by Bill Peschel
“The psychology of false references has been a source of interest to me. Sometimes the error is in proof-reading, sometimes in transcribing, as when xlv becomes xiv, or 1910 becomes 1901. This side of literary work has been touched upon by Berger who for one of his exhibits quotes Wolff’s assertion that of 10,000 references that he verified for his own book, 10 per cent. were wrong. An author’s very familiarity with his material seems to breed a sort of blindness; so much so that proof-reading and verification of references should be done also by someone other than the author. By remembering the process by which errors frequently occur one is able at times to discover the correct reference. A title given as Amer. Surg. resolves itself into Ann. of Surg; xiv through xlv becomes 45; page 960 is really 906.
“Yet there are citations that baffle any such psychoanalysis; these, it is quite apparent, the author has never seen in the original, but has copied from some secondary or tertiary source, an error of his own piling Pelion on Ossa with a weird result. Especially can this occur when a translation of a title is involved with an inadequate reference; thus ‘Soc. méd. hop. 3, xii, 1895’ is possible of solution, but when translated and clipped to read ‘Medical society, Dec. 3, 1895’ its connection with Bull. et mém. Soc. méd. des hop. de Paris, 1895, sér. 3, vol xii’ is lost. In this field, too, Teutonic thoroughness appears in the quantity of references amassed, but not in the accuracy or completeness of those references. In fact some of the most careful and most useful bibliographies are ‘made in America.’ Among the greatest bibliographic works ever undertaken are those to which I have here referred, the Index Catalogue and the Index Medicus. Each false reference means time lost and wasted labor, to say nothing of the hard feeling engendered. It is an insult and an injury to laborers in medicine or any other sphere, in untold numbers for no one knows how many years to come. ‘My son, be admonished: of making many books there is no end; and much study is a weariness of the flesh.’”
Fetlock Jones, who had followed my talk with apparent interest, now inquired, “What shall one do to be saved from such an indictment?”
“If I were to draw up rules along this line they would read something like this:
1. Date everything.
2. Indicate source of references, for your own use.
3. Make references complete and accurate. Give these data concerning a reference: a. Author’s last name and initials. b. Title of paper. c. Title of periodical or book in which it is printed. d. Place and date of publication. e. Volume. f. Page.
4. Give titles as printed. If necessary, translate but indicate that fact.
5. Verify every reference, especially just before printing.
There has been but little written on this subject, but I can recommend two little books published by the American Medical Association, ‘Suggestions to Authors’ and ‘Bibliographic Style;’ while another article takes up the reasonableness of such ‘style.’ Examination of good bibliographies will show how these ideas work out in actual practice.”
“Well, Swatson,” said Jones, “I can see what Job meant when he said ‘Oh, that mine adversary had written a book.’ Sleuths are needed to correct literary, or bibliographic, crimes, to trace the murderer of a reference, or the theft of a jewel of thought. Please don’t involve me in any ‘Adventure of the Lost Reference.’ I can help only in murders in the flesh and such popular stuff.”
Here the telephone jingled and Fetlock Jones, the great defective, was immediately concentrating upon a fresh crime.
The Mystery of 2643, Pte. Chugwater
Anonymous
As the war settled into a bloody stalemate, a literary form arose in the form of trench journals and unit magazines. They were unofficial and unsanctioned, put together on the fly, sometimes with presses and materials scavenged from French newspaper offices abandoned in the fighting. Soldiers in all of the armies published more than 1,500 journals, containing humorous stories, satirical ads, artwork, and articles that provided relief from the terror of combat, satirized their army’s bureaucracy and corruption, and documented their lives and experiences.
One of the first magazines to appear was the Fifth Gloster Gazette, which ran from April 1915 until January 1919. The Gloucestershire Regiment existed from 1881 to 1994, but its origins extended back to units that fought Napoleon. The Gazette was a success in the lines and at home as well, particularly for the quality of its poetry. One notable contributor was F.W. Harvey (1888-1957), “the Laureate of Gloucestershire,” who was published in every issue until he was captured in 1916.
Chapter I
“A most interesting case, my dear Potson,” said Chublock Bones as he returned noisily to our dug-out one wet September afternoon. “Most interesting, and at present I can see no light on the matter.”
At once I was keenly awake, every nerve strained to breaking point, the excitement of another case presenting unexpected relief from the tedium of our sedentary life.
Great as was my excitement, I refrained from interrupting my friend Bones’ meditation. He was seated, as was his custom, on a pile of sand-bags, with his gum boots on my pack, carefully filling his aged briar from my tin of ration tobacco. Meanwhile I nervously chewed my “Rough-rider” and watched my companion closely.
“Most interesting,” he again remarked in an abstracting-semi-detached-don’t-care-if-it-snows kind of mood.
At last I could stand the strain no longer, and broke the silence. “Of course, I do not presume to be able to throw any light on that case as yet,” I remarked, “but the saying that two heads are better than one might prove true for once.”
Bones pulled hard at his briar, filling the dug-out with an acrid blue smoke which set me fumbling nervously for a few of my respirators.
