The First Canadians in France

How thorough was their system was well illustrated when, later on, the Western Cavalry entered the trenches. A wooden horse rose instantly above the German trench, bearing this legend: "Western Cavalry, come over and get your horses!" Our boys promptly shot the offending animal full of holes. It fell; but in a moment was raised again with bandages about its neck and leg!

Despite the early morning hour, in a railway car a few yards from us, several young Englishwomen were busy serving hot cocoa and rolls to the hungry soldiers. The interior of the coach had been transformed into a kitchen and travelling buffet. Every man in uniform was welcome to enter and partake free of charge. We took advantage of this practical hospitality and, much refreshed, returned to our own train.

At another platform a regiment of Ghurkas were engaged loading their equipment. One came across to our engine and drawing some hot water from the boiler, washed his teeth and mouth with infinite care.

The Ghurka is so like the Jap in appearance that when, later, we saw a body of these brave little chaps, with their turned-up Stetson hats, marching along the street, for a moment we actually mistook them for our Oriental allies. It was only when we observed their short broad swords (kukris) that we realised it could be none other than these famous men from India.

The colonel was at the station to meet us. How glad we were to see his genial face once more!

"Your billets are all arranged," he said. "The officers will stay at the Louvre and the non-commissioned officers and men at the Jean d'arc theâtre."

The men were lined-up and, now that the unit was once more complete, formed quite an imposing sight. In those days medical units wore the red shoulder straps; the privilege of retaining these coloured straps has been granted only to members of the First Contingent.

The men marched across Le Pont Marguet, up the main thoroughfare, along the Rue Victor Hugo, crossing the market place, and in a narrow street not far from the market found the little theâtre. It made a perfect billet, the main hall serving as a mess room, and the gallery as an excellent dormitory.

The quartermaster, Reggy, and I were billeted in one large room at the Louvre. Our window overlooked the basin and across the quay we could see the fish-wives unloading the herring boats as they arrived in dozens. With their queer wooden shoes (sabots) they clack-clacked across the cobblestones; their large baskets, overflowing with fish, strapped to their backs. Among all the varied odours of that odorous city, that of fish rises supreme. It saluted our nostrils when we marched in the streets, and was wafted in at our windows when the thoughtless breeze ventured our way.

We could see too, the Channel boats arriving at the dock, bringing battalion after battalion of troops. These rapidly entrained, and were whisked away in the shrill-whistling little French trains toward the battlefront.

Sometimes convoys of London 'busses, now bereft of their advertisements and painted dull grey, filled with "Tommies" destined for the "big show," passed by the door and rolled away into the far beyond.

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

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

"Monsieur?" it enquired.

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

"Je veux un bain," he said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Oui, monsieur– it is the bath."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER VII

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"By the gruesomeness of it I can imagine they were all killed," I replied.

By this time we had turned at right angles to our former path and entered another long avenue of trees. The white walls of an isolated mansion stood out in the distance against the black-green of the forest and the fading purple of the evening sky. The grounds about it were enclosed by a high pointed iron fence; it looked a veritable prison.

After tramping another mile we emerged into an open space between the trees and the rolling sand dunes of the coast, and saw before us a large limestone building, three stories in height and almost surrounded with broad, glass-enclosed balconies. The tracks of a disused tramway ran to the gate, and the rust upon the rails spoke more forcibly than ever of desolation and desertion.

We passed through the stone gateway and crossed the snow-covered lawn. Everything was as dark and dreary as the grave. Surely no one was within! We mounted the steps and rang the bell. Its peal reverberated strangely through the empty halls. After a few moments, however, a light appeared and a solitary man entered the rotunda; he turned the electric switch, flooding the room with a bright light. He came to the door, unlocked it, and rolled it back slowly upon its wheels.

"Gut evening, zhentlemen," he said in English, but with a peculiar Franco-German accent difficult to diagnose. "It iss fery kolt, iss it not?"

