel asked.

"Yes, sir," Jogman replied. "Will Sergeant Honk state, sir, how many beers he had inside him when he thought he seed me?"

The unfortunate Honk turned a deeper hue of red, and shuffled uncomfortably from one foot to the other.

"Your question is not allowed," the colonel replied sternly. "There is plenty of other evidence to show that Sergeant Honk's vision was reasonably accurate."

Other witnesses were called, but the evidence was all equally damning. At last the colonel asked the prisoner if he had any further defence to offer.

Jogman replied: "Yes, sir. Last month I fell from the boiler and my head has been queer ever since. When I take a drink I don't know what I'm doin'. I don't remember anything about all this."

And the Colonel replied: "This month you fell from the water waggon, and your head is queerer than before. For the crime of which you are guilty you might be shot; but I intend being lenient with you--on one condition--"

Jogman looked up expectantly.

"--and that is--that you sign the pledge that you will not touch another drop of liquor while you are in France."

Honk looked as if he thought this worse than being shot. Jogman glanced furtively at the colonel's face; he had never seen him look so severe before. It was a big sacrifice, but it could not be avoided. He heaved a sigh and replied slowly: "I'll--sign--it, sir!"

"Twenty-eight days First Field Punishment!"

"Right turn, quick march!" cried the sergeant-major; and "office" was over for the day. Remorseful recollection of the pledge he had just signed clouded Jogman's brow.

"He's gone an' spoiled th' whole war fer me," he grumbled, as they led him away.

*CHAPTER X*

Reggy might have been a success as Mess Secretary, if it hadn't been for the Camembert cheese. No one could have remained popular long under such a handicap. He had discovered it in some outlandish shop in Paris-plage. The shopkeeper had been ostracised and the health authorities called in.

Some one has said that cheese improves with age. I do not propose to indulge in futile argument with _connoisseurs_, but Reggy's cheese had passed maturity and died an unnatural death. When he produced its green moss-covered remains upon the table, the officers were forthwith divided into two factions--those who liked cheese and those who did not; and the latter class stated their objections with an emphasis and strength which rivalled the Camembert.

Corporal Granger had charge of the Mess. He was a quiet, gentlemanly little chap who said little, thought much, and smoked when he had a chance. He opened the box before dinner, took a whiff which distorted his face, and silently passed the box to his assistants.

Wilson and Rene--a French-Canadian lad--wrinkled their noses in unison over it; then Wilson drawled:

"Smells--like a--disease--we uster have--in the ward upstairs."

But Rene's atavistic sense approved the cheese. "Dat's bon fromage," he declaimed emphatically. "Cheese ain't good until it smells like dat."

"Then folks to home eats a lot what's bad fer them--don't they?" Wilson retorted, with mild satire; "an' them so healthy too!"

Rene disdained controversy, and with unruffled dignity continued laying the table. During the first few months of our labours he had been orderly to no less a person than the senior major--hence his feeling of superiority. But he and the Second-in-Command hadn't always agreed; the senior major had a _penchant_ for collecting excess baggage, and it behooved his unfortunate batman to pack, unpack and handle his ever-increasing number of boxes and bags. By the time we reached Boulogne these had become a great burden. Rene looked ruefully down upon it before he started to lift it, piece by piece, into the lorrie.

"Ba gosh!" he exclaimed, in perspiring remonstrance, "I hope de war don' last too long--er it'll take one whole train to move de major's bag-gage!"

Rene was impressionable and had all the romantic instinct of the true Frenchman. As I watched him decorating the table with flowers--we were to have company that night, and it was to be an event of unusual importance to us--my recollection carried me back to a bleak October night on Salisbury Plain. It was scarcely nine p.m., but I had turned in and lay wrapped in my sleeping bag, reading by the light of a candle propped on a cocoa tin. Rene had just returned from "three days' leave," having travelled over fifty miles to see a little girl whose face had haunted him for weeks. He was flushed with excitement and had to unburden his heart to some one. He stepped into my tent for a moment, the rain running off his cap and coat in little rivulets onto the floor.

"I'm afraid you're in love, Rene," I teased, after he had given me a glowing account of his trip.

"I t'ink dat's right," he exclaimed, with sparkling eyes. "Why, dat's de purtiest gal what I ever see. Dose arms of hers! Gee, dere ain't lilies so white like dat, an' de roses of her cheeks!--every time I meet her, I see her like more kinds of flowers!"

"But you'll see another bud next week, Rene," I interjected, "and forget all about this dainty little flower."

"Me forget? Non!" he declared, with conviction--and then a wistful look crept into his big brown eyes. He sat upon the edge of Reggy's cot opposite and reminiscently smoothed the hair off his brow before he continued:

"Sometime wen you're up de Gat'-ineau at home, an' de lumbermen free de logs in de riviere, you see dem float so peaceful down de stream. De water is run so slow an' quiet you don' see no movement dere; but bimeby de riviere go lil' faster, de ripples wash de banks, de logs move swifter an' more swift until dey come above de falls---dey fall, crash, boom! One gets stuck, annuder an' annuder; dey jam--dey pile up higher an' more high--more hun'reds of logs come down, an' jam an' jam. De water can't pass--it overflow de bank an' spread out in a great lake over de fields."

