The First Canadians in France. F. McKelvey Bell

       F. McKelvey Bell

      The First Canadians in France

      The Chronicle of a Military Hospital in the War Zone

      Published by Good Press, 2021

       [email protected]

      EAN 4064066097035

      Table of Contents

       Cover

       Titlepage

       Text

      "

      TO

      SURGEON-GENERAL GUY CARLETON JONES, C.M.G.

      AND TO

      THE CANADIAN MEDICAL SERVICES OVERSEAS

      THESE PAGES ARE DEDICATED

      The wise and skillful guidance of the former and the efficient

      fulfilment of onerous duties by all have given to the Canadian

      Medical Service a status second to none in the Empire: The sick

      and wounded soldier has been made to feel that a Military Hospital

      may be not only a highly scientific institution—but a Home.

      PREFACE

      In glancing through these pages, now that they are written, I realise that insufficient stress has been laid upon the heroism and self-sacrifice of the non-commissioned officers and men of the Army Medical Corps—the boys who, in the dull monotony of hospital life, denied the exhilaration and stimulus of the firing line, are, alas, too often forgotten. All honour to them that in spite of this handicap they give of their best, and give it whole-heartedly to their stricken comrades.

      The pill of fact herein is but thinly coated with the sugar of fiction, but if the reader can get a picture, however indefinite, of military hospital life in France, these pages will not have been written altogether in vain.

      F. McK B.

      ILLUSTRATIONS

      "He Is a Man After My Own Heart!" exclaimed Madame Couillard (See page 166) . . . . . . Frontispiece

       The Song Was Sad—But We Laughed and Laughed Until We Wept Again

       René Had Risen in the Excitement of His Description

       "How Can You?" She Cried Involuntarily, "How Can a Little Lad Like You Bear to Kill Men with a Bayonet?"

       German Wounded

      THE FIRST CANADIANS IN FRANCE

      CHAPTER I

      We were a heterogeneous lot—no one could deny that—all the way down from big Bill Barker, the heavyweight hostler, to little Huxford, the featherweight hustler.

      No commanding officer, while sober, would have chosen us en masse. But we weren't chosen—we just arrived, piece by piece; and the Hammer of Time, with many a nasty knock, has welded us.

      One by one, from the farthest corners of the Dominion, the magic magnet of the war drew us to the plains of Valcartier, and one by one it dropped us side by side. Why some came or why they are still here God knows! Man may merely conjecture.

      Divers forces helped to speed us from our homes: love of adventure, loss of a sweetheart, family quarrels, the wander-spirit, and, among many other sentiments—patriotism. But only one force held us together: our Colonel! Without him, as an entity, we ceased to exist. His broad-minded generosity and liberal forbearance closed many an angry breach. His love of us finds its analogy only in the love of a father for his prodigal son.

      Long after we reached France, when the dull monotony of daily routine had somewhat sobered us, one early morning the sweet but disturbing note of the bugle sounding the reveille brought me back from dreams of home. I lay drowsily listening to its insistent voice. The door of my room opened softly, and the orderly stole in.

      He was a red-cheeked, full-lipped country lad, scarce seventeen years of age. He knelt down before the fireplace and meditatively raked the ashes from its recess. He was a slow lad; slow in speech, slower in action, and his big dreamy blue eyes belied his military bearing.

      I turned over in bed to get a better view of him.

      "What freak of fancy brought you so far from home, Wilson?" I queried.

      "Dunno, zur," he drawled. "Not much fun hustlin' coals in the mornin' nur pullin' teeth in the afternoon." For Wilson, among his multitudinous duties, was dental orderly too.

      "There's such an air of farm and field about you, Wilson, that sometimes, at short range, I imagine I get a whiff of new-mown hay."

      He sat up on his haunches, balancing the shovel upon his outstretched hand. The pool of memory was stirred. A hazy thought was struggling to the surface. He looked dreamily toward me for a moment before he replied.

      "I wuz born an' raised in the country, zur," he said. "When the war broke out I wuz pickin' apples on dad's farm. I didn't like my job. Gee! I wish't I'd stayed an' picked 'em now."

      How we ever taught Wilson to say "Sir," or even his corruption of the word, must remain forever shrouded in mystery; but it was accomplished at last, just like many other great works of art.

      The Canadian spirit of democracy resents any semblance of a confession of inferiority, and the sergeant-major's troubles were like unto those of Job. Military discipline commenced in earnest when the ship left the harbour at Quebec, and has hung over us like a brooding robin ever since.

      It was an eventful morning to us (and to England) when our fleet of thirty ocean liners, with its freight of thirty-three thousand soldiers, steamed slowly into the harbour at Plymouth and dropped anchor.

      For two glorious October weeks we had bedecked the Atlantic. His Majesty's fleet night and day had guarded us with an ever-increasing care. I can still look over the starboard rail and see the black smoke of the Gloria prowling along in the south, and, afar off in the north, the Queen Mary watching our hazardous course. The jaunty little Charybdis minced perkily ahead.

      There were other battleships, too, which picked us up from time to time; and the Monmouth, on the last voyage she was destined to make, steamed through our lines one day. The brave fellows, who were so soon to meet a watery grave, lined up upon her deck, giving us three resounding cheers as she passed by, and we echoed them with a will.

      Captain Reggy, our dapper mess secretary, was pacing the hurricane deck one day. From time to time his gaze turned wistfully across the waves to the other two lines of ships steaming peacefully along side by side. Something weighty was on his mind. Occasionally he glanced up to the military signalling officer on the bridge, and with inexplicable interest watched his movements with the flags.

      "I say," Reggy called up to him, "can you get a message across to the Franconia?"

      "She's third ship in the third line—a little difficult, I should say," the signaller replied.

      "But it can be done, can't it?" Reggy coaxed.

      "Yes, if it's very important."

      "It's most important, I want to send a message