Lord Byng, then Sir Julian, was popular with the Canadians as corps commander insofar as general officers were capable of being known to the troops.
For brigadiers were rare enough birds in the select company of the old tin hats, let alone corps commanders.
But Sir Julian inspected us a few times – few enough, indeed, to win the real gratitude of the muddy trench hounds. He dropped in unexpectedly on us at our work or play. He popped without warning into billets or training field, saw us as we were, not as we pretended to be on carefully preened parades for him.
And to us, he appeared a real general. He seemed so entirely at his ease. Generals as a class were usually a fiercely tailored and starched lot, sitting their horses just so, uttering certain set clipped remarks, as if they were playing a part.
Sir Julian struck us as a man accustomed to his part. His uniform didn’t seem to distress him. He wore it easily, loosely, as if he had had it for years. He wore amazing grey- green canvas leggings! Yes, sir. Astonishing. No other general of our acquaintance could have dared forego the rich, shining knee boots of generalhood. But Sir Julian not only wore outrageous canvas leggings, but he carried an absurd little stick instead of the massive riding-crop of his high estate. And frequently – tell it not in G. H. Q – frequently he had one or more of his tunic buttons undone.
That made him a figure of interest to the rank and file. He came one day before the Vimy show to inspect us near Lillers. We were doing the tapes. And a watchful eye was kept for the party of horsemen or the red-flagged grey motor car that would advise us of his approach.
But around a copse, on foot, came a small party of brass hats and caught us unawares. The usual stiff group of immaculate red tabs, but at the head of them a tall, long-legged, easy figure who walked as though he were accustomed (like us, egad, poor gravel crushers), to walk.
This was Sir Julian, our leader. He came and walked along our platoons. Our buttons blazed. Not a button, not a strap was out of place. We scarcely breathed as the great corps commander strode close before us. But picture our rapture and relief when we noted that three of the august tunic buttons were undone.
Did he stop and tick our buttons? Did he examine our chins, or ask us to show him our iron rations? No. In a rather high voice, he asked the company commander –
“What are you doing?”
And when he was told –
“Let’s see you do it,” he said.
And we galumphed gaily over the mimic attack on the tapes, at our ease before a general who was at his ease and had three buttons undone. And when the sham attack ended on a hill-top, we looked back, and the corps commander waved his little stick to us and went on to other battalions in the next stubble field.
So we had a hunch that this man knew what he was doing with us. He didn’t seem highty-tighty. We began to appreciate the fact that we were getting a remarkably thorough training for this Vimy show. We noted the plenty of maps, air photos and intelligence reports that were showered upon us, even down to the humble lance-jack and section commander. We had a feeling of confidence, which was half the battle of Vimy Ridge.
And word was whispered down to us from colonel to captain, sergeant and buck, that this was the ingenious hand of Sir Julian. His good name followed him after he left the Canadians; and in that fateful March, 1918, when we heard Byng’s Third Army was on our right, we felt no alarm.
He started the Corps School in 1916, which proved the most invaluable liaison between divisions. For in those early days, the First Division did not altogether love the Second, and the Third Division was an unknown infant. Sir Julian dealt with this as soon as he took command of the corps. The Corps School brought officers and N.C.O.’s from all divisions together, put them to sleep together in tents, had them eat and live together in huts. And lo, the little antagonisms vanished.
He got his point of view on Jack Canuck at first hand. At Houdain, on the outskirts of which was his headquarters in the Chateau of Ranchicourt, he came suddenly one morning into the barn in which I was superintending a fatigue party cleaning the billet.
Hs asked numerous questions about us, our regiment, where from, how billets should be cleaned, what offenses the different members of the fatigue party had committed to win this distinction, had we been long out in France, what had we for breakfast, were we married, any children, had we been shooting lately, what was that man limping for, did many of the men get drunk ever, how old is that man there?
I had no idea who my inquisitor was. His red tabs confused me. But his perfectly easy, friendly manner set me at rest, in spite of the presence of another brass-hat, who stood stiffly and importantly at the door of the barn. Some brigade officer or other, I said —
When I described my friend to my seniors at mess that noon, I was horrified to learn it was without question the corps commander. Lumme, a lieutenant-general! But, as Ortheris1 said, I was a recruity then.
Editor’s Note:
In the collection of short stories “Soldiers Three” by Rudyard Kipling, the cockney soldier Ortheris expresses deep contempt for recruits (“recruities”) who whine about their rights. ↩︎
You take a good stance. You swing. The beater smacks the rug with a satisfying thud. The dust flies. You swing again.
By Gregory Clark, Illustrated by James Frise, May 29, 1943.
“I don’t suppose,” wheedled Jimmie Frise, “you’ve got an extra vacuum cleaner?”
“You can still buy vacuum cleaners,” I informed him. “Delivery in August.”
“Yes, a hundred bucks,” said Jim. “And who’s got 100 bucks? Besides, who can wait until August?”
“If you’ve got an old one to turn in,” I advised him, “you can get practically immediate delivery. One thing the government has gone awfully cautiously on, in its restrictions, is vacuum cleaners. They can push women around in a lot of ways; they can interfere with the food supply, they can cut down canned goods, they can upset the domestic scene in practically every direction. But there is one thing the government knows it can’t do. And that is, return women to the broom.”
“The carpet beater you mean,” corrected Jimmie.
“The broom,” I insisted. “The broom is the ancient badge of woman’s servitude. For countless ages, the broom was the symbol of woman’s slavery. When we wanted to ridicule women in the worst possible way, we invented witches and put them riding on brooms. Not riding on a frying pan. Or a wash board. On a broom.”
“Our vacuum cleaner,” announced Jim, “has burnt out its motor.”
“Have it repaired,” I said.
“I’ve had it repaired,” said Jim, “and now they say it can’t be repaired any further.”
“Then get a new one,” I explained.
The kind we’ve had,” said Jim, “isn’t made any more. And we would have to wait until August for delivery on a new one. I thought maybe somebody might have a spare one…”
“Why don’t you get somebody to rent you theirs, part time,” I suggested. “Say, three days a week.”
“Okay,” said Jim, “will you rent me yours, three days a week?”
“On account of my principles, no,” I replied. “There are lots of people who will do anything to make a little money now. They would even rent their vacuum cleaner, figuring on a little cash now, and forgetting that the more their vacuum cleaner is used, the sooner it will wear out, and the sooner they will need, not a dollar or so now, but maybe 50 or 100 bucks to buy a new one.”
Badges of Servitude
“To help out a friend,” said Jim, “you would rent your vacuum cleaner, wouldn’t you?”
“Principles are principles, Jim,” I explained. “I am the kind of person who doesn’t believe in renting or lending anything that wears out or can be damaged. The quickest way to lose a friend is to lend him your gun, your fishing rod or your dog. And now vacuum cleaners. Our friendship is too old and valued, Jim, to risk ending it on the burnt-out motor of a vacuum cleaner.”
