Kitabı oku: «The First Canadians in France», sayfa 9

We arrived at La Grand Place– once the scene of a busy market, and stood beside the ruins of the famous Guild Hall. Its roof had fallen in; the walls were shattered; piles of stones and mortar had tumbled into the street. The clock tower alone, as if in defiance of the German gunners, stood erect and the clock remained untouched. A dead horse lying close by upon the pavement reminded us that we were now within easy reach of the enemy's fire.

We turned and walked across to the Cathedral of St. Martin; a short time since the pride of that beautiful city. Alas! it too was lost. We clambered over the ruins and got upon the window ledge to look within. The priceless panes were gone; the marble floor, except in patches here and there, was buried deep and the great supporting columns of the dome had toppled over; one lay across the nave, its round flat stones still clinging obliquely together and lying like rouleaux of coin side by side. The sacrilegious shells had burst into the chapel of the Holy Sacrament, had desecrated the altar and piled huge heaps of masonry upon the floor. The crucifix had disappeared, but the statues of the saints, by some strange miracle, remained intact.

From the torn paintings upon the walls the faces seemed to have turned appealingly toward the open roof, their gaze fixed as in a last pitiful prayer to heaven. They were lost – those wondrous works of Art which once with magic charm had held the world enthralled. Never again would humanity come to bow in humble admiration at that shrine of beauty, nor gather inspiration from the hallowed walls. And as we looked upon the wreck about us, now but the memories of an irrestorable past, our bitter thoughts travelled across the lines of trenches to that strange race to whom no neighbour's hall or home is sacred and to whom the work of centuries, the irreplaceable monuments of master minds, are naught.

As we looked again upon those time-honoured, tottering walls the great jagged holes seemed to cry out to us for revenge, and a sudden just but implacable anger against the perpetrators of these hideous world-crimes stormed within our hearts and choked our utterance.

With a sigh we turned from the contemplation of this scene of wanton destruction and started our walk through the desolate streets. Crossing the Menin road, we entered that little graveyard where so many of our brave men lay buried. The houses round about lay crumbled, but this sacred spot, by accident or design, had been spared. As we passed bareheaded down the path between rows of closely crowded graves, the new-made wooden crosses seemed to lift their white arms to us in mute appeal. Here and there the cap of some once gallant French or Belgian officer hung upon his cross – a crown of glory that no mortal hand dare touch. Some of these caps had rested there for months, rotted by rain, torn by the wind, faded by the sun – but dyed with a glory which time could never dim, and emblazoned with the halo of self-sacrifice. And as we stood there upon the threshold of the battlefield we saw the conflict in a clearer light – behind us faith and patriotism; in front patience and heroism, and at our feet self-sacrifice and deathless love.

A great wreath of purple leaves lay upon the grave of a young prince, clinging lovingly to the new-made mound. He rested there side by side with his humbler fellows – they had fought and died together. We sometimes forget that a prince is human; he seems so far above us – he lives in a different sphere and appears to be cast in a different mould. But when we stand beside his grave, we realise at last that he was but a mortal like ourselves; that he has lived his life like us – the same desires, the same ambitions and the same need for love. Only one word was entwined, in white letters, with the purple leaves; only one word, but it bridged two countries and two souls – heaven and earth were joined – for the small white flowers clinging together spelled the magic name of "Mother." We may fall unnoticed in the thick of battle, we may be buried with a host of comrades in a nameless grave, but a mother's heart will seek us out, no matter where we lie, and wrap our lonely souls about with the mantle of her undying love.

"You have seen both ends of a battle now – the hospital and the graveyard," Jack exclaimed, as we left the cemetery; "come with me and I will show you what it is like to be in the middle."

"Can't we take a little walk along this road, and see the first line trenches?" Reggy enquired. We were crossing the Menin road again at the moment.

Jack laughed. "Not if you wish to come further with us. If you step out of this shelter in daylight there won't be any Reggy to brighten our trip. No one goes out there in daylight – that is, if he wishes to attain old age."

