by Paul Almond
The heart beating so strong and true are the overseas nursing sisters — ministering angels to souls in torment.
The brains are the doctors and medical science fighting death and disease.
And the soul — I suppose the place must have a soul — they wrap a Union Jack around what is left of the Canadian Soldier and ship his coffin home to relatives, or they pull men up from deep down in Hell, put them on their feet again, and send them back into the game of life to work and play for a few more years. This soul is most unutterably sad but sternly beautiful, for I saw the most divine unselfishness and silent heroism that I have ever witnessed during my stay at this Military Institution.
Yes! We are the wrecks of the Great War! We show scars in our heads where the shells made a dent but did not kill. Our lungs are eaten away from the effects of gas. An exploding shell as we went “Over the Top” sent us up in the air, but did no physical damage. A German infantryman went to bayonet us and we were crazed with fear. Our legs were shot away. God help us! Our eyes are out. “Poor chap, a terrible inward struggle passing all understanding put him where he is,” so the doctors say. Now nurses and orderlies lead us all around by the hand. They take us out for walks in our uniforms like a flock of frightened sheep. I am so frightened I walk on my knees.
Once we built bridges, painted pictures, made poetry, preached sermons, healed the sick, worked on farms, made wonderful flower gardens, but that was all before the war. Now we sit in corners and knit stockings, make little baskets, do bead work, while lady visitors come in and say, “My how perfectly splendid that stocking is. I must get you to knit me a sweater.” Do you wonder I curse them openly?
It was Sunday and the boys were all gathered by strong orderlies, and paraded in their greys and blues to the little Chapel, the suffering torments plain on their faces and broken bodies. All had gathered to worship the Almighty Father, God of Love, Peace and Good Will.
The chaplain was a hero himself: he had been through two wars and gone with many a man to the scaffold. Indeed, a coward would not have been fit to speak to these broken heroes.
One soldier was cursing in a monotonous tone; others were fighting in a corner, separated by orderlies. Then the chaplain’s message rang out clear and strong like a bugle call: “I believe that no soul will be finally lost! Almighty God has a great pair of loving arms right around you... understanding all, forgiving all, suffering with you and helping you bear your cross.” One of the broken soldiers from the rear of the chapel shouted, “Cut out that cursing and fighting! This damn parson is saying something worthwhile.”
On Armistice Day the Union Jack was flung to the breeze from the hospital flag-pole — the flag they had given their lives for, with its three crosses and its matchless colours: red for self sacrifice, blue for love, and white for purity. The broken soldiers stood erect with the light of love in their eyes and saluted the colours.
“It’s Tommy this, and Tommy that, and Tommy how’s your soul?”
But it’s this thin red line of heroes when the drums begin to roll!
These overseas nurses with their blue uniforms and white veils hanging down — God bless them! They love these broken wrecks of the war. They put their arms around them, wander with them hand-in-hand in Hell and try to pull them up to their Heaven. When Christ died upon the cross He took our sins upon Himself. Well, that is just what those sisters do with the returned soldiers. They make the special sin or suffering their very own.
It seems to me if you want to help a person, it is impossible to do so from a distance. You must touch! And those girls put their arms right around the soldier patient — blind their eyes to the repulsiveness, shut their ears to the cursing, and love and lift.
I have seen a nurse looking after a cancer patient so repulsive that an orderly might vomit when he entered his room. I have seen another feed a man who was gone mentally, morally and physically, just like a mother would feed a newborn babe.
But they often lose their fight and close the tired eyes of the broken soldier — who can then open his eyes to the Call of his Great General. “Well done thy good and faithful servant, enter into the Joy of thy Lord.”
And then sometimes they win their fight! If you could see the light in a doctor’s eye when he has won a man back and set him free again, you would appreciate some of the joys of a doctor’s life of service.
What of the soul of this soldiers’ institution?
Who is that man feeling his way up from the village with a cane, led by a little dog? Oh him? He lost his eyes overseas in a gas attack. But he took a course in massage at a school for the blind, and now he massages soldiers.
One of the chaps wants to write a letter home to his wife to thank her for the photograph of his two little kiddies. He was a Flying Corps Officer overseas, but creeping paralysis has set in and he is losing a fight with death. The more you do for him the less he will do for himself, so help him if you dare! But this letter must be written, although his hands are too shaky to hold a pen and his mind too feeble to formulate a thought. “All right, my comrade,” answers an artilleryman, “we will write this wonderful letter together.”
“Dear Mary,” the paralysis chap says. The artilleryman writes it down and inquires, “All’s well, what’s next?” The sick laddie answers: “I - do - not - think - I - can - write - today. Help - me - to - lie down - and straighten - out - my - legs - please... “
”All right, tomorrow then, old soldier,” answers his cheery helper.
It took his comrade, who was also suffering intensely, four days to help him write that letter.
A soldier, a mental patient, was suddenly given leave to see his wife and kiddies. He heard another soldier remark that he would like some wild flowers. This soldier could only stay one day at home, then had to return to Hell. But all that day his wife and kiddies went out into the fields gathering wild flowers for the sick soldier.