We acknowledged the fact.

"You are vrom the Canadian Hospital?" he queried.

"You were evidently expecting us," I replied. "We are the advance party from that hospital."

He pushed the door wide for us to enter. We didn't debate the propriety of accepting the hospitality of a German, but marched in at once.

"Your dinner vill be retty in a leedle vhile. I vill haf Alvred ligh'd you the grate, und you soon fery comfortable vill be."

"Show me to the kitchen first," I asked him, "and let me see what arrangements you have for supper for the men. When they are made comfortable it will be plenty of time for our dinner."

He piloted us into a large room with red tile floor. There was good accommodation for the men, and the kitchen ranges were close by. They had their cooks and rations with them, and as soon as we had chosen their sleeping quarters and had seen that everything was satisfactory we returned for our own dinner.

In a commodious room, just off the rotunda, a roaring coal fire was blazing on the hearth. Big easy-chairs had been conveniently placed for us, and Burnham and I fell into them and stretched our tired feet toward the fender upon the rich red Turkish rug. The table was spread close by, and we noticed the fine linen, the sparkling cut glass, crested silver and Limoge china. The scent of delicious French cooking was wafted to us past the heavy silken hangings of the door. Presently our German host appeared once more:

"Vat vine vill the zhentlemen have mit zehr dinner?" he enquired politely.

Burnham threw himself back into his seat and laughed aloud. "Holy smoke!" he chuckled, "and we are at the war!"

"What wines have you?" I enquired tentatively.

"Anyzing you wish to name, zir," he responded with a certain show of pride.

I thought I would put him to the test. "Bring us a bottle of 'Ayala,' '04 vintage," I commanded.

"Mit pleasure, zir." And he bowed and retired to get it.

Burnham slapped his knee and burst out: "Am I awake or dreaming? We walk four miles through a stark forest on a winter night, enter a deserted hostel, are received by a German spy and fêted like the Lord Mayor. I expect to fall out of the balloon any minute and hit the earth with a nasty bump!"

"I'm a little dazed myself," I admitted, "but it's all a part of the soldier-game. Some other day we'll find the cards reversed, and have to play it just the same."

Our host, however, was not a German, although that was his native tongue. He came from that little-known country of Luxembourg, which, sandwiched in between France and her Teutonic enemy, has still maintained a weak and unavailing neutrality. Being too small and unprotected to resist, the German army marched unmolested across it in the early days of war.

"Alvred," who was a French-Swiss, and spoke more languages than I can well remember, waited upon us at table. We were just finishing an excellent five-course dinner with a tiny glass of coin-treau, when the sound of a motor-car stopping at the door aroused us from our dream of heavenly isolation.

As we stepped into the hall, the door opened, and in walked the colonel, the senior major and the quartermaster, who had followed us from Boulogne by road.

"Well, how do you like our new hospital?" the colonel demanded with a satisfied smile.

"We love it," Burnham exclaimed. "It is weird, romantic and altogether comme il faut."

I suggested that a liqueur and a cigar might not be unacceptable after their long drive. The colonel smiled appreciatively as he replied:

"We are a bit chilly after our journey; I think a little drink will do us good. What do you say, Major Baldwin?" This question was addressed to the senior major, who, with the others, had now entered our dining room.

The artistic surroundings drove the major into poetry at once. He exclaimed:

"'Ah! my beloved, fill the cup that clearsTo-day of past regrets and future fears.'"

"Splendid!" cried Burnham enthusiastically. "Now, let's have 'Gunga Din' – you do it so well! How does it go? 'You're a better drink than I am, Gordon Gin!'"

"No, no!" said the major deprecatingly. "You mustn't abuse Kipling – it's too early in the evening."

Whether the major intended abusing that famous author at a later hour, or merely reciting from him, we didn't enquire. We talked until late, formulating our plans for the morrow and for many days to come. We made a tour of inspection about the building. The colonel unfolded his plans as we walked along the halls.