“Well,” said he, “it appears that, briefly, No. 2643, Pte. Chugwater has disappeared. His company commander can find no clue of him, and up to the time of appearance of the last Summary nothing has been heard. He was last heard swearing in the kitchen adjoining the officers’ mess at about 10.15 on the morning of the 28th.”
“Let me see,” I said, “that would be just about high water at Southend, wouldn’t it.”
“Exactly, and that is what makes the case more remarkable,” observed Bones. “As far as can be ascertained he was in good health and had drawn 5 francs the day previous. There is no doubt that it is his own signature on the acquittance roll, so that disposes of any suspicion of foul play which might attach to his company commander.
“Most extraordinary and most interesting,” he soliloquised, and sank into a brown study, from which I had learned it was useless to try and rouse him.
Chapter II
When I came back to the dug-out once more after an intimate inspection of sumps in the fire trench, I found Bones eagerly scanning the pages of the field service pocket book.
“What is the height of a fire platform, Potson?” he queried, as I stumbled over his foot and cannoned heavily against an upright.
“Oh! about 6 to 10 days,” I replied, looking through my letters just received.
“Ah, I thought so,” he ejaculated crisply, and darted from the dug-out.
Next morning at stand-down he re-entered the dug-out and smiled knowingly.
“It is most gratifying to be thought so much of by one’s grandmother, isn’t it?” he queried.
“Most,” I answered, and then it dawned on me that by some abstruse working of his power of deduction he had divined a very pungent truth.
“Marvellous,” I added, “how do you manage it, my dear Bones?”
“It’s quite simple. You know my methods, Potson,” he replied. “I observed you rubbing yourself against the support as I entered, and a glance at your pained expression decided me that you were wearing a red wool cholera belt knitted by your grandmother.”
“Superb,” I ejaculated, “but you will pardon me if I don’t quite follow your deduction. How could you tell it was red, and from my grandmother?”
“Well, my dear Potson, by careful ob
servation, and by guarded questions, I elicited that you had received in the course of the week cholera belts from all your relations with the exception of your grandmother, so when I saw you showing the usual symptoms, I diagnosed at once.”
“Incredible,” I replied, “but how on earth did you find out it was red?”
“My dear Potson, that I admit was a bow at a venture, but by watching you give an angry start when I purposely switched on the red light in my pocket torch, I was satisfied.”
“Stupendous,” I murmured weakly.
Chapter III
A tot of rum put new life into me, and I soon had strength to ask, “What news of the missing Private?”
“Ah! yes, that reminds me,” he answered, “great events may happen shortly, so carry your revolver handy always. In the course of the last few hours I have discovered some interesting facts which shed a ray of light on the proceedings. There is a strong suspicion of foul play. Briefly, the facts are these. It appears that some days ago, 2nd Lieutenant Bryman had occasion to be severely spoken to by a Brigadier for carrying too much in his pack, and at the end of the route march roundly abused Pte Chugwater for not filling his pack with an air cushion. That night all the officers in the mess were seriously indisposed, and it is thought that the missing man must have poisoned the food.
“At any rate, next day No. 2643 Pte Chugwater disappeared and has not been seen since. He is known to have been a keen purchaser of silk-woven cards, which he despatched to one Emilina Brown, at Gloucester. Careful enquiries at Gloucester bring to light the fact that at Barton Fair a man answering the description of the missing man was seen firing “rapid” at bottles in plain clothes.
“What an extraordinary side-show,” I cried.
“Of course, you understand the man was in plain clothes. Nothing else occurred, and no further facts have come to light yet, but any minute I am expecting to be called away or upon.”
As he spoke a tap was heard on the waterproof sheet, and a messenger, all steaming with the exertion of keeping up with ration parties in the communication trenches, entered and handed Bones a note. Like a flash he pulled on his gum boots and darted up the steps, brushing aside the gasping orderly.
Chapter IV
When I awoke next afternoon the air was heavy with tobacco smoke, and I became aware of a peculiarly contented look on Bones’ face.
“What news?” I asked.
Without answering he handed me a pink form, on which I read the mystic sentence, “Our guns will open fire at 11.30 a.m. AAA.”
“But I don’t follow the connection in the least,” I replied. “When did this come?”
“Just now, 3.30 p.m.,” he answered, “the mystery is now solved, and we are relieved tomorrow.”
Pinching myself to dispel any doubts, I motioned to him to continue.
“In a few words it amounts to this. Private Chugwater is a cook at Brigade Headquarters.”
The dug-out formed fours, and I swooned silently away. Recovering slowly I repeated the continue motion, and lay back on my waterproof sheet.
“By careful reconnaissance,” continued Bones, “I entered the orderly room, first raising the alarm outside by saying that the Sergeant Major was walking down the road.
“In the general stampede which followed I went through all the pink forms I could find, and at length got on the trail!”