“Sometimes,” sighed Jim, “I wonder our friendship has lasted so long.”
“It has lasted 30 years,” I stated, “because we have never borrowed nor lent. We have been mean and measly and tight with each other. Result: a lifelong friendship and understanding.”
“What am I going to do?” demanded Jim indignantly. “If I don’t find a vacuum cleaner right away, do you know what it means? It means I am going to have to go back to beating carpets.”
“Ha,” I laughed. “I bet there isn’t a carpet beater left in North America. I bet there isn’t one even in a museum,”
“There are two,” said Jim hollowly, “in my cellar.”
“Good gracious, man,” I cried, “have you no foresight! I threw out my carpet beaters 20 years ago.”
These,” muttered Jim, “were stuck up over the furnace pipes in my cellar. Nobody noticed them. Then, last night, my family found them.”
“You’re too old to beat carpets, Jim,” I reassumed him. “Only boys and young men beat carpets.”
“Talk about a broom being the badge of servitude of women,” said Jimmie, “a carpet beater is the symbol of man’s humiliation.”
“A broom and a carpet beater,” I mused. “Imagine the world being driven back to those barbarities!”
“Damn Hitler,” cried Jimmie.
“That’s too easy, Jim,” I protested. “It tickles our real enemies all to pieces to hear us damning Hitler.”
“Who are our real enemies?” inquired Jim hotly.
“Why, the people who find war profitable, everywhere,” I responded.
“Aw, don’t try to tell me there are any war profiteers in this war,” snorted Jim, “with taxes, and super taxes and…”
“Is profit,” I inquired, “only dollars and I cents made today? How about the dollars and cents made yesterday or to be made tomorrow? The people, all over the world, in all countries, who made this war possible were the people who preferred war to the way things were going before the war.”
“How were things going?” snorted Jim.
“Well, the Chinese,” I reminded him, “were going a little communistic, in 1931. So the Japs went in, on some cooked-up excuse. And nobody stopped them.”
Was it our business to stop them?” demanded Jimmie.
“In 1936, Spain was set upon,” I reminded him, “by a minority that had been chucked out at the polls, and Germany and Italy openly helped that ousted minority.”
“And Russia helped the majority,” declared Jim.
“Don’t you see,” I submitted, “that it has been Russia the whole world has been after for the past 20 years. Why did the Japs go into China? Why was Russia-hating Italy allowed to go and grab Abyssinia? Why were Russia-hating Germany and Italy allowed to help the Spanish minority? Why did the whole world sit back with folded hands while the disturbers in all countries were attacked by highly trained gangsters? Because Russia was demonstrating to the people of the whole world that a country can thrive without rich men.”
“Aw,” said Jim disgustedly, “no country in the world has more powerful individuals in it than Russia.”
“But they don’t get rich at it,” I explained. “Don’t you see what the real trouble with Russia is, in the eyes of our powerful and rich citizenry? Russia offers the simple solution to all the world’s ills. Sure it has powerful and clever and brainy men. But they don’t get paid for it. They don’t get the chance to stack up money to fortify themselves against being chucked out when they are through.”
“Through?” demanded Jim indignantly.
“Look,” I said. The average life of a business or industry is 25 years. That is proved by statistics. When a man’s body wears out, we think nothing of chucking him out when he can’t do his job any more. But we let men pile up millions so that when their brains wear out, they can hang on long after they are through. Russia found out that was silly. So it says to its clever and shrewd and strong-willed men. Go ahead, run things, manage things, be the boss, use your talents to the full. But don’t think you are going to get anything out of it. If you cheat, we’ll kill you. And if you die a natural death, all you’ll leave behind will be a happy memory.”
“What brainy man would accept a proposition like that?” scoffed Jim.
“There is no other proposition to accept,” I explained. “Therefore, what can a brainy man do but use his brains and be happy about it.”
The Rich and Powerful
“Do you mean to suggest,” said Jim, “that that is the real angle on Russia our big shots are fretting about?”
“What else?” I submitted. “Our rich and powerful like to think it is their riches the people of the world are fretting about. They hate to admit it is their stupidity and mismanagement of the world that is the cause of all the unrest, all over.”
“Ah, mismanagement,” murmured Jim, beginning to see.
“You must admit,” I said, “that in most countries, this past 20 years, power has been in the hands of wealth. And you never saw a world worse managed than ours for the past 20 years. One depression after another, and finally this war.”
“Maybe there have been too many wealthy people, lately,” suggested Jim.,
“You may have hit the nail on the head,” I agreed. “There have been times in the world’s history when the rich were rich because they were good managers. And the whole world basked in a golden age of good management. But for the past 30 or 40 years, our rich have been punk managers. You did not have to be a good manager to get lousy rich, in the past 40 years, out of market gambling, out of the incredible new inventions of the age, the motor car, the radio, and all the ten thousand new and remarkable things we have developed in these years. Some of the greatest fatheads, ever to possess a thousand dollars have become millionaires in recent years by sheer luck and despite the most terrible bad management. You know that.”
“I believe it,” confessed Jim.
“Okay, then,” I wound up, “with the power of the world in the hands of men who had made their money by many other means than good management, the world was subjected to a series of ruinous depressions and finally to this unparalleled war. The powerful guys still like to pretend that it is their money the disturbers are disturbed by. Let’s disillusion them. Let us explain that it is their mismanagement that is complained of.”
“But it is their money that is their power,” pointed out Jimmie.
“Ah,” I said, “that is where Russia is right. Don’t let them have any money. Let them be smart and clever. Let them be as big and powerful as their brains and character will allow. Let them be leaders, managers, heads of great industries and all that.”
“But would they be leaders and managers and heads of great industries,” demanded Jimmie, “if they didn’t have the incentive of making millions?”
“What nonsense!” I cried. “A man only makes millions in order to be the leader, the director, the head of a great industry. Take out that incentive, and the men of brains and character and strength of will and mind would still struggle to the top. And the best of them would get to the top. The mean-souled ones might not. But we’re better rid of them anyway.”
“I never thought of it that way,” mused Jim.
Brotherhood of Man
“Look,” I said. “Can a clever man help being clever? Can an industrious, hard-working, brainy man help being that way? The way you talk, you would think men are clever and powerful in their own right. They are not. They are born that way. And all the incentive in the world has nothing to do with it. The people who need the incentive in this world aren’t the rich, the smart, the shrewd and the forceful. The people who need the incentive are the lazy, the stupid, the dull and the torpid.”
“You certainly have put things backside-foremost to the way I’ve heard them,” said Jimmie.