"But it seems so quiet here," Reggy protested. "Apart from broken-down buildings, I can't see a sign of a war – there isn't a soul in sight but ourselves."

"Jolly good reason," Jack replied. "If you take a peep through the hedge there you'll see the trenches – we're as close as we dare go at present."

Reggy looked disappointed. "There isn't even a gun," he complained.

It seemed as if the invisible gunners had heard him, for suddenly the fields round about us sprang to life and belched forth smoke and shells. Some cannon in the dark shade of the bushes were actually so close that we could see the streak of flame from the muzzle light the shadow. The Germans were not slow to retaliate, and in a few minutes the roar of their guns and the howl and crash of shells added to the general clamour. Fortunately they did not appear to have our range, and the shells fell far afield.

"That's what you brought down upon us – you doubting Thomas," Jack remarked facetiously to Reggy. "You've started a nice row now that will last for hours."

"Isn't this great!" Reggy cried like a pleased child. "I wouldn't have missed this for a million."

"I hope Fritzie will miss you for less," laughed the colonel, "or we'll be short an ex-Mess Secretary."

Reggy vouchsafed no reply to this hope.

"We'd better get along out of this," Jack said; "the Bosches may discover their mistake before long and pour a little shower of hate on us."

We got into the motor and started towards the Dickibusch road. At Jack's request we stopped for a few minutes at the ruins of a large schoolhouse which had comprised one city block. The semblance of a building remained, but the walls stood only in jagged patches.

"These are the remains of our Field Ambulance," Jack explained. "Come inside and see; you will get a faint idea of what the 'Jack Johnsons' did to our hospital wards."

We passed into what had once been the main entrance. The doorway had received one great shell which on bursting had carried the four walls with it. We stumbled along the floor over heaps of brick and mortar; through piles of broken chairs and beds, and, climbing the ruins of the staircase, arrived upon a landing from which we could see the interior of what had once been a large room.

"This was my ward," Jack told us. "You see that big hole in the roof? A big shell came through there, and burst right here." He pointed to a wide, irregular opening in the floor. Every stick of furniture was smashed to atoms. Daylight came through great gaping holes in the walls and floor. The beds were merely nests of twisted iron. The greater part of the ceiling had fallen in and lay in a heap in the centre of the room.

As we walked about we saw that every other ward was in a similar condition. We went out into the schoolyard. There were five or six tremendous excavations in the ground, perfectly round and capable of holding a baby whale. There was no earth heaped up, for the big shells which made these hollows left nothing behind.

We were still standing there when suddenly there arose a noise like the muffled scream of a distant multitude. We stood rooted to the spot, wondering what grim horror this might be. It grew louder and louder, coming towards us at terrific speed.

"For God's sake," I cried to Jack, "what is that awful sound?"

"Look into the field – quick – you will see!"

We all looked. The sound became a roar – a crash, and then about a hundred yards away the earth sprang high into the air in a great black mass intermingled with clouds of smoke and stones.

"Permit me," Jack remarked coolly, "to introduce you to 'Jack Johnson.' Now you can understand a little how those poor boys in the hospital felt when he came crashing through the roof."

"If we stay here a few minutes longer," the colonel remarked, "we may have it brought even more dramatically to our attention."

Jack laughed. "Oh," he cried, "we're as safe here as anywhere – you never can tell where the next will drop."

We were soon to verify the truth of this remark.

CHAPTER XV

We had turned the corner of the road on which we had just witnessed the effect of the big shell – the hole was still smoking – when once again we heard the distant whine. This time there was no need to ask what it meant; we knew all too well, and for an anxious moment or two we wondered whether after its arrival the newspapers would speak well of us, or whether we should be blown into such small pieces that we should only be reported "missing."