"This suite," he said, as we came to the end of the hall, "will make a splendid pair of operating rooms, an anæsthetic and a sterilising room. The fifth will do for a dressing room for the surgeons, and in the sixth Reggy will have full sway – that will be his eye and ear reformatory. On the left we'll install our X-ray plant, so that all surgical work may be done in this one wing."

"What about the hotel furnishings," I enquired, "are they to remain in places?"

"Everything must go, except what is absolutely necessary to the comfort or care of patients," he replied. "It seems a pity, but we are here not only to cure patients, but to protect the Government from needless expense. In the morning set the men to work dismantling the entire building."

We walked along to the opposite end of the hall.

"Here's a fine room," exclaimed Major Baldwin, as he peeped into the dainty boudoir which I had chosen as a bedroom. "Who sleeps in this luxurious state?"

"I do – for to-night," I replied.

"I want that room for myself," he declared. "It looks like the best in the place."

How is it we always want that which the other fellow has? Its value seems enhanced by its inaccessibility.

"It shall be yours to-morrow night," I replied to this covetous request. It was no deprivation to give it up as there were fifty other rooms, which the Major had not seen, more richly decorated and more attractive than mine. This little room was cosy and prettily furnished in bird's-eye maple. It boasted an Axminster rug, a brass bed, and the glow from the open fire lent it a charm which had captivated Major Baldwin's eye.

There were other suites of rooms, with private baths attached, and hot and cold running water. The floors were covered with costly Persian rugs, and the furniture was of hand-carved olive wood or mahogany. Private balconies overlooked the golf course and the forest. Every detail bespoke wealth and luxury combined with the most modern contrivances for comfort.

The colonel was amused at us: "Pick out whatever rooms you like," he said, "and enjoy yourselves while you may, for in three days' time no one but patients will live in this building. The men will sleep in the Golf-club house, the nurses in one of these deserted villas, and we shall have another villa for ourselves."

We discovered that our hospital building was owned by an English company; hence the great number of bathrooms – thirty-four in all. The halls and glass enclosed balconies were steam heated throughout, and each room had its old-fashioned open fireplace to combat the chill of winter days.

At midnight the colonel and his party left us and commenced their return journey to Boulogne. Burnham and I climbed the stairs to my bedroom, our footsteps echoing loudly through the untenanted halls. We sat and chatted for an hour before the fire. I was getting very sleepy – we had dined well – and as I looked at Burnham his form seemed to dwindle to smaller and smaller proportions until he looked like a pigmy from Lilliput. I amused myself awhile watching this strange phenomenon. By and by his diminutive size provoked me to remark:

"Do you know, Burnham, although an hour ago when you entered the room, I mistook you for a full-grown man, I can now see that in reality you are only about ten inches tall – yet your every feature is perfect."

"Much obliged for the compliment implied in your last clause," he laughed; "you corroborate suspicions which I have long entertained that I'm a handsome dog whose beauty has remained unappreciated. It's a strange coincidence, but I am labouring under the opposite delusion, and although an hour ago you waddled into the room – just an ordinary fat man; now I view you as a Colossus."

I rather approved his regarding me as a Colossus, but saw that I must at once frown upon that "waddling" idea. It's an impression I can't afford to let go abroad.

"Come, let's to bed," I cried, "and sleep 'will knit your ravelled sleeve of care' – I really think your wide-awake impressions are the worst!"

We arose at six and under our direction the men commenced the work of disrobing the hotel. The stern necessities of war permit no sentiment. Everything had to go: The beautiful paintings, the silken hangings, the Oriental rugs, the artistic statuary, were all rapidly removed and packed away for safety. The card and dining rooms and lounges were stripped of their carpets, and before night its former guests would scarce have recognised the place. Sanitation is the first and paramount law of a Military Hospital; carpets and unnecessary furniture are a source of danger, for such a variety of diseases follow the troops that special care must be given to every possibility for infection and its prevention.