“Naturally,” I agreed. “Because the people who do all the yelling about incentives are the smart and the clever. It is far easier to be the head of an industry if you own it, and a million bucks left over. It’s very comfortable. But the life of a business or an industry is 25 years. That’s the average. And we can’t any longer leave business and industry in the hands of people whose brains give out in 25 years. It’s too costly, too disorganizing for the rest of us. So, let’s set up a new system whereby we give all the brains of the country full scope to wear themselves out, with the right to chuck them out the minute they show signs of wear.”
“Hold on, isn’t that cruel?” demanded Jim.
“Is it cruel,” I inquired, “when we chuck out a guy when his body wears out and he can’t any more do his job? What’s the difference? The way it is now, by letting our smart brains hold the money, they are able to hang on their job long after they have worn out. Hence, ruin. Hence, the average life of a business, 25 years.”
“Incentive…” began Jim.
“Security for every man, woman and child on earth,” I cut in. “And then watch incentive work. Watch guys, who were too busy buying bread ever to feel any incentive, start feeling it. Watch where incentive will carry us then. And I mean incentive in the highest sense, not just the incentive to make money. Take that lowest incentive right out of the game, and watch incentive carry mankind to undreamed of heights of peace and security and conquest of all evil.”
“Too many men are, lazy and drifters,” muttered Jim.
“If you call men lazy and drifters,” I asserted, “who haven’t the heart play the game of life the way it is now, I agree. We encourage men to be devils; and then we call the natural saints lazy and drifters…”
Jimmie stood up and gazed out the window at the frowsy rooftops of the city’s business section, that grim and colorless lid to all the incentive, all the struggle and scheming and contriving of countless human souls.
“The wind is in the west,” he said. “The sun is shining. It’s a perfect day for beating carpets.”
“I hate to think of you,” I submitted, “a noble image of a Nobler design, swinging a carpet beater.”
“I have two carpet beaters,” said Jim, with his back to me.
“Shift from one to the other, as you tire,” I suggested. “The feel of a different, carpet beater is a great relief. Keep changing them, every five minutes…”
But there was no getting out of it. You can’t talk about the brotherhood of man while you own a vacuum cleaner in going condition and your brother owns two carpet beaters.
An Unnatural Action
The carpets were on the line when we walked up Jimmie’s side drive. The two carpet beaters were hanging on the fence.
“A little exercise will do us good,” I said.
“I feel like a boy again,” said Jim, rolling up his sleeves.
We stepped up to the carpet.
“Do it systematically,” said Jim. “Stand at the top and beat down.”
No wonder the vacuum cleaner was invented. The brain of man must have been working a thousand years on vacuum cleaners without knowing exactly what it sought. Stevenson invented the steam engine for what end? What did Watt have in mind? What was Edison fumbling for when he ran across the talking machine, the electric light bulb and all those trinkets? I bet every one of them started out to think up some way of beating carpets other than with a stick.
You step up to the rug with the beater. You take a good stance. You swing. The beater smacks the rug with a satisfying thud. The dust flies. You swing again.
About the fifth swing, you know, without any exhaustion yet inspiring your thoughts, that this is an unnatural and monstrous act. The human frame was not designed for horizontal swinging of sticks. All our other stick swinging is vertical. In war, we strike down or up. In golf, in mowing, in reaping, we swing down and up. There is no natural action the human frame performs that is a horizontal swing like carpet beating.
The sixth swipe cramps your tenderloin. The eighth throws your shoulders out. By the tenth, your hips and thighs are already as exhausted as if you had climbed a mountain. Your lungs are cramped by the cross-swing.
Your head swims.
“Exchange beaters,” said Jim breathlessly. So we changed beaters and went to it for a second spasm. It went eight beats.
“Let’s rest,” I suggested. “We aren’t even getting any dust out of them.”
Which we did.
“Let’s take turn about,” said Jim. “Ten beats each.”
Which also we did.
We beat for half a minute and rested five minutes.
“Jim,” I said, “when I stated my principles regarding renting our vacuum cleaner, I overlooked one little thing.”
But before I could explain the little thing, one of the girls put her head out an upstairs window and called down:
“Hey, dad, what are you trying to do?”
“You wouldn’t recognize it,” said Jim. “We’re beating the carpet.”
“The vacuum cleaner was fixed this afternoon,” she called down. “The postman fixed it.”
So Jim led me into the kitchen, where he got the stone jug of buttermilk out of the refrig.
“What do you serve your blood donors in the Presbyterian Hospital after the ordeal?” asked Cousin Madge. “Scotch whiskey?”
By Gregory Clark, Illustrated by Duncan Macpherson, May 27, 1950.
“Quick!” came the hoarse voice of my Cousin Madge over the telephone. “Come in your car!”
“But…uh…” I explained.
“Quick! I have no time to argue!” chopped Cousin Madge. “Drive me to the hospital!”
She hung up. I hung up, and leaped for my hat and the car keys on the mantel.
Every family has its Cousin Madge – one of those grand old girls; spinsters, yes; a little violent and opinionated, maybe; but commanding. And the family, while it may not exactly revolve around her, certainly can be set in large circular motions by her.
I ran for the car. What could be wrong with poor Cousin Madge? A heart attack, possibly? Or a violent onset of gallstones? Cousin Madge is large and meaty. It is only three blocks to Cousin Madge’s from my place. And I got there in record time. I backed into her side drive so as to be able to speed away, the minute I had the dear old girl in the car.
She came bursting out the front door.
“Easy!” I begged, scrambling out to assist her.
“Get back in!” she barked, as she bounded down the steps.
“What is it, what is it?” I quavered, taking her arm.
“It isn’t me,” she cried, backing powerfully through the car door into her seat. “It’s a blood transfusion.”
“Blood ..?” I checked, hurrying around to my door of the car.
“I just heard it on the radio,” puffed Cousin Madge, as I started out the drive. “A poor man is dying down at the Presbyterian Hospital for the want of some Jantze Four1.”
“Some what?” I pleaded.
“Some Number One!” yelled Madge, patting her hat down into position for a fast ride. “Some Group A. Step on it!”
I stepped on it. The Presbyterian Hospital is a good six miles across town.
“I don’t get it.” I ventured.
“I’ve got it,” declared Cousin Madge, grimly but proudly. “My blood is one of those rare types that only maybe four per cent of the human race has got. Jantze Four, some doctors call it. Others call it Number One type, or type A. And this guy is dying; so they put out an emergency call on the radio…”
“My dear Madge,” I protested, slowing the car a little. “You can’t give blood transfusions at your age.”
“Listen!” hissed Cousin Madge, reaching over with her left foot and stepping on my right foot on the gas. “I gave blood 22 times during the war.”
“You were five, eight years younger.”
“Get cracking!” grated Cousin Madge, giving her hat another jerk and leaning forward. “This is my business. If there one thing I’ve got lots of, it’s blood. And if am the fortunate possessor of one of the rare types of blood, who am I to decline it to a poor man who is a fellow Jantze Four?”