Rene had risen in the excitement of his description. The candle light shone faintly upon his broad shoulders and handsome, inspired face. His right arm was extended in harmony with the vehemence of his description. He continued more softly:

"Dat riviere is me; de falls is my lil' gal at de turnin'-point of my life, an' de great lake is my love which has burst over de fields of my fancy an' freshes all de dry places. I can't tell you how I love dat gal--sometimes I tink--maybe--I marry her some day."

At this juncture the senior major had thrust his head inside the tent.

"Rene," he called sternly, "get back to your work! Wash my rubber boots and keep an eye on the tent 'til I return."

And poor Rene, thus rudely brought to earth, had crept silently away.

At seven-thirty p.m., the shrill call of the bugle sounded "Officers' Mess":

"The officers' wives get pudding and pies,
The soldiers' wives get skilly--"

It is the one call which every officer, senior or junior, knows by heart, and answers promptly.

A mess dinner is a parade, and is conducted with all the pomp and dignity peculiar to a Chinese wedding. Woe betide the untrained "sub" who dares seat himself before the Commanding Officer has taken his place at the centre of the table! For the first time since our arrival in France, we were to be honoured with the presence of several ladies, and the whole mess was in a state of excitement compatible with the seriousness of such an occasion. It was so long since any of us had dined under the charming, but restraining, influence of the fair sex that, as Reggy afterward remarked, he was in a condition bordering on nervous prostration lest he forget to eat the ice cream with his fork, or, worse still, "butter" his bread with _pate de fois gras_.

Reggy had other worries on his mind as well. He had been taken aside early, and solemnly warned that if he, his heirs, executors or assigns, dared to bring forth upon the table so much as a smell of his ill-favoured cheese, he would be led out upon the sand dunes at early dawn and shot. This precaution having been duly taken, he was permitted to retire to the pantry with Fraser and Corporal Granger, and amuse himself making thirty Bronx cocktails for our express delectation. Promptly, as the last note of the bugle died away, the colonel and matron ushered our fair guests into the Mess Room.

Had our long separation from the beautiful women of Canada whetted our sense of appreciation? Or was it some dim recollection of an almost-forgotten social world which stimulated our imagination? Certainly no more exquisite representatives of the, to us, long-lost tribe of lovely women ever graced a Mess Room in France!

After the customary introductions had taken place, the twenty-five officers who now comprised our Mess distributed themselves in various awkward positions about the chairs of the five ladies--all the rest of our chairs were at the table--each trying vainly to give himself that appearance of graceful ease which indicates that the entertainment, of _grandes dames_ is our chief sport in Canada.

What a dreadful encumbrance one's hands are on such an occasion! A military uniform does not take kindly to having its wearer's hands thrust deeply into his breeches pockets, and, as every one knows, this is the only way to feel at ease when addressing a lady in her evening gown--if you fold your hands unostentatiously behind your back, it hampers your powers of repartee.

Lady Danby, who conducted a Red Cross Hospital in a near-by town, appreciated our embarrassment, and did her best to make us feel at home.

"What a delightful Mess Room!" she exclaimed, as her tall, lithesome figure sank into an arm chair. "It must be so restful and refreshing after those dreadful operations!"

"Captain Reggy finds it very restful indeed," Burnham volunteered mischievously; "he spends a great deal of his time here--mixing drinks."

"Ah!--and he does them so very well too," exclaimed Madame Cuillard, with a flash of her beautiful dark eyes toward the hero of the moment, and lifting her glass to him in gracious compliment. "He is a man after my own heart."

"Madam, you flatter me," Reggy murmured, with a low bow, "and yet I fear I am not the first who has been 'after' such a kindly heart?"

"Nor you shall not be the last, I hope," the little widow returned, with a rippling laugh. "Still, 'Weak heart never won'--ah, non--I am forgetting my English--let it pass. A heart is so easy to be lost in France--you must be careful."

Fraser's Gibsonian figure towered above the others as he and Father Bonsecour and the senior major stood chatting with two Canadian guests. The girls made a pretty contrast, petite, dainty and vivacious; the one with blue-black hair and large soft brown eyes, the other fair as an angel, with hair of finely spun gold and eyes as blue as the sea over the dunes.

"May I take your glasses?" Fraser queried.

"Thank you, by all means," said the little brunette smilingly. "There's nothing I regret more than an empty glass or a flower that is dead."

"The former leaves little to hope, and the latter hopes little to leaf," asserted the senior major sententiously, animated by the beauty of our guests.

"What a dreadful pun, Major Baldwin!" cried the pretty blonde. "You deserve five days C.B.!"

"Thank Heaven," laughed the major, "we don't always get our deserts! We incorrigibles may still, for a moment