It is recorded that sometimes those who are drowning are able, in a few brief moments, to rehearse the drama of their lives. Our lives must have been too complicated for such hasty revision, but as the sound changed from a whine to a shriek, an unearthly roar, and with a crash like the crack of doom the ground opened before us and shot a blinding storm of rocks and mud sky high – when all this occurred far, far faster than I can pen the lines, we had plenty of time to develop a nasty pain in the pit of the stomach, to which the mystic torment of an unripe cucumber is a joy. A great cavity yawned before us where once the road had been, and belched forth clouds of smoke as if the crust of hell were riven in twain. At the same moment, lest our tranquillity should be restored too soon, our own guns opened up with a vicious roar and hurled their screeching shells over our heads like myriads of fiends possessed. Reggy's face was a study in black and white – I couldn't see my own.

"Do you think the Germans see us?" he enquired anxiously of Jack.

"No, I think not," Jack reassured him; "it's customary for them to shell any good road in the hope of picking off a convoy."

"It's a damned uncomfortable custom," Reggy returned earnestly, "and I could forgive them for not observing it for the next ten minutes."

The chauffeur, who had stopped the car dead by using the emergency brake, now released it, and we started forward again. But we had considerable difficulty in navigating the ditch on the side of what had been the road.

We had just moved in time, for a second shell dropped where we had been a moment since, and tore the opposite side of the road away.

"Being between two lines of artillery is a little too much like battledore and shuttlecock," I remarked to Reggy, "with all the odds against the shuttlecock."

"Object to word 'battledore,'" Reggy retorted; "it's too frivolous and pun-like for the present dangerous occasion."

We were now making haste towards a small village a few miles ahead, and we were not sorry as we passed into the poor shelter its brick houses afforded. As long as we were on the open road it was quite impossible to rid oneself of the feeling that the car was in full view of the German gunners.

The streets of this dirty little village were filled with British Tommies, who, still covered with the mud from the trenches, were as care-free and happy as were those fifty miles from the front. They smoked and chatted together in little groups at the entrance or in the courtyards of the miserable hotels, one at least of which seemed to be on every block. As we drew up the colonel enquired of a sentry:

"Can you tell me where the 'Princess Patricias' are billeted?"

We had been informed that this famous battalion, which had reached France just six weeks after us, was somewhere in this neighbourhood. To discover their whereabouts was the real object of our journey. The sentry made reply:

"I believe, sir, there is a battalion of that naime 'ere somew'eres. Hi, Bill!" he called to another Tommy, who was leaning against a near-by door-post; "w'ere is them Canydians wot wos 'ere t'other day?"

"Bill" banked his cigarette by pressing it against the wall and came over on the double to the side of our car. He saluted with that peculiar Jumping-Jack motion so much a part of the real Tommy, and ejaculated:

"I 'eard they was at the next town, sir; it ayn't far from 'ere, but it's a funny naime – Runnin'-hell, er somethin' like."

"Would it be Reninghelst?" Jack enquired.

"Ay – that's it, sir; I knowed they was 'hell' in it somew'eres."

"Just since the 'Canydians' came, I'll wager?" Reggy interjected mischievously.

The Tommy grinned approval of this jest, and volunteered to show us the direction. He stood on the running board of the car and saw that we got started on the right road.

"Straight ahead now, sir," he said, as he saluted and sprang down.

The heavy shelling had died away, and for the next two miles the sun shone on a peaceful country. We had a chance to marvel at the well-ploughed fields, and wondered what venturesome farmers dared work in such a place. It was almost noon and we had begun to think that we had left the war behind us once more, when suddenly the rapid bark of German guns aroused us, and the sharp crack of shrapnel high above our heads caused us to look up. A new sight met our gaze.