“Everybody, please try to be good,” the sister said, “just for half an hour. A soldier’s mother has come a long way to see her son.” The son did not know his mother — he did not even know his own name, but how wonderfully quiet that ward was. Even the cursing patients smiled at the gentle old lady.
One day a young parson, a mere boy just out of college, walked into the ward escorted by a nursing sister. God never meant him to walk into that ward and ask darn fool questions to those suffering heroes, but our boys returned good for evil, answering his silly questions in a gentlemanly manner.
One man, dying from the effects of gas and suffering intensely every morning, said, “I do not wish to give those little nurses or the orderlies any extra trouble, so I smother my groans in my pillow.”
Another hero opened his heart to one of his comrades at night. “Yes, I am in pretty bad shape. I guess I am dying all right and would just give the world to see an old girl friend. But who would want a young girl to be tied to a broken old soldier? Not me! I would shoot myself like a dog first. So I let her go and I pray for her every night.”
Yes, the soul of this hospital is most unutterably sad, but sternly beautiful.
And you, my soldiers, who have your health and strength, so keenly alive to the beautiful things of earth — would you turn sometimes with a silent prayer to the Merciful Father, God of Love, and ask Him to be with these souls in torment and comfort them? They stood in front line trenches against the German army for you and for me. They did not give their lives — that would have been easy. They gave themselves to endless suffering, and death in life, which is worse than death itself.
C H A P T E R S I X
The Lions,
Brentwood, Essex.
July 1925
Eric dear,
I haven’t had a letter for such a long time that I am worried. I know you go off on those dangerous trips into the wild forests of Canada. But you told me that you were entering university. And I’ve had a couple of letters from you since then from Bishops. I’m wondering what is the matter?
Perhaps
you met a young lady there, a student, but that should not preclude our friendship. At least I hope not.
I never told you how romantic and exciting I found your descriptions of those canoe trips and expeditions into the winter woods on snowshoes or with dogs pulling sleds. It is so very foreign to us here. My friends love hearing about that wild and uncharted wilderness that you seem to understand so well. It is most exotic, so very different to us surrounded by our buildings and motor cars. Even now we’re seeing fewer and fewer horses on the streets.
I confess I read some of your letters, not to Leo who doesn’t appreciate such things, but to others at the Ginner Mawer School where I have been studying, as you know. You see, I do classes there even though I have graduated, just to keep my hand in. They all love hearing about your distant adventures — causes quite a stir when I bring in another letter.
Hilda has returned from South Africa but doesn’t enjoy living with the Mater. The problem is, Leo loses no chance in taunting her, even hinting she’s not pretty enough to get a man. Now, she’s determined to leave again. She’s even thinking of New Zealand, opening a dancing school in Auckland. It is not as adventurous as Canada, of course, but it’s a long way from the Mater. I have been encouraging her.
As you seem to understand, Mater is not pleased with what I’m doing. I appear in recitals, and I love dancing on stage. I have even taken to helping Ruby Ginner with some of her classes, working with beginners. I don’t know which I like more, appearing on stage, or teaching others. Fortunately, now I’m doing both. It’s not beyond possibility that I will join Hilda or perhaps go on to Australia and start a school there. A bit of a challenge for me, but as you know I never mind a challenge.
Do write to me, or if one of your relatives gets this and something has happened to you, I really must know. So I’ll send it to Shigawake, rather than Bishop’s. I just can’t bear the thought of you attacked by a bear or falling through some frozen lake — you have no idea how my imagination works to so upset me.
So write to me, my big adventurer.
Rene.
The Military Hospital,
Ste. Anne de Bellevue, Que.
November 1925
Dear Rene,
My silence has not been due to any accident, thank heaven. But it is due to something far worse, and I had no idea how to explain. Perhaps if we were ever lucky enough to meet one day, I could give you the full story. But for the moment, let me say that I am in a military hospital, where your letter reached me. I have suffered from nerves and shell shock again. You remember in England I had it, too. But I was sure I had recovered. I still intend to finish at Bishops, of course, and get my degree. But right now, nothing is sure.
I’ll write you as soon as I get out of here. They say I’m getting better.
Warm wishes from your “Adventurer.”
Eric.
So was that hospital the end of all hope Eric had for Rene? Not so fast. He wrote about his stay in hospital, as he did all the other essays: “...during the time I was attending lectures and carrying on with all my work as a university student in Third Year Arts.” Autumn term of 1926... after the hospital. So he did make it back to Bishops! Though he didn’t play rugby, choosing instead to write, presumably feverishly, many essays.
Somehow he must have recovered, gotten home to Shigawake, and then rejoined his University in September. Trust our veteran. Oh, and in a note he mentions a dog, which seems important, likely recommended by his military doctors.
My British bulldog Foch sleeps by the open fire in my room — a brindle and white, with a perfectly hideous, ugly face, tongue out, teeth showing, snorting, sneezing, puffing and panting. But a very lovable dog and a wonderful friend. Every once in a while, he brings me his ball to play with him or a rope to pull tug-of-war.
One of the students said, “Poor old Pop, after all the girls he must have met, now he has only a homely old bulldog for a sleeping partner.” But I tell you frankly, you would never get a truer friend than this old bulldog pup of mine.
