ASUNNYSUBALTE 
 
 BILLY'S LETTERS 
 FROMFLANDEI 
 
A SUNNY SUBALTERN 
 
A SUNNY 
 SUBALTERN 
 
 BILLY'S LETTERS FROM FLANDERS 
 
 NEW YORK 
 GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY 
 

 Q * 
 
 COPYRIGHT, CANADA, 1916, 
 
 BY MCCLELLAND, GOODCHILD & STEWART, LIMITED 
 
 TORONTO 
 
 First Impression November, 1916 
 Second Impression December, 1916 
 Third Impression December, 1916 
 Fourth Impression April, 191 7 
 Fifth Impression April, 1917 
 
 PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA 
 
d J 
 
 RESPECTFULLY DEDICATED TO 
 THE BRAVE OFFICERS AND MEN 
 
 of "billy's" BATTALION 
 
PREFACE 
 
 At the earnest solicitation of friends I am 
 publishing these letters, which were written 
 without any attempt at literary effect and in- 
 tended only for a mother's eye. I am sure my 
 son will be pleased if they are the means of 
 bringing even a passing pleasure to those whose 
 dear ones are now at the front, to those whose 
 loved ones have made the supreme sacrifice, 
 and to any others who may read this book. 
 This be my apology for offering them to the 
 public. 
 
 "Billy's" Mother 
 
A SUNNY SUBALTERN 
 
A Sunny Subaltern 
 
 November 23, IQI5. 
 
 Well, the great adventure is on. We 
 sailed out of St. John at noon to-day amid 
 a perfect babel of noise. We have on board 
 
 with us the , a detail of Medical Corps, 
 
 the , and a detail of the Construction 
 
 Corps, troops in all. Between the 
 
 bands of the units, the bands in St. John, 
 the shrieks of what seemed a thousand tugs 
 which bobbed beside "a regular bed- 
 lam" best describes the send off. Every 
 pier looked as if it had been generously 
 salted and peppered from one end of the 
 harbour to the last long dock; I say salted 
 and peppered, for the sea of faces and dark 
 clothes gave it that appearance. Well, any- 
 way, away we steamed out into the East. 
 
 I can assure you, Mother, I felt rather 
 [ii] 
 
A Sunny Subaltern 
 
 November 23, IQI5. 
 Well, the great adventure is on. We 
 sailed out of St. John at noon to-day amid 
 a perfect babel of noise. We have on board 
 
 with us the , a detail of Medical Corps, 
 
 the , and a detail of the Construction 
 
 Corps, troops in all. Between the 
 
 bands of the units, the bands in St. John, 
 the shrieks of what seemed a thousand tugs 
 which bobbed beside "a regular bed- 
 lam" best describes the send off. Every 
 pier looked as if it had been generously 
 salted and peppered from one end of the 
 harbour to the last long dock; I say salted 
 and peppered, for the sea of faces and dark 
 clothes gave it that appearance. Well, any- 
 way, away we steamed out into the East. 
 I can assure you, Mother, I felt rather 
 
 [11] 
 
A SUNNY SUBALTERN 
 
 proud of being in khaki as we marched 
 through the thronged streets. The bands 
 playing martial airs seemed to send little 
 shivers up and down my spine, and, I guess, 
 awoke some of the old primordial instinct 
 of the cave man for it sure seemed glorious 
 to be on the way to fight. I know you dear 
 ones would have been proud, too, of me and 
 the men. I say the men, for after all Tom- 
 my is the most important man in the Army 
 and our whole battalion behaved like na- 
 ture's gentlemen in St. John. However, out 
 we steamed on a sea like an epergne base — 
 not a ripple hardly. Of course we didn't 
 have much time but I managed to stand 
 about four p.m. and watch the last grey 
 humps of Canada fade into the waves, my 
 last glimpse of my native land for some time 
 to come, and do you know, dear, that despite 
 the fact that there lay all my associations, 
 my love and everything that any man holds 
 dear, I can't say I was sorry, for ahead there 
 is something that dwarfs all those details. 
 
 11*30 p.m. — Have just passed Cape Sable 
 light house, the last link with land, flashing 
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A SUNNY SUBALTERN 
 
 in and out of the night. A beautiful night, 
 clear moonlit water, and just enough breeze 
 to send a salt spray up over the bows. 
 
 Wednesday Evening. — Nothing new to- 
 day. The ocean like a mill pond all day 
 and not even a roll to this old packet. We 
 have a few men who are seasick, but I think 
 they must be awfully upset with something 
 for it's smoother than Lake Ontario. 
 