Three of our own aeroplanes were hovering directly over the German trenches, and battery after battery of artillery were exhausting themselves in an angry effort to bring them down. The accuracy of the enemy gunners startled us. This time we were not the hunters, and our sympathies were with the aviators. As shell after shell burst, leaving their white clouds to right or left, we held our breath in suspense. Time and again, as the explosion occurred directly under one of our machines, the smoke hid it from view, and, in a tremor of anxiety, we feared to see it dive to earth. But when the smoke cleared away our three undaunted birdmen were still on high, swooping over the German batteries with a persistence and intrepidity which must have been maddening to the helpless Bosches.

It wasn't long before two enemy aviators rose to give battle, and as they approached our men the firing from below ceased. The five aeroplanes circled round and round, apparently sparring for position, and rose to such great height that we could hardly distinguish them. They were so close together that neither the British nor German artillery dared fire upon them. At last one of the enemy machines detached itself from the others and darted towards our lines with the speed of the wind.

Immediately our batteries opened up, and round after round of bursting shells followed its every movement; now to right, now to left; now above, now below, ever closer to their mark. Finally one well-directed shell burst immediately beneath the aviator. The machine was straight over our heads; we craned our necks to follow it. It swerved and fluttered like a wounded bird, slipped sideways, fell for a short distance, then seemed to stagger like a drunken man; righted itself at last and swiftly descended towards the German lines. That the aviator was wounded we did not doubt, but he had somehow escaped death. In the meantime we had lost sight of the other four machines, and when we looked for them again they had disappeared from view.

The streets of Reninghelst were crowded with soldiers when we reached that town, and among them we recognised, to our joy, some stalwart lads from the "Princess Pats." On the corner was a group of young officers, and in the crowd we espied the familiar features of Captain Stewart who had spent his last night in Canada with us. At the same moment he recognised us and hurried over to the car to greet us.

"Well, well," he cried delightedly, as he shook hands with us two at a time, "welcome to our city! Where the devil did you chaps spring from?"

We assured him that his question was quite à propos, as we had just passed through the infernal regions. He laughed as he replied:

"Interesting bit of road, that stretch between Ypres and here – been in the front line trenches ourselves for a week out there – caught blazes, too!"

His uniform still showed the effects of the trench mud. He was a tall, thin chap, prematurely grey. Like many others of the Princess Pats, he was a veteran of the South African War, a crack-shot, and all-round dare-devil. He spoke in short, quick snatches, starting his sentences with unexpected jerks, and could keep a regiment in shrieks of laughter.

"How is the trench life out here?" the colonel enquired, with a jerk of the head towards the battle line.

"Plain hell – with a capital H. Excuse the repetition of the word – nothing else describes it – a quagmire two feet deep, full of mud and filth."

"Couldn't you dig it deeper?" Reggy enquired with some concern.

"No chance – everywhere you dig – turn up rotting carcases – farther down you go the more water you have to stand in."

"The snipers are bad too, are they not?" I asked him.

He laughed again. "Were bad, you mean," he cried; "not many left around our trench. Poor Fritzie found us a nasty lot – played dirty tricks on him – organised a 'snipe-the-sniper' squad – put 'em out of business."

"How did you manage it?" I asked curiously.

"Stalked 'em – like red Indians – dug a tunnel out to a hill too – came up through the centre of it – hollowed it out inside – and put 'em to sleep one by one. Fritzie doesn't love us any more, but, by Gad, he respects us!"

After we had listened to a few more details of this wild and remarkable life, the colonel enquired:

"Where are your headquarters? We want to see your O.C. and the rest of the chaps."

"I'll climb in and show you the way. It's in another village a few miles from here."

Under his guidance we soon found ourselves in the town, and we stopped at the entrance of a small house which still claimed a patch of garden in front. The room we entered contained a barrack table strewn with field maps and papers, and on the tile floor were the sleeping bags of the four officers who made this their temporary home. Major Gault, a tall, handsome officer, with the bearing of the true soldier, rose to welcome us.

"It seems good to see some one from home again," he exclaimed, as we shook hands. "I thought we were the only Canucks in Belgium."