“I think you’re crazy,” I muttered, as we hurtled through the busy streets.
Cousin Madge sat in haughty but slightly forward-crouching silence for a couple of blocks.
“It might occur to you,” she said, finally, “that it has not been my privilege to give life to any children. But if I can give life to some poor devil…”
“Pardon me, Madge,” I offered humbly.
So we dodged and darted through the city streets while Cousin Madge did a little quiet sniffling.
“I hope,” she gulped, “I hope we’re not too late, that’s all! And I was just sitting here wondering if the Presbyterian Hospital would take my blood. I’m an Anglican, you know.”
“Madge!” I scoffed. “Blood is non-denominational! Blood, you might say, is international. What a silly thought!”
“Oh, you never know!” asserted Cousin Madge. “I’ve never been in the Presbyterian Hospital. Maybe they have some rules. I’m not too sure I would want any Presbyterian blood…”
“If a man is dying…” I pointed out.
“We all have our principles,” declared Cousin Madge firmly. “If they start asking me my religion, I’ll say I’m Presbyterian.”
“Good for you!” I agreed.
And with a final swoosh, we rounded the wide bend in the approach to the Presbyterian Hospital and skidded through the gates onto the gravel.
Cousin Madge bounded out, leaving me to park the car. She headed powerfully for the entrance doors. By the time I reached the lobby, there was no sign of her.
“Did a lady…?” I queried the nurse at the desk.
“Blood transfusion?” the girl clicked. “Down that corridor. Turn left, and the fourth door…”
The door was open when I reached the blood transfusion clinic. And there was Cousin Madge, her hat and coat off, rolling her right sleeve up, and directing a young male technician in white, as well as a nurse, how to proceed with their business.
“This arm,” barked Cousin Madge, “has the fewest scars on it.”
“Let’s see the other,” suggested the technician meekly, after a glance at Cousin Madge’s forearm.
“This one, you hear?” bellowed Cousin Madge. “Look here, young man, I was giving gallons of blood while you were still in short pants.”
“Yes, ma’am,” said the technician. “Please come inside to the cot.”
“How much do you want?” enquired Cousin Madge, generously. “Fifty cc’s?”
“That will be wonderful,” said the nurse.
I followed cautiously to the door of the inner office.
“Is this your husband?” asked the technician.
“My cousin,” corrected Cousin Madge. “But let him in, I want him to see this…”
Cousin Madge sat on the cot and rolled herself back.
It was obviously an emergency, the way the technician and nurse worked. They swabbed Cousin Madge’s forearm with alcohol. The technician examined the inside of the forearm closely for an instant. Then he whipped a black bandage, such as they choke your arm with for blood pressure count, and wrapped it around Madge’s upper arm.
“Open and close your hand,” commanded the technician.
Cousin Madge opened and closed her fist. This was to pump the blood into her forearm to cause the veins to stick out, so the technician could select a good spot for the needle.
Before my horrified gaze the young white-clad man calmly picked up a slant-pointed needle, attached to a rubber tube, and plunged it into Cousin Madge’s lusty vein.
She did not even wince.
The technician hastily undid the bandage. On a low table, I noticed a glass jar about the size of a pint pickle bottle. And suddenly, into it from the rubber tube, squirted the bright red fluid of Cousin Madge’s life.
After a momentary stare, I began to feel slightly dizzy.
I averted my gaze and stared at the white wall.
I took a very deep breath.
“Hey!” charged Cousin Madge. “Get him out of here!
The young nurse took my sleeve and led me into the outer room.
“Lie down on that couch a minute,” she smiled.
“My blood…” I woozied, “my blood isn’t the right type…”
“Oh, we’re not taking yours,” she assured me. “Bit on the side of the couch and bend over, with your head as low as you can put it…”
So while I sat with my head resolutely bowed to my knees, the nurse returned to the inner room and Cousin Madge.
After a few minutes, I felt a little easier and sat up. An elderly doctor appeared at the door.
“How’s it coming?” he asked tersely.
“Squirting like a fire hose,” replied the technician. “I’ll have fifty cc’s in another five minutes…”
“Give me,” commanded the older doctor, “40 cc’s when you get it.”
“Right, sir!”
The older doctor vanished silently.
And suddenly in the humming hospital the druggy-scented hospital, full of quiet, swift footed people in white and slow-moving patients humbly carrying their hats and wandering the corridors or slouching on the benches and chairs, I got a sense of the drama that is staged here, day and night, minute by minute. Out the door from the inner room sprang the young nurse, holding the blood-red bottle as if it were indeed a chalice.
The young technician appeared and smiled at me. “You can come in now,” he said.
Cousin Madge was reclining on the cot, as large as life. Her arm lay with a white pad of cotton covering the needle puncture.
They only took 40 cc’s,” she scoffed. “I could give a bucket.”
“We needed the 40,” explained the young fellow, “right away. It was a case of speed.”
“Wasn’t I fast enough, letting it down?” scorned Cousin Madge.
“You were wonderful,” assured the young man. “In five minutes it will be tested, in the lab; and then it will be going into the patient.”
“Tested?” bit Madge.
“We have to confirm,” said the young fellow, “the type, and make sure there is no infection… uh…”
“You’ll find that,” cut in Cousin Madge, “good, pure, 100 per cent blood. It will be a tonic to him.”
“I’m sure it will,” said the young technician, earnestly.
Cousin Madge studied him up and down.”
“Are you a Presbyterian?” she asked.
“No, ma’am, I’m a Baptist,” said the young chap.
“Isn’t this the Presbyterian Hospital?” enquired Madge.
“Oh, yes, that’s just its name,” explained the technician.
“Personally, I’m an Anglican,” announced Cousin Madge, mildly.
“Indeed,” said the technician, removing the dab of cotton from Cousin Madge’s arm and inspecting the little blue mark.
He then took a fresh bit of cotton and secured it to her arm with a small piece of adhesive.
He glanced at his watch.
“You should rest 15 minutes…” he began.
Cousin Madge swung her legs off the cot.
“Listen, young man,” she said, “I’ve been through this too often to be coddled around like a beginner. What do you serve your blood donors in the Presbyterian Hospital after the ordeal? Scotch whiskey?”
“Tea, madam,” said the boy, “or coffee.”
“During the war,” related Cousin Madge, as she rolled her sleeve down, “I had snorts of brandy, glasses of sherry…”
The young nurse came sweeping back into the room, extending an envelope towards Cousin Madge.
“Pardon ME!” snorted Cousin Madge, drawing up. “I am not a professional donor. This was voluntary.”
“Mr. Ginsberg insisted,” assured the nurse, “that I MUST give this to whoever offered their blood.”
Cousin Madge reached for the envelope.
“Mr. WHO did you say?” she checked.
“Mr. Ginsberg,” said the nurse, “who’s going to be rallying in half an hour.”