 Later. — I have just taken a turn on deck 
 and the wind is getting up, also the sea, and 
 a small look at the barometer informs me 
 she is at 29. The 1st Officer says it looks 
 like a storm, so I fear me there is dirty work 
 aboard the lugger this evening. 
 
 Friday Evening. — This discrepancy is 
 due, not to sea sickness, but to the fact that 
 I was on guard from 10 a.m. yesterday till 
 10 a.m. to-day, and in about as bad weather 
 as I really care ever to see. It started in 
 Wednesday night and blew a regular gale 
 head on, for thirty-six hours. There is no 
 use in my trying to describe it for I can't. 
 Suffice it to say she was a real storm. My 
 clothes are not dry yet, being soaked through 
 
 [13] 
 
A SUNNY SUBALTERN 
 
 and through. Every one was seasick, and 
 if I could describe the indescribable horror 
 of men crowded together as they were in 
 those days, I know you wouldn't believe me. 
 Oh ! it was horrible. Sick by hundreds lying 
 around anywhere gasping for air. Some 
 slept on the decks in a drenched condition, 
 spray sweeping over them, and of thirty- 
 nine men on guard I finished up with nine, 
 the remainder all being sick. The stench 
 below was something to remember, and oh, 
 how I longed to take some of the men up 
 into our comfortable quarters. I was up 
 for practically twenty-four hours and on 
 deck two out of every six hours most of the 
 time, except when making rounds on the 
 bridge, and my descriptive vocabulary fails 
 me when I try to tell you what the tail end 
 of it was like early this morning. We have 
 a slight list to port — coal moved, probably 
 — and she heaved and plunged like a bron- 
 cho in the huge waves that drenched me 
 clear up on the bridge. One man of the 
 crew was killed, washed off the ladder lead- 
 ing to the crow's nest into the forward 
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A SUNNY SUBALTERN 
 
 winches. Broken neck. He was buried this 
 a.m. However, it has quieted down now 
 and to-night is smooth again. 
 
 Saturday Night. — By the way I forgot 
 to mention that I must be an A i sailor, 
 for nearly every one has been ill but myself. 
 I have eaten every meal and enjoyed them 
 and never felt the slightest squeamishness, 
 even at meals, despite the fact that "the Cap- 
 tains and Colonels departed" (apologies to 
 Rud) from the table very hurriedly at times. 
 There is no news worthy of mention. We 
 are again on a sea of glass and it has been 
 bright and warm, in fact warmer than I've 
 felt for two months, and we're in mid-At- 
 lantic. To-night it is like Summer, and 
 others who have crossed before say it is 
 colder in July than this trip. Just at pres- 
 ent we are cleaving our way into a road of 
 silver, for the moon is shining directly over 
 our bows, and it is a wonderful sight appar- 
 ently moving up & shimmering carpet right 
 to the old man of green cheese fame. At 
 least that is the impression recorded by me. 
 A carpet of silver and grey lace, like one 
 
 [15] 
 
A SUNNY SUBALTERN 
 
 of those red and black ones from the side- 
 walk to a church door at weddings, dancing 
 ahead and only the lap, lap, lap of the 
 waters as one stands on the fo'castle. 
 
 Monday Evening. — Nothing very new, 
 my dear, to write, just the old monotony of 
 the voyage, which, when it ends will be a 
 relief. The sea has changed, and from a 
 head on affair has turned about and we get 
 her abeam ! result, a roll in place of a pitch. 
 We are beginning to get into the war zone 
 more than before, and expect on Tuesday 
 and Wednesday to be near it if not right 
 in it. 
 
 Wednesday Morning. — Yesterday we had 
 a parade with life belts on, every man on 
 board and also life-boat drill. It is really 
 our first taste of what is sure to come later, 
 that is, having to calmly face the possibility 
 of death, and do you know it really didn't 
 seem to bother me at all. I suppose the 
 thoughts of it for months and months have 
 somewhat dulled the sensibilities of "yours 
 truly." 
 
 To-morrow we expect to be in . 
 
 m 
 
A SUNNY SUBALTERN 
 
 In Camp, England, 
 
 December $ f I9Ij>. 
 Dear Mother, — 
 
 As you will see, we are here. Since send- 
 ing the sort of diary I wrote on board boat, 
 we have simply arrived and come here. As 
 we came up the channel in the grey of the 
 morning it surely looked good to see land 
 and the cliffs of Land's End and Cornwall. 
 The whole channel was dotted with small 
 steam trawlers used as mine sweepers, and 
 then after we passed The Lizard, and our 
 signals were taken from the shore station, 
 out of the distance came six torpedo boat 
 destroyers tearing along at forty miles an 
 hour and surrounded us. Ahead, just over 
 the horizon, steamed a huge cruiser. Well, 
 anyway, just after lunch we steamed into 
 Plymouth harbour, a rare old spot indeed, 
 filled with historic memories and its history 
 checkered with incidents. Devonport be- 
 side it is a huge naval dockyard, and revenue 
 cutters and naval tugs with tenders soon 
 surrounded us and our baggage, etc., was 
 removed to shore. As it was very late at 
 
 [17]' 
 
A SUNNY SUBALTERN 
 
 night when we arrived we remained on 
 board all night and started off at 9 a.m. 
 