"You were the first Canadians in Belgium, but we beat you to France by some weeks," the colonel replied, "and we have come up here to tell you where we live, and to let you know that there is a Canadian hospital waiting with open arms to receive you when you call."

"That's splendid," cried the major; "when the boys get hurt be sure you'll hear from us."

It is just as well we cannot look into the future. We walk blindfolded, clinging to the hand of Hope, and trust to her for kindly guidance. None of us at that moment guessed how soon we were to "hear" from those brave men.

Later, when we were about to start for home, they all came out to the car to say au revoir.

"It's a good expression – 'au revoir,'" Captain Stewart cried, as we were parting; "much better than 'Good-bye.'"

"Take care of yourselves," we cried, "but don't forget if you need us, we are waiting!"

"We'll remember," Stewart returned, "for I have a premonition I'll not be killed in this war."

He waved his hand as we left, and when we looked back the little group, whom we were never to see together again, waved their hands in a last farewell.

After about an hour's run we saw in the distance, set like a jewel of the Tyrolese Alps, the pretty town of Cassel, near which our own Canadian boys were shortly to be quartered. It was about twenty miles in a direct line from the trenches, and soon after our visit the long-range German guns dropped their tremendous shells on its outskirts.

When we reached the hospital a cablegram was waiting for the colonel. He tore it open hastily, fearing bad news from home. As he read its contents his mouth expanded in a broad grin, and he passed it silently to us. We read, and Reggy, looking over Jack's shoulder, had the grace to blush as he too saw his mother's message:

"Greatly worried about my son. No word from him for weeks. He was troubled with insomnia at home. Does he sleep better now? Cable my expense."

And the colonel sat down and forthwith wrote this soothing reply:

"Reggy splendid. Awake only at meal hours. Don't worry!"

Late one night, about a week after our visit to the firing line, we were at the railway yard assisting in the unloading of a train of wounded. About three hundred and fifty had arrived, and we were transporting them rapidly to the hospital. The Medical Officer commanding the train approached me and said:

"I have one car filled with wounded officers, and nearly all are stretcher cases. Will you come and see them?"

We walked down the line of cars and, mounting the steps, entered the officers' coach. We passed between the cots, and chatted with each officer in turn; they seemed quite cheery and bright. But one, who had pulled the blankets high about his neck, and whose face was partly covered with a sleeping-cap, looked very ill indeed. Unlike the others, he didn't smile as we approached, but looked up without interest. His face was white and he took no notice of his surroundings. I asked him how he felt. He answered slowly and in a weak voice:

"I'm all in, I guess – don't trouble about me."

Something in the voice and the jerky manner of speech seemed familiar. I looked at him more keenly.

"Stewart!" I exclaimed with involuntary dismay. "Good Lord, it's Charley Stewart!"

"Oh, is that you, Major?" he said, with a faint show of interest. "I've come to call, you see, sooner than I expected. It'll be a short visit," he continued grimly. "Short trip and a dull one."

"Surely it's not as bad as that," I said, as encouragingly as I could, but feeling very sick at heart as I looked down at his pale face.

"Hole through the stomach," he replied weakly. "Bad enough for a start."

"We'll take you up to the hospital – I'm sure we can fix you up all right," I said, with as much assurance as I could assume.

"Take me wherever you like," he replied dully; "it won't be for long."

I assisted in getting him into an ambulance, and cautioned the driver to go carefully, and after seeing the others safely transferred, sprang into a motor and followed. Imagine my surprise and chagrin when I reached the hospital to find that he had not arrived, and after due enquiry discovered that he had been taken, through some misunderstanding on the part of the ambulance driver, to Lady Danby's hospital. We concluded it would be unsafe to move him again that night, and after 'phoning the commanding officer to give him his very best attention, proceeded with the urgent work of caring for the hundreds of others who had already arrived.