“On the afternoon of the 28th all Company Officers and N.C.O. were circularised for the name of a potential cook for Brigade Headquarters. It appears that this form was taken to the H.Q. of Pte Chugwater’s company commander, who was out. Lieutenant Bryman, however, was in, and, doubtless still sore from the cutting remarks about his equipment he connived the brilliant plan of sending in the name required. To submit Pte Chugwater’s name was the work of a moment, and there remains little more to relate. In due course the movement order came, and by an oversight, Lieutenant Bryman omitted to tell his company commander.”
“But,” I queried, “what was the cause of the officers’ indisposition?”
“Oh,” replied Bones, “that was a mistake on the part of one of the Mess servants, who put the butter supplied by Battalion H.Q. Mess on the table, instead of that bought locally.”
“But who was the man who was seen at Barton Fair firing rapid at bottles?” I persisted.
“Ah! that was a man named Smith, from London.”
1916
This was a momentous year in Conan Doyle’s life, full of hard work, moral campaigns, and the launch of a crusade that would alter his public reputation.
In April, the first installment of The British Campaign in France and Flanders was published in The Strand. To write his history, he drew on a wealth of documentation, including correspondence with nearly fifty generals. Apart from assimilating all this information quickly, the only problem he had were with the censors, who seemed determined to sabotage him. Their interference had gotten so bad the previous year that he considered abandoning the project. He understood that attention to the war must come first, but it was discouraging, and he was relieved when editor Greenhough Smith told him the opening chapters had been cleared for publication. As for another Holmes story it was impossible, he wrote Smith, “I can’t attune my mind to fiction, I’ve tried but I can’t.”
In the meantime, Italian officials asked Conan Doyle to visit their front. He jumped at the chance to gather first-hand information, expanded their request to include the French lines, and wrestled with the Foreign Office’s request that he appear in uniform. Remembering his appointment as Deputy-Lieutenant of Surrey, he designed a suitable outfit that created “an awe-inspiring effect” when he visited the lines.
In France, he slogged through trenches and ate and drank tea with the troops. He saw that French soldiers were given badges when they were wounded, and passed the idea along to the War Office. Soon, British soldiers began sporting wound stripes. As in the Boer War, he came face to face with the aftermath of battle: mutilated horses, a wounded man with blood spouting from the stump of an arm, and a body “drenched crimson from head to foot, with two great glazed eyes looking upwards through a mask of blood.”
He spent several days with Innes, who introduced him to his fellow officers and took him to see Ypres, the Belgian town where the British Expeditionary Force saw much of the fighting. After leaving Innes, Conan Doyle was given a surprise by Sir Douglas Haig. Arriving by car at a French village, he saw “a tall young officer standing with his back turned. He swung round at the noise of the car, and it was my boy Kingsley with his usual jolly grin upon his weather-stained features. The long arm of GHQ had stretched out and plucked him out of a trench, and there he was.”
The meeting lasted an hour, long enough for Kingsley to describe the next big offensive. He was cheerful and light-hearted as usual. Within weeks after their meeting, Kingsley would spend ten nights preparing for the offensive by sneaking out to the German lines and marking where the barbed wire was uncut. By the beginning of July, Conan Doyle heard that his son had been wounded in the neck by shrapnel. He would spend the next several months recuperating in England.
Meanwhile, he found a new crusade in the treasonous activities of an old acquaintance. In April, a German U-boat landed Sir Roger Casement on the western coast of Ireland. For the last year, he had been in Germany plotting to free India and Ireland from British rule. He tried to raise a battalion from Irish prisoners of war, but they remained disappointingly loyal. His latest scheme involved getting the Germans to supply arms to Irish nationalists planning an uprising over Easter. But as the time approached he realized the support was not enough, and he had returned to urge his revolutionary brethren to cancel the revolt. Shortly after landing, a chance encounter with a policeman resulted in his capture.
His death sentence for treason sparked opposition among those who didn’t want another martyr for the Irish cause. Among them were Conan Doyle, who had worked with him when, as Counsel in the Belgian Congo, Casement tried to open the world’s eyes to th
e atrocities committed in the name of imperialism. To Conan Doyle, turning away from Britain in its time of national peril meant Casement was insane, and he rallied support on his behalf.
To the government, this was serious. It was one thing for a Socialist crank like George Bernard Shaw to oppose the government; Conan Doyle was loyal to King and country. The government fought back by secretly revealing Casement’s diaries to his supporters in which he recounted his homosexual affairs. His supporters faded, leaving Conan Doyle to stand alone, convinced that his homosexuality was further proof of his friend’s madness.
The campaign failed. Casement marched to his hanging, said one observer, “with the dignity of a prince,” and contemptuous of Conan Doyle’s attempt to cast him as a madman. Ireland had another martyr.
The year was also marked by Conan Doyle’s concern for his family’s well-being. As his mother approached her 80th year, she was happy but growing frail, and he prayed for a “swift and painless” end. As his son recovered from his wounds and prepared to return to the front, he expressed the belief that he was “destined for something if he lives.” But in a rare moment of reflection, he admitted that he knew nothing of his son’s inner life: “He lives behind a very tight mask and all his real interests and thoughts are concealed from me.”