 Two naval tugs named after two Ply- 
 mouth heroes, Raleigh and Drake, conveyed 
 us to shore. Between frowning walls of 
 grey stone, with here and there guns nosing 
 their way out, we landed on a quay and en- 
 trained in a long English train. At eleven 
 we started, arriving at 8 p.m., but just to 
 dissect my feelings or to describe to you the 
 journey, is a task I can scarcely begin. You 
 know everything was so different that my 
 head fairly ached from madly turning from 
 one side of the coach to the other in a vain 
 endeavour to see everything from barmaids 
 to ruined castles, my first glimpse of either. 
 The quaint old churches with their tiny 
 graveyards ; the infinitesimal quadrangles of 
 yellow, black, and red, called fields; the 
 moss-covered banks and ivy-clad houses ; the 
 oaks festooned with ivy, mistletoe and holly 
 all in red and white bloom ; the villages and 
 towns all the same, checkerboards of roofs 
 with houses identical as if they had been 
 turned out of a machine ; the shapely hedge- 
 [18] 
 
A SUNNY SUBALTERN 
 
 rows; the quiet looking sheep, and wild- 
 eyed cattle; the rabbits scurrying at the 
 train ; the pheasants in hundreds, with here 
 and there a heron guarding a tiny pool ; the 
 funny little stations, yellow, exactly like the 
 ones in toy train sets, the white lines between 
 green ones signifying a road — all these are 
 jumbled up in my mind into a hodge podge 
 of pictures that is so conglomerate I fear 
 me it will take some time to sort them out. 
 Of one thing I am certain, however, that 
 England is exactly as described in anything 
 I ever read and it fully "lives up to its pic- 
 ture book reputation." I little wonder that 
 England has produced Chaucer, Milton, 
 Shakespeare, Dickens, and after looking at 
 a grey and ivied church with its old belfry 
 and the funny grey slabs, some aslant, some 
 flat, some erect in the iron-palinged grave- 
 yard, I can realise how the Elegy was in- 
 spired. 
 
 Well, we arrived at a depot at 8 p.m., 
 pitch dark, and were met by staff officers, 
 who escorted us here about four miles. This 
 
 [19J 
 
A SUNNY SUBALTERN 
 
 is under the famous Aldershot command 
 which has 200,000 troops in it and there 
 are several camps. We are the first bat- 
 talion of "Canadians," as we are called, to 
 be here, and the other units turned out, and 
 cheer after cheer went up as we marched in. 
 There is a Brigade of the Royal Sussex, the 
 Middlesex; then regiments of Argyll and 
 Sutherland Highlanders, Irish Fusiliers, 
 Gloucester and others, all famous English 
 corps. There are twenty odd thousand in 
 this camp with room for seventy. Each 
 platoon has a long building to itself and 
 every convenience that one could imagine. 
 Water, hot and cold baths, electric lights, 
 game rooms, large, bright, airy mess rooms, 
 concrete walks everywhere — in fact it is a 
 revelation. 
 
 We officers have splendid quarters. A 
 large house for mess with huts of eight 
 rooms, four to a room, at rear a fire place 
 tiled in each room, and bath attached, so 
 we are not too bad. 
 
 However, if I tell all the news at once I 
 [20], 
 
A SUNNY SUBALTERN 
 
 won't have anything to write for next time, 
 so will close. With fondest love to all. 
 
 Billy. 
 
 Have just remembered you will get this 
 about Christmas, so will wish you all a very 
 Merry Christmas and Happy New Year., 
 That's all I can send you just now, but when 
 I get up to London will send something 
 more tangible, but you understand my posi- 
 tion. There are no stores here. 
 
 In Camp. 
 
 'December 1 4, 1915. 
 Dear Mother, — 
 
 Received the letter you wrote addressed 
 to Army P.O., but have mislaid it for the 
 time, so cannot name date. However, as I 
 want to catch the Canadian mail will just 
 ramble on. 
 