In the meantime Captain Stewart was carried through the imposing portal of his new abode. As the stretcher was deposited with a slight jar upon the floor in the centre of a great hall, he opened his eyes and stared in wonder, first at the vaulted roof, then at the magnificent paintings on the walls, the stage at the far end of the hall, and last, but by no means least, at Lady Danby's beautiful face as she leaned over him to assist him. Her golden hair, her big blue eyes and flushed cheeks, and her graceful figure were too much even for a man half dead. He gave one more helpless glance at the stage, then his gaze returned to this vision, and, closing his eyes in a sort of drowsy ecstasy, murmured:

"Where's George Cohan and the chorus?"

"What does he say?" asked Lady Danby in surprise.

"He takes this for a theatre, and is asking where the chorus girls are," a sprightly nurse volunteered, with keen appreciation, and not a little amused at the shocked expression on Lady Danby's face.

"Dear me," she exclaimed, "it must be one of those dreadful Canadians!"

"I'm afraid he's not quite himself at present, your ladyship," the nurse protested, scarcely able to repress a smile.

Stewart opened his eyes once more and remarked coolly as Lady Danby hastened to another patient: "No – not quite all there – part shot away, excuse me." He then closed his eyes again and lay still until the orderlies removed him to his bed.

The Medical Officer came to examine him, and the nurse cut away the dressings from his side. He inspected the wound very carefully and finally said:

"Rifle bullet wound through the lower lobe of left lung. It might have been worse."

"How long do you think I have to live?" Stewart enquired, with some anxiety.

"To live?" cried the surgeon, with a laugh. "About thirty or forty years, with luck."

"What!" shouted Stewart, as he half sat up in bed with a quick jerk. "Do you mean to tell me I have the ghost of a chance?"

"You'll have a splendid chance if you keep quiet and don't shout like that. You'd better lie down again," the surgeon commanded, not unkindly.

"But, good Lord," Stewart protested animatedly, "here I've been trying to die for three days, – every one encouraged me to do it; and after passing through four surgeons' hands, you're the first to tell me I have a chance. It's wonderful. Now I will live – I've made up my mind."

"Who said you would die?"

"First the Chaplain at the Field Ambulance where they carried me in – more dead than alive. He came and shook his head over me. He was a good chap and meant well, I'm sure – he looked very dismal. I asked him if I would die, and he answered pityingly: 'A man shot through the stomach can't live, my poor fellow. Shall I pray for you?' I told him to go as far as he liked – he got on his knees and prayed like the deuce."

"But you said you were wounded three days ago," the surgeon remarked. "What kept you so long from reaching here?"

"I lay one whole day in front of the trench where I was wounded. The stretcher-bearers, against my wishes, came out to bring me in – just as the man at my head stooped down they shot him through the brain. I heard the bullet go 'chuck,' – he fell stone dead across me. I ordered the others back at once – that they must leave me until night. They refused to go at first, but I commanded them again to get back – at last when they saw I was determined, they went. Poor chaps! I know they felt worse at leaving me than as if they had been shot down."

During this conversation the surgeon had dressed the wound, and now, admonishing his patient that he must not talk any more, left him for the night. In the morning Lady Danby came to his cot and marvelled at his bright face and cheery smile.

"You're feeling better this morning, I see," she remarked brightly.

"Much the better for seeing you, madam," Stewart returned, with his customary chivalry; "and one does recover rapidly with such excellent nursing and care."

"I'm afraid we're going to lose you to-day," she replied, with a tinge of regret in her tone. "The Canadians insist on claiming you as their own, and I suppose we must let you go."

"I must admit," he returned, "that I am sorry to leave such congenial company – come and see me sometimes, won't you, please?"

Lady Danby smiled. "When I first saw you last night, I thought I shouldn't care to see you again – but you aren't really quite as dreadful as I thought. Some day soon I'll run in to see how you are getting on."

A few hours later, when Stewart was safely ensconced in our hospital, he observed reminiscently: "I'm awfully glad to be among old friends once more – but those English hospitals are not without their attractions!"