***
Salisbury Plain
England
Dec. 14, 1914
C.D. Milburn
23 ½ College Street East
Arkham, Mass., U.S.A.
My Dear Charles,
I write to you from an ocean of mud, otherwise known as a camp of the Canadian Expeditionary Force, although it rather resembles chaos. Perhaps the sorting-out process which is our purpose here is as yet invisible to my unmilitary eye.
Not much to say about the ocean voyage, except that I was fortunate enough not to get sea-sick, unlike many of my fellow passengers, including Clapham-Lee. He was laid up for most of it, and only struggled out of his bunk when we were nearly at Plymouth.
Two weeks in London were useful in that I was able to finish outfitting myself. At least there are decent tailors there. Then to this muddy plain, where we medical types have been kept busy with an epidemic of cerebrospinal meningitis.
In my spare moments, I have amused myself with sociological observations. Canadians seemed quite English to me until I was able to compare them with real Englishmen, after which they seemed more like us. I speak here of Canadians born in Canada; there is also a large number of British-born Canadians, fully encumbered with the traditions and prejudices of their native land. They are unfortunately over-represented in the Canadian Contingent. The nuances of social class are further complicated by those of military rank; I think I have managed to get them straight by now. Most of the others regard me quite amicably, I suppose because I have crafted the right sort of facade for myself, tempered with the disarming ingenuousness of the naive Yankee.
The lamp is guttering and my tent-mate (not for long, thank God!) is muttering about ‘lights out,’ so I shall dutifully douse and retire.
Herbert.
Boulogne, France
Feb. 10, 1915
My Dear Charles,
Well, we finally got to France. Now we are waiting (I have learned that in the Army one spends a great deal of time doing that) to discover where we are to be sent. There is a rumour that our contingent is to join the 2nd British Army on the Belgian border.
I am not sure which is harder to bear – lack of luxuries or of privacy. I have a different tent-mate here, not chosen by me, you may be sure – a fellow from some outlandish place called Saskatchewan (I had to ask him the spelling), but very English for all that. At least he seems to have had decent training (in eastern Canada), so we can talk shop, although I don’t know what we’ll do after we have exhausted the topics of suturing techniques, diagnostic methods and so on – reminisce about our dear old home towns, no doubt.
Sometimes I think of my laboratory lying unused in Arkham (although I tell myself I should not) and wonder what the devil I’m doing here.
Herbert.
The Friendship of Mortals Page 14