 Since I last wrote you I've had so many 
 impressions etched on my brain that it will 
 be a very incoherent affair, this letter. You 
 know everything is so totally foreign to the 
 
 [21] 
 
A SUNNY SUBALTERN 
 
 style of life I've been accustomed to that it 
 is staggering. However, my impressions, 
 muddled as they seem, may make reading. 
 Ever since childhood I have studied oppo- 
 sites, and I suppose that one of the first im- 
 pressions a child gets is light and dark, after 
 that heat and cold; and it's about these latter 
 I wish to write. The cold over here is a 
 very good cold that is true to type. It is 
 cold and goes clean through and the heat 
 differentiates from any heat which hereto- 
 fore has caused my corpuscles to quicken by 
 doing the exact opposite of the cold, viz., 
 it fails to penetrate. I am convinced that if 
 there was enough of it, it would be jake, 
 but the great aim and object of the nation 
 here seems to be to heat the chimney. At 
 a time when the slogan is, "Conserve the 
 national resources," they are per second 
 shooting sufficient calories of heat out into 
 the wide world (through chimney pots) to 
 make Hades an air-cooled six-cylinder self- 
 starter, and Satan to resign. Their grates 
 are pretty, but as purveyors of warmth 
 where needed fail to suit "yours trooly." 
 
 [22] 
 
A SUNNY SUBALTERN 
 
 This is at least one of the most vivid im- 
 pressions I have and a poignant regret as 
 well. That much for the knock. Now for 
 some boosts. She surely is a land and as I 
 told you measures up in scenic investiture 
 better than any scenic artist's stage produc- 
 tion ever could hope to. 
 
 Last Wednesday we took part in Brigade 
 manoeuvres with the 117th Brigade of the 
 English Army doing about eighteen miles' 
 march. It was the first day in which Old 
 Sol deigned to lighten his lamp for us and 
 a beautiful day for marching. Between 
 miles of hedges, along roads like pavement, 
 by tiny rivers, over quaint bridges, through 
 hamlets with typical inns as laid out by 
 Dickens & Co. and by a Smithy shop under 
 a chestnut tree that might have been the one 
 Longfellow wrote about. The hedges com- 
 plied with all regulations, draped in fall 
 grandeur, punctuated here and there by a 
 red exclamation mark in the form of a holly 
 bush and from which at intervals scampered 
 a sleek looking grey hare or else flew up a 
 scared pheasant Anyway it was a day I 
 
 [23] 
 
A SUNNY SUBALTERN 
 
 will long remember, one in which picture 
 after picture was limned on my memory in 
 indelible colours. 
 
 It was a great sight, too, to see with glasses 
 from a hill all the troops in action: cavalry, 
 artillery, infantry, signallers, cyclists and a 
 large squad of aeroplanes which glinted and 
 dipped here and there in the sunlight. We 
 arrived back at 6 p.m. tired, but I sure had 
 enough thoughts to keep me thinking, also 
 wishing you could have been with me to 
 enjoy all the grandeur of it. Picturesque 
 Surrey surely lives up to its reputation. 
 
 Saturday most of the boys went to Lon- 
 don, but Young, two others and myself went 
 to Guilford, some fourteen miles. It is a 
 quaint old town modernized. Here it was 
 that Henry VIII. murdered Anne Boleyn, 
 if you remember history, and I saw an old 
 Grammar school authorized in 1555 by Ed- 
 ward VI. and still intact, as well as other 
 old buildings. We went over by taxi. I 
 had some purchases to make and I can as- 
 sure you that a £ doesn't go as far here as a 
 V at home; as near as I can figure every- 
 [*4] 
 
A SUNNY SUBALTERN 
 
 thing is seven and six. It seems to me a sort 
 of national fetish, either five ,and six or 
 seven and six, and I may add that your lov- 
 ing son was short changed for somewhere 
 near $2 as well as I can figure. Of course 
 this is a general thing and anybody with a 
 maple leaf is game with no close season, so 
 being prepared in a measure I am sorer than 
 ever. A dimpled dame with a smile like 
 Calypso, a voice like Circe's pipe and a com- 
 plexion a la Mrs. Gervais Graham, while 
 selling me a nail brush, eased the harpoon 
 into me so neatly that I never felt $2 worth 
 of barb till some time after when my 
 numbed senses limbered into action. It 
 sure beats all how easy one is, and I always 
 figured I was no simp; but Barnum was 
 right. 
 
 As I say, seven and six seems to be a fetish. 
 At least everything that one wanted figured 
 out at that price, except a pair of gloves 
 which I could buy in Canada for $1.75 — 
 here they ask only eighteen shillings! 
 Somewhere I had a vague idea that gloves 
 were cheap over here. Say not so. 
 
