The First Canadians in France. Lt. Col. Frederick McKelvey Bell
disposed to argue the point. The blankets would all be wet and muddy, and damaged with coal cinders; but he was finally overruled.
The adjutant turned to look at the men. Their line had wabbled and showed strange gyrations.
"Will you men stand in line?" he cried. "How do any of you ever expect to succeed in life if you can't learn to stand in a straight line?" With which unanswerable argument and much pleased with his midnight philosophy, he relapsed into his customary genial smile.
At last the blankets were distributed, and in an hour the station platform and bridge over the tracks looked like the deck of an emigrant steamer. Wherever the eye reached, the dimly-lighted platform showed rows of sleeping men, rolled up and looking very like sacks of potatoes lying together.
Five of us officers turned into the expressman's hut, and in the dark fell into whatever corner was available. Reggy and I occupied either side of an unlighted stove, and throughout the jumpy watches of the night bruised our shins against its inhospitable legs.
Dawn was breaking, and breaking darkly, too, as the dim shadow of the expressman came stumbling across the platform through rows of growling men. At last he reached his office, and, all unconscious of our presence, stepped within. He stepped upon the sleeping form of the adjutant, and the form emitted a mighty roar. The expressman staggered back in amazement, giving vent to this weird epigram:
"Every bloomin' 'ole a sleepin' 'ole!"
"You'll 'ave to get up," he cried indignantly when he had recovered from his astonishment. "This ain't a bloomin' boardin'-'ouse!"
"Could you return in half an hour?" Reggy queried in drowsy tones, but without opening his eyes.
"No. I couldn't return in 'alf an hour," he mocked peevishly.
"Run away like a good fellow, and bring some shaving water – have it hot!" Reggy commanded.
"Oh, I'll make it 'ot for you all right, if you don't let me into my office," he retorted angrily.
Might is not always right, so we reluctantly rose. We had had three hours of fitful sleep – not too much for our first night's soldiering. Hot coffee, cheese and biscuits were soon served by our cooks, and we prepared for our first march on English sod.
No one who made that march from Lavington to West Down North will ever forget it. Napoleon's march to Moscow was mere child's play compared with it. Reggy said both his corns were shrieking for Blue Jays and when Bill Barker removed his socks (skin and all) it marked an epoch in his life, for both his feet were clean.
Every fifteen minutes it rained. At first we thought this mere playfulness on the part of the weather; but when it kept right on for weeks on end, we knew it to be distemper. By day it was a steady drizzle, but at night the weather did its proudest feats. Sometimes it was a cloudburst; anon an ordinary shower that splashed in angry little squirts through the canvas, and fell upon our beds.
And the mud! We stood in mud. We walked in mud. We slept in mud. The sky looked muddy, too. Once, and only once, the moon peeped out – it had splashes of mud on its face!
Reggy loved sleep. It was his one passion. Not the sweet beauty sleep of youth, but the deep snoring slumber of the full-blown man. But, oh, those cruel "Orderly Officer" days, when one must rise at dawn! Reggy thought so, too.
Six a.m. The bugle blew "Parade." Reggy arose. I opened one eye in time to see a bedraggled figure in blue pyjamas stagger across the sloppy floor. His eyes were heavy with sleep, and his wetted forelock fell in a Napoleonic curve. The murky dawn was breaking.
Outside the tent we could hear the sergeant-major's rubber boots flop, flop, across the muddy road.
"Fall in, men! Fall in!" His tones, diluted with the rain, came filtering through the tent. It was inspection hour.
Reggy fumbled at the flap of the tent, untied the cord, and through the hole thus made thrust his sleep-laden head.
"Parade, 'shun!" shouted the sergeant-major (a sly bit of satire on his part). The warning wasn't needed. The sight of Reggy's dishevelled countenance was enough; Bill Barker himself "shunned." Somewhere from the depths of Reggy's head a sleepy muffled voice emitted this succinct command:
"Serg'nt-major; dish-mish th' parade."
"Right turn! Dis-miss!" With a shout of joy the boys scampered off to their tents.
A moment later Reggy tumbled into bed again, and soon was fast asleep. And within two hours, at breakfast, he was saying, with virtuous resignation: "How I envied you lucky devils sleeping-in this morning! I was up at six o'clock inspecting the parade." And the halo of near-truth hovered gently about his head.
Thus passed three weeks of rain and mud. In spite of ourselves we had begun to look like soldiers. How we ever developed into the finest hospital unit in the forces none of us to this day knows – and none but ourselves suspects it yet. We had, and have still, one outstanding feature – a sort of native modesty. Whatever in this chronicle savours of egotism is merely the love of truth which cannot be suppressed.
And then, one eventful day, the surgeon-general came to inspect us. He seemed pleased with us. Presently he passed into the colonel's tent, and they had a long and secret conference together. Finally the pair emerged again.
"What about your horses?" the general queried.
The horses had been our greatest worry. They came on a different boat, and the two best were missing or stolen. Once Sergeant Honk discovered them in the lines of another unit, but was indiscreet enough to proclaim his belief to the sergeant-major of that unit. When we hurried down to get them they were gone. No one there had ever heard of a horse of the colour or design which we described. We were discouraged, and in our despair turned to the senior major, who was a great horseman and knew the tricks of the soldier horse-thief.
"Don't get excited," he said reassuringly. "They've only hidden away the horses in a tent, after you chumps recognised them. To-morrow, when they are not suspicious, I'll go down and get them."
And on the morrow mirabile dictu he secured them both.
So the colonel answered: "The horses are here, and ready, sir."
Ready for what? There was a tenseness in the air – a sense of mystery that could not be explained. We listened again, but could only catch scraps of the conversation, such as "Transport officer," "Nine a.m." "Don't take the mess tent or any tents but hospital marquees."
Something was brewing and brewing very fast. At length the colonel saluted, and the general left.
"What news, Colonel?", we cried breathlessly, as soon as discretion allowed. And he let fall these magic words:
"We are under orders to move. We shall be the first Canadians in France!"
CHAPTER III
It was exactly 10 p.m. as Bill Barker and Huxford, with the heavy team and wagon, drove up to the colonel's tent.
"Do you think you can find your way to Southampton in the dark?" the colonel asked Barker somewhat anxiously.
"Yes, sir. I've never been lost in my life – sober." The afterthought was delivered with a reminiscent grin.
"Remember, no 'booze' until the horses are safely in the town; and a glass of beer will be quite enough even then," the colonel admonished him.
"Never fear, sir," Bill replied, as he saluted. With a last long look at the camp he said: "Good-night, sir," and the horses started down the muddy road.
Why we should still have any affection for that camp in which none of us ever wore a dry stitch of clothes or knew a moment's comfort, is merely another illustration of the perversity of human nature. Like Bill Sikes' dog, our love is stronger than our common sense. For a moment we stood watching the team pass down through the lines toward the unknown south, and then we turned in to sleep.
At 3 a.m. our camp was all astir, and the dull yellow glow of candles and lanterns shining through the tents dotted the plain. Here and there brighter lights flitted to and fro, as the men proceeded rapidly with the work of packing up.
And what a medley of goods there was!