“I’ve got an idea!” exulted Cousin Madge.
She thanked the young technician, she kissed the young nurse, she waved me ahead of her out the door to act as her equerry. And we sailed down the hall and out the big doors and over to my car.
“Drive north!” rang Cousin Madge imperiously. “Drive north to the boulevard and turn west.”
“It’s a long way round…” I offered.
“North!” commanded Cousin Madge.
So we drove north to the boulevard and then west. And when we came abreast of St. Joseph’s Hospital Cousin Madge directed me to turn in the drive.
Out we piled and entered the wide doors of the older and even quieter hospital than the Presbyterian.
At the switchboard sat a black-clad sister.
“You have a drive for funds on now, sister?” enquired Cousin Madge.
“It ends today,” said the sister.
“Did you go over the top?”
“Not,” smiled the sister, “quite.”
“See if this will do it, maybe,” said Cousin Madge, handing in the envelope with the $25 in it.
If didn’t, it should have.
“Blood, by gum,” resounded Cousin Madge, as we re-piled ourselves into my car, “is just plain human!”
Editor’s’ Notes:
The first doctor to recognize the different types of blood was Jan Janský in 1907. He classified blood into four distinct groups (I, II, III, and IV). Type 4 is the modern Type AB. ↩︎
So we carried one log, and, as we came up the bank, we could see Vic reclining in the sun and Skipper and Bumpy with a deck of cards out.
By Gregory Clark, Illustrated by James Frise, May 20, 1939.
“Trouble never ends,” sighed Jimmie Frise.
“What’s gone wrong now?” I sympathized.
“You know that swell wharf I built at the cottage last summer?” said Jim. “One of the neighbors was up at the Point last week-end and he tells me the whole thing is wrecked.”
“How?” I demanded indignantly, for hadn’t I helped Jimmie talk about that wharf all the winter before last?
“The ice,” said Jim. “The break-up of the ice in the spring. It just wrecked the whole thing. Bust the cribs and scattered the stones all over. Twisted the planks. A lot of them washed away and were lost.”
“Ice is powerful,” I agreed.
“My neighbor figures,” said Jim, “it will cost about $501 to have the thing repaired. There’s never any end, is there? Just when you think you’ve got level with the game, something turns up.”
“How much did the wharf cost in the first place?” I asked.
“Fifty dollars,” said Jim. “But up in Muskoka, it’s all the same. Building a new wharf or repairing a busted one, it’s $50.”
“Don’t be silly,” I protested. “You can get some of the local men to repair it for $10.”
“No,” said Jim; “up in the summer cottage belt it’s different. They don’t figure it by the hour or the material. They have a price for a job. A wharf costs $50. It doesn’t matter what kind of a wharf it is. Any wharf is $50. Sometimes you get the best of the deal, sometimes the local man gets the best of it. But on the average it works out about fifty-fifty.”
“Why don’t you get the man that built this one and tell him the job wasn’t strong enough?” I demanded.
“Docks are always built,” explained Jim, “with the understanding that natural forces don’t count. No, I know my Muskoka. There is nothing for it. I’ll be stuck 50 bucks.”
“How badly ruined it?” I inquired.
“One of the end cribs,” said Jim, “is entirely wiped out, the logs all gone and the stones strewn all over the place. The planking is ripped off, some of it is under water and some of it sticks up in the air. It’s a mess.”
“Why not wait until you go up in July, before you spend any dough on it?” I suggested. “Fifty dollars next July doesn’t look half as bad as $50 right now.”
“A couple of good windy days,” said Jim, “and my neighbor says the whole thing will be strewn along the shore for miles. I’m going to write up to the boys tonight and tell them to go ahead and mend it. A summer cottage without a good wharf is like a house without a garage.”
“I was just thinking, Jim,” I submitted. “What is there to repairing a dock? Building a dock, I agree, is something requiring knowledge and experience. But mending wharf should be largely a matter of lifting and heaving.”
“I can see you lifting 40-pound rocks to put in the crib,” smiled Jim gratefully.
“I wasn’t thinking of me,” I smiled back very wily. “I was thinking of Skipper and Vic and Bumpy. Big, strong, athletic birds. Always wasting their strength on golf and squash racquets and climbing hills on fishing trips.”
“Aaaaah,” said Jim, lifting his eyebrows.
“I’ll Co-ordinate the Work”
“How would this work?” I submitted eagerly. “Invite the whole gang of us up for a fishing week-end. The trout will be just at their best next week. There’s some real good fishing at Port Sydney and other places less than 10 miles from your cottage. A fishing week-end. And no expense except the grub, which we will take with us, and do our own cooking. It will appeal to them. A lovely cheap week-end after trout at Jimmie’s cottage.”
“Then what?” asked Jim cautiously.
“When we arrive,” I dramatized, “there will be your wharf, all bust. You’ll see it first and be heart-broken. Everybody will sympathize with you. All our high spirits and excitement at arriving at the cottage will be dampened by the sight of you standing staring at your wrecked wharf, see? You can’t get it out of your head. You’ll walk down and stand dejectedly looking at it while we are busy carrying the luggage up to the house. I’ll call the attention of the boys to you. You’ll come up and stand around with a woe-begone air.”
“Then?” urged Jim.
“Why,” I cried, “I’ll assure you it is nothing. That the gang of us can put it right in an hour’s work.”
“It will take more than an hour,” said Jim. “It might take a whole afternoon. We would have to drive logs down and make a new crib, fill the crib with rocks and spike down all the planks. It will be a messy job.”
“Once we’re at it,” I assured, “we won’t quit. Men like seeing things done.”
“Not Bumpy and Vic,” said Jim.
“Old Skipper will be the slave driver,” I declared.
“And what will you be?” asked Jim.
“I’ll be the foreman,” I submitted. “I’ll co-ordinate the work. Naturally, nobody expects a man of my size to lift big rocks, and nobody would want to be on the other end of carrying a log with me. I’m too short for that kind of work. It is my size that drove me into brain work.”
“I haven’t much hope of the bunch of you giving me much help,” said Jim. “It seems to me I would be letting myself in for a lot of hard work while you all went fishing.”
“Don’t you want to save $50?” I demanded. “And if you can save $50 by merely using the help of a few hearty and athletic fishing partners who are guests at your summer cottage-“
“I suppose there’s no harm,” mused Jim. “After all, if they don’t want to help-“
“Jim,” I stated firmly, “you underestimate the nature of your friends. There is good in the worst of men. Just you start to work on that wharf and see how quick those birds will I come to your aid.”
“It seems a dirty trick,” said Jim, “to invite them up for a fishing week-end and then run them into a lot of work.”
“My dear man,” I cried, “what’s the difference between a fishing trip and a dock building trip? All a city man wants is a week-end in the open. A little exercise and fresh air. And in every man there is a love of constructing things. I know men who are addicted to wharf building. It’s fascinating.”