 [25] 
 
A SUNNY SUBALTERN 
 
 There was, however, a marketable com- 
 modity known as dinner, which we pur- 
 chased at a "Recommended Hostelry" and 
 which was only six shillings and three 
 pence. Wouldn't that cause your grey locks 
 to curl? $1.52 for a second class meal in 
 a third rate tavern served in eighth class 
 style ; but oh, as a recompense I had an op- 
 portunity of studying in her native haunts 
 Ye Barmaid. A ravishing blonde type, evi- 
 dently belonging to the Amazonian family, 
 nearly always found in rear of polished ma- 
 hogany raking her lair of crystals and tow- 
 els. Habits affable, courteous, quick and 
 usually gifted with a line of repartee totally 
 foreign to any other species. So you see 
 there was a rose to the thorn even tho' the 
 stab was a little deep. I may also add that 
 I was introduced to Mr. Brown's October 
 Ale, and found that he is some kicker. At 
 least he has much more kick than his cousin 
 Bud. In fact Bud may be wiser but not 
 nearly as strong. Well, dears, there is very 
 little more to tell except that with the ex- 
 [26] 
 
A SUNNY SUBALTERN 
 
 ception of one day it has rained almost con- 
 tinually. 
 
 Love to and all the family, also re- 
 member me to any one who cares. 
 
 Billy. 
 
 December 20, IQI5- 
 Dear Mother, — 
 
 Another week gone by and to catch the 
 Canadian mail must write to-night. I've 
 only had one letter from you since I came 
 and no picture of you, Maw; perhaps it 
 has gone astray. However, I'll let you 
 know later. 
 
 To begin the chronicle of the week: It's 
 just the same old story, so many vivid col- 
 ours on my brain I cannot seem to start. 
 However, I am taking a course in physical 
 and bayonet fighting. It's all courses over 
 here: musketry, bombing, artillery, en- 
 trenching or my own it seems — half of the 
 Lieutenants are at one or the other. Mine 
 is Swedish exercises. A wiry little Eng- 
 lishman puts us through (two hours in the 
 
 [273 
 
A SUNNY SUBALTERN 
 
 morning and two in the afternoon) the 
 toughest kind of physical drill, crashing 
 hither and thither until I sometimes wonder 
 if I'm a bird or only a relative of the nim- 
 ble chamois which I am told leaps from 
 crag to crag. At any rate I Ve been stiff and 
 sore ever since I started, in fact there are a 
 lot of muscles in my carcass that I never 
 even suspected, and after four hours I say 
 with fervour "Straafe Sweden." We start 
 soon to give it to the companies, and believe 
 me I'll get some action then. 
 
 Something that made a profound impres- 
 sion on me was a big service here yesterday, 
 5,000 men with four bands all in a little 
 glen. Can you imagine 5,000 throats peal- 
 ing out "O Come all Ye Faithful" and "On- 
 ward Christian Soldiers" to the accompani- 
 ment of 150 instruments. It echoed and re- 
 verberated I'm sure for miles, and in the 
 midst of all the khaki one lone figure in a 
 cassock of white and black. If you could 
 close your eyes and see it as I do, I know 
 you'd appreciate it. 
 
 Well, I saw London, only a sort of mov- 
 [28]! 
 
A SUNNY SUBALTERN 
 
 ing picture but nevertheless London. Yes- 
 terday — Sunday — was a glorious fall day, 
 sunlit and warm, so as there were very few 
 staying in camp six of us decided to go up 
 to the city. We left at 12.05 P- m an( * ar- 
 rived back 1 1.30 p.m. Of course I couldn't 
 tell you much about the place; it is just a 
 confused jumble of grey stone buildings and 
 rattling taxis; of khaki, khaki everywhere, 
 always attached to a woman; of narrow 
 sidewalks and crowded hotels; of old 
 rose and gold restaurants mirrored all 
 around and reflecting principally gorgeously 
 gowned women all sipping tea and smoking 
 cigarettes ; of varied smells from sewers and 
 cheap perfume to roses; of rumbling motor 
 busses with, sticking out prominently, 
 Trafalgar Square; service in Westminster 
 with a golden throated choir; of women, 
 women, women, in fact, never knew there 
 were so many; of dark streets at night; of 
 the Thames by moonlight; and oh! a thou- 
 sand and one other views all hashed up. I 
 think the real things that stand out are the 
 innumerable women, apparently all smok- 
 
A SUNNY SUBALTERN 
 
 ing cigarettes, and the price of dinner at 
 the Cecil which I'm not going to tell you 
 as your frugal mind would do a flivver I'm 
 sure. But as I remarked before, they get 
 enough over here. Of course you say 
 "Why go there?" but there are only certain 
 places officers are permitted to go, prac- 
 tically no restaurants outside the Criterion, 
 Trocadero and the Cecil and Savoy, outside 
 Claridge's and some of the high-priced ho- 
 tels. But anyway I enjoyed the fleeting 
 trip and expect to spend six days there when 
 I get my leave, and of course I want then 
 to see the sights that are worth seeing, not 
 just the hustle and bustle. 
 