43 Macleay Street,
Sydney, NSW, Australia
February 1927
Eric dear,
I am writing this to your Shigawake home, because I’m not sure from your last letter whether you will be going there from hospital, or straight to college. But I’m writing now because I have a new address. This will come as a surprise, but I know you like surprises – I certainly do. You see, I did make the decision to go to Sydney, Australia, as I hinted earlier. I am here now. Being the first graduate of the Ginner Mawer School to arrive, I am very busy, as you might imagine. I have begun teaching. I am also trying to arrange to get dance on the school curriculum in Sydney, and even now am instructing schoolteachers in the rudiments of classical Greek dancing. I also give a few talks, which are being well received and reported in the newspapers, believe it or not, and am even thinking about opening a school of my own. Dancing is very much in the news these days, with the tour here this year of Anna Pavlova.
Sydney is rather exciting, Eric. Australians are not at all as stuffy as we British. They are like Canadians, and have a good sense of humour, always laughing. And their accent! You would find this city a lot of fun if you were able to come.
I know you will be writing about your time in hospital, but it might take time for that to reach me here, forwarded from Brentwood. I just have your letter which assures me that you are soon getting out of that Military hospital. I am thrilled, of course, and from what little you have told me, your stay there will have been quite beneficial.
Yes, of course, I remember those times when you behaved a little differently. You should not worry about telling me. I know you to be very brave, and after what you have endured, it is wonderful you can function so well , rugby, running the Officers Training Corps — a born leader, don’t I know it! As you say, your malady is only intermittent. So try not to worry.
It will take a good deal of time for our letters to cross now, with me being out here. I shall just have to wait patiently, but be sure to write as soon as you can find the time.
Meanwhile, I do have great faith in the future here. So far, I’ve been so lucky in my welcome from these warm and wonderful people.
Your faithful friend, Rene.
Finally, one crucial excerpt from Eric’s typewritten dossier, this one written perhaps after he’d received Rene’s letter:
A college friend asked me one night in front of my open fire, “Why are you so solemn and sad, Pop old boy?”
I said, I have struck my tents, and burnt all my bridges. No retreat: advance or die fighting. I am on the march. There is a spot I love, but I have left it forever...
A beautiful garden overlooking the Bay de Chaleur with one hundred and forty lilacs: white, purple and blue, a rose walk, white, red and pink, five avenues of trees with wonderful hedges, spirea, hydrangea, larkspur, poppies and all other gorgeous flowers. A little summer house under the apple trees called “Lovers Retreat” covered with Virginia creeper. When I think of the wonderful colouring of the flowers facing the matchless blue waters of the Bay de Chaleur — the afterglow of the sunset back over the hill with that blue mountain ridge filled with lakes and trout streams, all old haunts of mine. Then the moonlight on the sparkling waters of the Bay de Chaleur at night — one trail of blazing glory to Fairyland.
Yes! Give me a flower garden by the sea and I am happy. But now I am leaving the east and facing west.
In June after the exams, I go direct to that Pacific Coast on a big adventure. I am saying goodbye to the Bay de Chaleur, burning my bridges behind me. I am on the march.
The saddest word to me in the English language is Farewell. It is the thought of saying goodbye that is making me sad tonight. Not the thought of the glorious adventures with friendship, victory, defeat and suffering, which will surely come.
And now, having learned all this about Eric, we can rejoin him on the station platform in Port Daniel, awaiting the arrival of the Atlantic, Quebec, and Wester
n Railway train from Gaspe.
PART TWO: 1927
C H A P T E R S E V E N
Eric strode through white clouds hissing from the locomotive and watched the carriages slow down. Carrying his suitcase and haversack, he headed for the stool placed by the conductor for embarking passengers. Half a dozen gathered around, nodding to Eric as he joined them, stepping back to allow him first entry, as was only right for a veteran.
Making sure to choose his seat on the bay side of the carriage, now only partly filled, Eric lifted his duffel bag and suitcase overhead and put his haversack on the seat. A whistle blast announced departure. The train gave a jolt and lurched out of the station, moving slowly. Some of the passengers were still settling in, arranging their bags, talking among themselves. Eric clenched his eyes shut, opened them, shook his head slightly, and settled back to look out the window. He’d taken this trip already, to and from university and to check himself in at the military hospital. But now, an altogether different beginning...
His thoughts ranged over the details of his leaving: had he forgotten anything? Had he left everything in order? How would Marshal Foch fare with the family? His bulldog had taken a liking to his older brother Earle, and more importantly, Earle to him. Momma would also see that Foch would be cared for. Such a shame to leave him, but nothing for it, the train trip would have been too hard. So in fact, all seemed in order.
Ahead in Montreal, difficulties loomed. His nephew Gerald, Jack’s son, had been at Bishop’s during the first of those unfortunate episodes. What memories of that remained? Were the episodes generally known? Was Eric considered, as he feared, a crazy loon? Had rumours of his attacks spread through the college? Or had everything been smoothed over, his brother Jack discreet, and those temporary set-backs ignored, as Eric hoped? Well, he would soon see. He’d written to Gerry to suggest lunch.