“Okay,” said Jim, “we’ll try it.”
So we got on the telephone and called the gang up, it being only Monday; and framed up a week-end party. It was to be on the cheap. No expense. Jim would buy the provisions and we could divide it five ways, and that’s all the expense we’d have, outside the gas.
“They’re all tickled to death,” I pointed out to Jim. “A cottage week-end isn’t to be sneezed at in times like these. Nobody has any money to throw away on expensive fishing trips.”
“Or on busted docks,” said Jim reflectively.
“That’s it in a nutshell,” I exclaimed. “In times like these people have a lot more heart than in piping times. You’ll see. The boys will be tickled to death to put their backs into the job.”
And Friday afternoon we all begged off work and met at Jim’s and shifted all the luggage into two cars and so set off, in the high spirits of May, for Muskoka, which we reached in three hours, right at Jim’s cottage.
Our entry was dramatic. My car being in the lead, I saw to that. The gate leading up from the shore road to the cottage is always a little rusty at the first of the season and I took a good minute to struggle with it, allowing the second car, with Jim in it, to catch up and stop behind us. Skipper had bailed out of my car and Bumpy and Vic piled out of the other, to stretch their legs.
“Good heavens,” shouted Vic. “Look at the wharf.”
And we all looked at the wharf. A long and heavy silence held us. In the silence Jim, very dramatically, took two or three hesitating paces forward and stood with his back to us, silently regarding the ruin. His back was eloquent. A good actor can do more with his back than with his face. Jim’s shoulders sagged.
“Aw, Jim,” I said, deeply, “what a mess.”
“The ice must have done it,” said Skipper, the practical one.
“Boyoboyoboy,” said Vic and Bumpy, sympathetically.
“That dock, boys,” I submitted, “was brand new last season.”
“I remember hearing you birds planning it all through the winter before last,” said Skipper. “Why didn’t you plan it right?”
“Could you have planned it better?” I demanded.
“Dock building is my specialty,” said Skipper. “You ought to see the wharf at my place on the Kawarthas.”
Jim had walked slowly and tragically down to stand and look closely at the wreckage.
“Then, Skipper,” I said, “you’re just the man Jim needs. Go on down and look the situation over while I get the stuff out of the cars and the cottage opened up.”
I drove in the lane and Vic followed in his car and Bumpy came with us and we shifted the bags on to the veranda and opened up the cottage and got the windows open and had a quick look around to feel the mattresses and see which beds we’d choose. There is an art to arriving at a summer cottage week-end party.
By the time Jim and Skipper came up rom the shore we had a fire on and the lamps lighted against the evening that was falling. Jim had a long face and Skipper was detailing firmly just how you should slope a crib to stand against the strain and stress of the spring breakup of the ice.
“Cheer up, Jim,” I shouted. Let’s forget the wharf for tonight. Let’s have a good supper and pleasant evening, and we can see about the wharf tomorrow.”
“I bet it will cost 75 bucks,” groaned Jim.
“Pshaw, no,” scoffed Skipper. “I bet it won’t cost more than 50.”
“How bad is it, Skipper?” I inquired, handling the frying pan full of eggs and bacon very skilfully. “Do you suppose we five might be able to make any sort of a repair job of it? After all, 50 bucks-“
The Excuses Begin
“If I had four good men,” said Skipper, “four good men, I said, who would obey my orders, I could have that wharf shipshape in one morning’s smart work.”
“Skipper,” I cried, “you have four good men!”
“There is nothing I would rather do,” announced Bumpy. “In fact, I love heaving things around. But only the middle of the week, my doctor went over me very carefully and told me to give up squash rackets for a while and to do no strenuous work of any kind for a period of two weeks, when he is going to give me another going over.”
“There’s a funny thing,” exclaimed Vic. “I’m taking out some new insurance, and they found something a little wonky with my blood pressure. Just two, days ago, that was. I have to come back in week to have another test. So the doctor told me to lie around, this week, and get all the sun I can. I figured on just taking sun baths this week-end.”
“Hm,” said I.
“Well do you want me to be refused insurance?” demanded Vic sharply.
“I just said hm,” I protested.
“But I didn’t like the way you said it,” said Vic.
“I tell you what,” said Bumpy. “Vic and I could stand by and sort of oversee and direct.”
“Let’s leave the whole thing till the morning.” I suggested hastily. “We can think it over better then. I hate to see Jim stuck in for $50 if the gang of us could mend the job in two or three hours’ work. Light work. The rise of trout isn’t until late in the afternoon tomorrow anyway. We won’t gain any thing by rushing off early.”
“That’s what I say,” agreed Skipper. “Let’s take the week-end easy.”
By which time the eggs were plump and the bacon curly and the table set and we gathered around. Jim caught my eye several times during the festive hour, and his expression was melancholy.
After supper, the others washed the dishes and I went out to listen to the stars and the soft splash of the gentle wind on the lake, And then they started a poker game, which I do not play because it steals away so many minutes from the lovely night; and in good time we prepared for bed.
“I’ll get a handful of kindling for the fire in the morning,” announced Skipper going out.
In three minutes he was back, his handkerchief wrapped around his right hand, and an air of disgust.
“I’ve bashed my hand,” he muttered.
“Your fishing hand?” cried Jim solicitously. We examined it. It looked a little red and scraped, but not serious. I got out iodine and plastered it liberally and Skipper bade me get a bandage out of his kit and bind his hand up carefully.
“You can’t trust these injuries in the country,” said Skip. “Tetanus.”
And so to bed.
With the lark and the robins and small shrill redstarts and monotonous wrens, we woke and breakfasted, Skipper wearing his injured hand in his lapels, a la Napoleon, Bumpy complaining of a rather smothery feeling during the night and Vic confessing to a little migraine due, he feared, to some slight sinus trouble he had been reading about in a medical journal he had been reading about in a medical journal he had been reading while in the insurance company doctor’s waiting room.
After the breakfast dishes were done, there was a general unpacking of rods and fishing tackle on the sunny veranda, and Jim caught me inside the cottage to say: “I guess we’d better pass the wharf thing up.”
“Let’s make one try,” I said. “Let you and me go down with a great show of purpose, and if none of them take the hint, we’ll pass it up.”
So we rolled up our sleeves and burst on to the veranda very purposeful.
“Just settle yourselves for a while, boys,” I said heartily, “while Jim and I go down and see what can be done about the wharf.”
“Do you want me, in an advisory capacity?” asked Skipper, holding up his bandaged hand.
“No, no, Skipper,” we assured him kindly. It wasn’t advice the situation called for.
So Jim and I went down and looked at the relic of the wharf in the quiet morning water. There really wasn’t a great deal wrong with it, as a matter of fact.
“When you see it close,” I pointed out, “all it needs is a couple of logs spiked on to that crib, and refill it with stones.”