 Well, there is nothing really more to tell. 
 We just go on each day with the usual 
 work. Last Friday was out again with the 
 Brigade with blank ammunition machine 
 guns and real shells in artillery. We did 
 good work and got the decision over the 
 four other battalions. 
 
 I think you had better address the mail 
 c/o Army P.O. as we may move from here 
 to some other camp. 
 [30] 
 
A SUNNY SUBALTERN 
 
 I suppose that over there now it's cold and 
 lots of snow while here everything is green. 
 So different, and sometimes I grow just a 
 little "Canada sick" despite all the newness 
 and the number of emotions crowding 
 around me. However, dears, good night. 
 
 With all my love. 
 
 Billy. 
 
 New Year's Eve, 1915. 
 Dear Mother, — 
 
 IVe had no word from any of you, ex- 
 cept the Christmas card from Auntie and 
 the photo forwarded from St. John, for 
 nearly two weeks. I got the photo O.K. 
 It arrived the morning after Christmas and 
 I am sure it is indeed a splendid one of 
 "me own Maw." It surely did me good to 
 look into the dear old face and I have it 
 on the table where it is in full view all the 
 time. I also got the Christmas card Aunty 
 sent and a nice tie from the G-girls. I had 
 already sent them one of our Christmas 
 cards. I also got a dilly box of eats from 
 
 [31] 
 
A SUNNY SUBALTERN 
 
 my little girl , a five-pound box of 
 
 shortbread, about a pound of salted almonds 
 "home brewed," a Christmas cake and two 
 or three other kinds of eatings. She's a 
 dear thoughtful kid and really seems to be 
 awfully fond of me. You know (this is 
 strictly confidential) I'm very fond of her, 
 too, and somehow or other over here the 
 thoughts of those that are near and dear, 
 like you people at home, crowd around one 
 in the evenings when there's not much to 
 do, and tho' I'm not getting sentimental, 
 nearly every night before I go to bed, I 
 just quietly crash out into the night and 
 gaze up at the stars and moon, and look 
 over there, wondering what you all are do- 
 ing. But anyway, dear, I am going to give 
 you her address so that if, as may be, I 
 don't come back, you can write her, and I 
 know you'll understand, dear. 
 
 Well, I spent one of the most rotten 
 Christmases I ever did. There were nine 
 of us marooned here, all the rest went away 
 on leave, and we were elected to stay. It 
 sure was a dismal hole. We just sat around 
 t3*l 
 
A SUNNY SUBALTERN 
 
 all day, in fact I never left the mess except 
 to see the men fed. They had a real meal, 
 turkey, cauliflower, potatoes, soup, plum 
 pudding, coffee. Of course our men are 
 very well fed, much better than the British 
 battalions, but it took eighty-nine fifteen- 
 pound turkeys to feed them. However, to 
 hark back, we "ossifers" spent a dickens of 
 a day, and I sat lamenting upon the pass- 
 ing of the good old Christmas, like Dickens 
 wrote about. You know everything is and 
 was very glum — so many families in mourn- 
 ing — that I remarked that the days of Dick- 
 ens had fled, surely, but I certainly tried to 
 wish with Tiny Tim "A Merry Christmas 
 indeed, God bless us every one!" 
 
 Well, dinner has intervened and I've in- 
 tended ever since being here to write you 
 something about the country round about. 
 It is Surrey and one of the oldest settled 
 parts of England. Beautiful in the ex- 
 treme, large areas of woody land with roll- 
 ing hills and common land in great tracts. 
 It also can lay claim to some antiquity. As 
 I told you, we are only fifteen miles or so 
 
 [33] 
 
A SUNNY SUBALTERN 
 
 from Aldershot, but close at hand are the 
 villages of Haslemere, Milford and God- 
 aiming. We were at the latter place which 
 dates back, well, further than even I can 
 remember, and feel sure that you'll agree 
 when I say that I gazed with wonder on 
 an oak which dates back to the Doomsday 
 book in which it is mentioned. Ye gods, 
 think of it! The other places are nearly as 
 ancient, all being mentioned in a grant from 
 my old pal, King Alfred, to his cousin some- 
 body I've forgotten ; however, as I never ex- 
 pect to meet him this side of eternity, we 
 will pass along. We went through Hasle- 
 mere the other day. Its town hall is 300 
 years old and I should have said that it 
 really has no claim to age, as I read on a 
 moss-covered slab that its charter only dated 
 to 1 180 something, in fact it is a mere youth, 
 beardless and adolescent. My old red- 
 headed friend, Queen Betty, once attended 
 a fair there. It is famed as the residence 
 of Tennyson, Conan Doyle, Mrs. Hum- 
 phrey Ward and Lord Wolseley, so you see, 
 dear, in all this bally land of hoary age, I 
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A SUNNY SUBALTERN 
 
 feel like a chip on an ocean. The Ports- 
 mouth road we walk on every day started 
 in the Roman days, and I expect many a 
 Druid chanted weird words around a tree 
 that sighs and groans just outside my win- 
 dow. Between here and Bramshot, seven 
 miles, where all the Canucks are, is the 
 Devil's Punch Bowl, a circular hollow 
 where in 1786 a man was murdered. There 
 is the ruin of the gibbet where they hanged 
 the murderers, and I had a beer in the Red 
 Lion Inn nearby, where they got the man 
 drunk before the murder. Can you im- 
 agine that? Dickens wrote about the spot 
 in Nicholas Nickleby where Nick and 
 Smike walked from Portsmouth. Look it 
 up. 
 
 Well, to-day we were "inspected" by 
 General Steele. We lined up in a splash- 
 ing rain-storm and stood at attention for 
 about thirty minutes. I know that it was 
 while Sherman was being inspected he made 
 his famous epigram, "War is Hell!" The 
 only bright spot was when the band struck 
 up "O Canada." It's the ,finst time it's 
 
 [35] 
 
A SUNNY SUBALTERN 
 
 been played since we left, and it surely 
 sounded great. I'll add, at first; for after 
 it continued to play it during the whole 
 darn ceremony it sounded more like the 
 Dead March or any other bally dirge than 
 anything. Gee! can you imagine listening 
 to the strains of Lavalle's hymn while I 
 gazed at a pile of red tiles, with aching legs 
 and feet until they all melted into one, then 
 honeycombed out again into regular cyl- 
 inders. However, we're "a fine body of 
 men." That is the stock phrase of every 
 (reviewing officer until I begin to believe "all 
 men are liars." I know you would have 
 liked to see your son in full war attire, full 
 marching kit, blankets, extra shoes, shav- 
 ing utensils, haversack, great coat, under- 
 wear, mess tin, rifle, 150 rounds of ammuni- 
 tion, revolver, binoculars, — I think that's 
 all, just fifty-four pounds on "me noble 
 torso," and I resembled the patient ass of 
 burden more than ever before. Hurrah 
 for the life of a soldier! 
 
 There is some talk of us leaving for 
 Egypt early in February, although nobody 
 [36] 
 
A SUNNY SUBALTERN 
 
 knows anything, except those who won't tell. 
 We are miles above the English battalions 
 hereabouts in training, and can give them 
 all cards and spades physically. Of course 
 the cream of English manhood is already 
 there, and there are just the remains, so 
 it's not a fair comparison. 
 
 Well, dear, must close. Love to all, in- 
 cluding who I hope is well. Papers 
 
 come regularly, thanks. 
 
 Billy. 
 
 In Camp, 
 
 January Q, IQI6. 
 Dear Mother,— 
 
 I've just arrived back from a wonderful 
 six days in London and that is the reason 
 why you haven't heard before. On my ar- 
 rival here there were two letters from you 
 dated 12th and 19th December and I was 
 very glad to get them. Also about thirty 
 pounds worth more goods from that little 
 
 girl in , including a cake, tinned goods, 
 
 lobster, pork and beans, coffee, fruits, a 
 
 [37] 
 
A SUNNY SUBALTERN 
 
 whole box of spearmint gum, cigarettes, and 
 an air pillow. Some girl, eh? However, 
 I suppose you want to hear all about Lun- 
 non. 
 
 Firstly, I can tell you that I can't de- 
 scribe it. I mean that adjectives won't 
 come, and anyway thousands more clever 
 than I, tho' not so handsome, have fallen 
 down; but, dear, can you imagine the thrills 
 that pulsed through me as I gazed on all 
 the things and places that since boyhood 
 I've read and dreamed of? Grey old Lon- 
 don bristling with historic spots dear to 
 every British boy's heart, I think, and 
 doubly dear to mine because I loved history, 
 whether by Green or Henty, whether 
 garbed in fiction or just the plain red school 
 book, and trebly dear because of Dickens. 
 You know, Mother, there is something wells 
 up in me nearly akin to a tear when I think 
 about them all. Well, anyway I revelled 
 for six days there and walked and saw every- 
 thing I could. I spent a half day in the 
 musty Old Tower, ransacked it from en- 
 trance gate to the keep of the White Tower, 
 