“These planks,” said Jim, “can be all relaid and spiked in an hour.”
“Let’s start with the logs for the crib,” I urged. “There’s two of them on the beach, spikes and all.”
So we carried one log, and as we came up the bank, we could see Vic reclining in the sun and Skipper and Bumpy with a deck of cards out, beginning a game.
“Pssst,” I said. halting. “Listen? Isn’t that a McGillivray’s Warbler?”
“A what?” said Jim.
“Listen,” I hissed, “that bird. That song, the clear, staccato notes…”
I laid the end of the log down and tip-toed into the grove east of the cottage, peering up into the trees to see this rare bird.
I was gone a little while, perhaps a little longer than that, because a bird lover loses all sense of time. It wasn’t a McGillivray’s Warbler, it was just a Myrtle, a very common warbler. But I heard the car horns calling and I returned out of the woods to find them all loaded and ready to go fishing; which we did, and had a grand day at Port Sydney. Skipper, even with his injured hand, casting best and catching 14 trout, including the biggest one, a pound and 10 ounces, and everybody very happy and completely exhausted after a long day floundering and stumbling and toiling in the icy wild waters of the Muskoka River.
“Pull out there,” he yelled. “Pull to the side. Quick!”
By Gregory Clark, Illustrated by James Frise, May 16, 1942.
“At this pace,” muttered Jimmie Frise, “we won’t get there in time for the service at the cemetery.”
“Even funerals,” I replied, “have to bow to the war restrictions on driving speed. I’m going 40.”
“You go 40,” retorted Jim, “whenever you happen to look at the speedometer and see you’re only going 30. You speed up to 40, then you slack back to 30.”
“Why didn’t we come in your car then?” I inquired sweetly,
“You’ve been hoarding your gasoline coupons,” replied Jimmie. “That’s why we came in your car.”
“Hoarding!” I protested. “Hoarding gasoline coupons? Well, if that isn’t the limit!”
“In another six weeks,” said Jimmie, “these April-June coupons won’t be any good. You’re going to have half your supply left over.”
“Unless I use them all up driving you to funerals in the country,” I informed him.
“Listen,” said Jim, “Sam was as good a friend of yours as he was of mine. It was your idea to come to this funeral.”
“What time is it now?” I inquired.
“One-twenty,” advised Jim. “The funeral is at three. And unless you hold her at 40 all the rest of the way we’re not even going to get there in time to drive out to the cemetery. Step on it.”
“Even if we do miss the service at the house,” I stated, “it isn’t to be seen at the service we’re going. We’re going out of respect to poor old Sam. We’re going to see his widow and the boys. What if we don’t appear at the service? It’s to extend the hand of sympathy to the widow and the children we’re going. Don’t get excited.”
“Look,” said Jimmie, pointing to the speedometer. “Thirty-three miles an hour!”
My car has a certain gait. All its bearings and bushings and gears and stuff have been run in, over the past seven years, at a certain rate. And they run smoothest at that rate. You don’t expect to run with a lawn mower and get a good job of grass cutting.
But there was little traffic on the mid-week highway, and after all Sam’s widow and the boys might expect to see Jimmie and me among the mourners. So I put my foot down and kept my eye on the speedometer and held at 40, which allowed Jimmie to relax and look out the window and comment from time to time on the pleasant farm scenes with which he was so familiar in his boyhood.
“Aha,” he said, for instance. “A Barnardo boy1 in that farm.”
“How can you tell?” I snorted.
On Manoeuvres
“Look at the woodpile,” replied Jimmie. “Whenever you see an extra long and beautifully stacked woodpile you can tell there is a Home boy on that farm.”
Sundry other such commentaries enlightened our journey until we were well beyond Sunderland and the charms of Mariposa township were beginning to unfold before us, with a good hour remaining in which to reach our destination in plenty of time.
“Whoa,” said Jimmie, sitting up, “what’s all this?”
From a gravel sideroad ahead of us poured a regular stream of dusty army trucks. Bouncing and bounding on the rough road, they careered out on to the highway ahead of us and sped away in the same direction we were going. A pair of military traffic police, in tin helmets and gas masks, with pistols on their waists, had blocked the highway this side of the crossing and were watching the truck convoy lumbering by. The trucks were all laden with troops, in battle order, some in steel helmets and gas respirators, dusty and sweaty, as if they had already been in battle.
As we slowed up, one of the military traffic police smiled and held up his hand to bar us.
“Is there a war on?” I hailed friendly.
“Manoeuvres,” called the traffic control. “Big sham battle going on between two brigades.”
Down the gravel road pounded the endless procession of lorries and armored cars, throwing great clouds of dust, lurching and flinging the troops about, and then speeding furiously away on the pavement. Now and then light cars with officers passed in the procession. And motorcycles by the score, many of them with sidecars, struggled along in the storm of dust and flying gravel with machine-gunners and occasionally officers sitting coughing in the little side buggies.
“Boy, they’re getting their fill of dust,” I submitted.
“This is real training,” stated Jimmie. “It is showing these lads just how hard it is to get to a certain place on time. And time is everything in battle.”
“Also in funerals,” I reminded him. “I wonder how long this convoy is?”
Still, out of the dust clouds to the north, the lorries piled down on us, wheeling past on to our highway.
Caught in the Middle
A car with officers came by, a red flag fastened to its windshield. The two traffic men leaped on their motorcycles and jumped into life and whirled away.
“This will be the end,” I said, as a few more lorries followed in a sort of tail-of-the-procession style. And as the last of them wobbled on to the pavement we fell in behind it and got going.
“These convoys don’t go at any speed,” advised Jimmie. “We’ll be lucky to do 30 from here on.”
But it was only 22 miles an hour that we made for the first two miles and then we ran into a snag. The convoy ahead grew slower and slower. Peering ahead, we could see another vast dust cloud. We hoped this indicated the convoy was leaving the highway again. But as we drew near, we saw that it was another convoy, gathering from another sideroad and waiting for ours to pass.
As we neared the crossroads, our convoy speeded up. We could see groups of soldiers waving the convoy past, and on a little hillock by the crossing a group of officers, including red-tabbed generals. The lorry ahead of us was now travelling 35 and we hugged close to its tail.
“Hey,” came wild shouts as we shot past the crossing. “Get out of that! Hey, hoy, stop, get off there!”
But as we went by the first of the new convoy, waiting at the crossing, had leaped forward, and all in a great roar and bellow of engines and clouds of dust the commands were lost.
“Step on it,” yelled back the cheery young soldiers in the back of the lorry ahead of us. And behind us loomed up the leader of the new lot of lorries, goggled faces peering at us from the cab, helmeted heads wobbling above its roof.
“Some battle,” said Jim, excitedly.
“I don’t like being in this little car sandwiched in like this,” I informed him, gripping the steering. We were now pounding along, in a vast din, at nearly 35.
“I thought these army lorries weren’t allowed to travel this fast,” I complained.
Along the fields, we began to see troops in little knots. Some were hiding under the dusty bushes. Others were grouped around Bren guns mounted on fence posts or concealed
in the grass. Then we saw a field-gun manhandled into position by a squad of dusty, sweaty artillerymen.
“Boy, this looks like the real thing.” cried Jim.
“If it were the real thing,” I informed him, to remind him I happened to have been in the retreat from Dunkirk, there would be Stukas diving at us. You’d never see a convoy like this rushing along highways in close formation.”
Thicker and thicker grew the population, of soldiers along the roadsides and fields. And slower and slower grew the speed of the convoy. Then we saw them turning off, ahead of us, into another sideread.
“Hurray,” I cried.
But when we reached the turn, there was a regular swarm of military traffic police, officers, generals.
I tried to keep straight on, on the pavement.
“Hey!” roared the traffic control, waving us furiously to turn and follow the convoy, now lurching and bouncing on the gravel once more.
“We’re going to a funeral,” I bellowed at the traffic control.
“Your funeral,” yelled back the helmeted corporal, imperiously waving me to follow off the pavement.
Enemy Spies
Which I did. And after the first 100 yards, the dust clouds grew less and the convoy settled down to a steady pace.
And up from the rear came a motorcycle with sidecar containing a very irate general. “Pull out of there,” he yelled purply. “Pull to the side. Quick!”
I steered for the grassy side of the road.
“What are you trying to do?” demanded the general angrily.
“Sir,” I said, “since when has martial law been imposed on Canada? Is this a public highway or is it a private military road? Is there any law forbidding me to use any highway I please…”
“Ha,” said the general very gingery. “I see through you, sir! You’re an enemy agent.”
“I’ll have your wig for that, my pretty soldier,” I shouted, using that chesty voice you learn in the army and can dig up on a moment’s notice. “I am on my way to a funeral. And because I get tangled up on one of your sham battles and can’t get out of it, you have the infernal impudence…”
“Ha, ha,” interrupted the general, laughing sarcastically, “you can’t fool me, my boy. I’ll have you shot for a spy. I know you. I’ve seen you before some place. The minute you drove past that last corner I knew what was up.”
“And what is up?” I inquired hotly.
“You’re enemy agents, sir,” said the general. “I place you under arrest. You are in civilian garb. That entitles you to be shot as spies. Ha, ha, ha! Come, my boy, I’ll get in your car with you. It is more comfortable than the sidecar. And tonight, after the battle is over, I’ll have you to dinner at my mess and then I’ll find out who you are.”
He waved his motorcycle driver to return the other way.
“I’ll tell you who I am,” I informed him, swelling up. “I am a plain citizen trying to get to the funeral of a friend. And back near Sunderland I got…”
“Tut; tut, tut,” said the general, easing back comfortably in the back seat. “Drive me around the concession and let’s get back to the crossroads. I’ll have the pleasure of demonstrating to my staff that the old man still has his wits about him.”
“You mean,” said Jimmie, speaking up for the first time, “that we are enemy agents of the other brigade that you are fighting this sham battle? Not German agents?”
“German be damned,” said the general. “I mean you are a couple of spies from the other brigade I am fighting right now. And you were making a lovely survey of my troop dispositions. And if I hadn’t caught you, you would probably by now be at your own headquarters giving me the laugh.”
“General, believe me,” said Jimmie, pulling out his ration book, identification card, driver’s permit, and so forth, “we’re civilians. Plain civilians. If you don’t want to have the laugh on you, you’d better let us go.”
The old boy thumbed through Jimmie’s credentials and then I stopped the car on the first sideroad that let us out of the convoy and showed him all my papers and stuff.
“Take me back to my corner, will you?” said the general grimly. “You had no business being in that convoy.”
A Friendly Bog
“We’ll be glad to,” I assured him, because he was very crestfallen.
At the top of a hill, the general called out to me to stop the car for a minute. He stood up and gazed across the landscape.” If you watched intently, you could see that the landscape was filled with furtive figures of troops, lorries, motorcycles, all creeping forward.
“See,” said the old boy excitedly. The enemy is concentrating at those two backroad corners there. See the dust? He is going to attack through this wood. Why – he’ll outflank us! He’ll capture my headquarters! He’ll come right through to the south here…”
“Oh, no, he won’t,” said Jimmie, suddenly. “Nobody can get across that valley between the near end of this wood and that far hill with the red barn, there.”
“Why can’t they?” demanded the general.
“Because there is a bog in there,” said Jimmie. “There is a bog 100 yards wide and a mile long, with a stream running down through it. I’ve tried to fish it scores of times, and you can’t get within 50 yards of the crick.”
“Why, Jim,” I cried, “that’s Sam’s stream. Sam,” I explained to the general, “the man whose funeral we were going to, used to lease all this valley for the trout stream. We’ve fished all through…”
“Quick!” hissed the general. “I see it! Get me back to my crossroads. Why didn’t my intelligence staff find out about that bog?”
“Because they’re all probably stuck in it,” said Jim.
“Let’s hope the enemy don’t find out about it until it is too late,” I submitted.
So I went 40 over the sideroad and down the highway to where the general’s staff had the road barricaded and guarded by control troops. And we leaped out and followed him to where he had maps set up on temporary tables under some trees, with the staff gathered around.
And Jimmie showed the general on the map just where the bad bog began and where it ended. And by dispatch rider and signal men with flags and the one field telephone he had, the old boy sent orders to redispose his troops for two flank attacks around the ends of the bog while the enemy attacked through the centre of the big woods fair into the middle of the bog.
And poor old Sam was long buried and the guests all departed before we got away from the general’s table at the crossroads.
For the enemy did just what the general suspected they would do: attacked through the woods and came to disaster in the bog; while his three regiments made two savage attacks around the ends of the bog at the same time, capturing the enemy’s headquarters and annihilating the enemy as they struggled in the bog or tried to come around its ends.
And we stayed on for the supper they had out of big baskets taken from lorries, and the general introduced us to friend and enemy alike, around the camp fires in the evening.
And rather than get mixed up in any more convoys, as they trundled home to camp on all the highways for miles, Jimmie and I went the 10 miles farther on to Sam’s where we explained our absence to Mrs. Sam and the boys and kept their minds off their grief until bedtime by telling them all the kindly recollections we had of Sam and his happy life and the days we had spent with him fishing in the valley.
Editor’s Note:
A Barnardo boy refers to impoverished or orphaned British children placed in homes founded by Dr. Thomas Barnardo and, from the 1880s to the 1930s, sent to Canada and other colonies as part of the “Home Children” immigration scheme. An estimated two-thirds of the children faced some sort of mistreatment during their placement. ↩︎