A SUNNY SUBALTERN 
 
 touched the spots where Anne Boleyn, Lady 
 Jane Grey, Dudley, Mary Queen of Scots, 
 and all the others lay and prayed and died. 
 Climbed twelfth century stairways, trod 
 twelfth century floorings, read inscriptions 
 dug in the walls by prisoners, civil, political 
 or religious, and came out in a daze, my 
 memory flooded with emotions. Then 
 Westminster Abbey — it is beyond me to tell 
 you of the thoughts engendered as I stood 
 in the vaulted old aisles, while a glorious 
 golden throated choir of boys pealed out 
 anthems to the crescendos and diminuendos 
 of an organ the like of which I never knew 
 existed, played by a hand that was guided 
 by a heart and brain directed I'm sure by 
 seraphs or cherubim. Dear, dear Mother, 
 all through it ebbed and flowed the desire 
 that you could have sat with me, and when 
 the lilting cadences of a boy singing The 
 Recessional melted into the peal of the or- 
 gan I think I cried because you weren't 
 there. You know, dear, I may never come 
 back, but I'm so thankful for the memory 
 of that wonderful service. That alone 
 
 [39] 
 
A SUNNY SUBALTERN 
 
 dwarfs the thought that I stood in the poets' 
 corner, or that I walked where countless 
 thousands have been thrilled before, or that 
 above me hung tattered old colours echoing 
 of the gone glory of some British regiment. 
 Then I walked miles in the old city 
 around spots immortalised by Dickens, just 
 started out and walked and walked. Of 
 course I lost my way, but coppers were most 
 obliging. I stood at noon in front of the 
 Mansion House and The Bank and saw, I 
 suppose, more traffic in a minute than those 
 dear old legs of yours dodged in ten years, 
 and I discovered why all these places are 
 called circuses. They sure are full three- 
 ring four-platform ones, each deserving of 
 being the "Greatest Show on Earth." 
 There is just as much to see as in Ringling 
 Bros., and the difference seems to be there 
 you look every way so as not to miss any- 
 thing; on Piccadilly circus, for instance, you 
 look every way so as not to get anything. I 
 always felt certain that I'd have a hub 
 smashed in and wonder now just how I es- 
 caped. I think the funniest sight I saw was 
 [40] 
 
A SUNNY SUBALTERN 
 
 a costermonger with a donkey like a minute 
 and a cart like half a one, crossways on 
 Trafalgar Square and the Strand one morn- 
 ing. A copper at one end shoved and talked 
 while another pulled and talked, and every 
 taxi and bus driver that was held up sat 
 and talked, and as I'm an "ossifer" and pre- 
 sumably a gentleman, I really couldn't 
 write you what they said or what the coster 
 said back, but there were some fine ex- 
 amples of the "retort courteous" a la An- 
 glais prof anus. 
 
 Then we stayed up one night till four 
 and went at five to Covent Garden Market. 
 That was a disappointment tho' as every- 
 thing was dark, so we only heard the noise 
 and smelled the smells. What, ho! that's 
 sufficient. 
 
 I rode on top of a bus just for the ex- 
 perience, which was some, and looked down 
 on humanity. Then we went to Whitehall 
 and saw the guard changed. That is the 
 only regiment not in khaki ; the guards there 
 still being in gold, red and tin plate. Be- 
 
 [41] 
 
A SUNNY SUBALTERN 
 
 ing an officer I received a regulation salute. 
 Ha! Ha! 
 
 We also gave Buckingham Palace the 
 "once over" and went all through the Park. 
 Buckingham looked very nice, but you 
 know over it all are huge bomb nets for 
 protection, which I guess spoiled the ap- 
 pearance. Then I did what every one does, 
 I guess, got lost in the Cecil Hotel, and 
 sooner than ask I wandered into forty dif- 
 ferent rooms for fifteen minutes. Gee! 
 that is some shack for size. I also learned 
 that all the coal used to heat London went 
 into a shute just outside my window at the 
 Regent Palace hotel where I stayed. At 
 least they started just after I got into bed 
 and never even hesitated till I got up, the 
 din being accompanied by raucous swear 
 words and trite repartee from the navvies. 
 The hotel, which is a new one, is some hotel, 
 by the way, 1,030 rooms, and they had 2,100 
 guests for New Year's. It surely is the last 
 word in hotels. A winter garden, lounge, 
 a Louis XVI. room, a palm room, a grill 
 and everything else you ever heard of and 
 [42] 
 
A SUNNY SUBALTERN 
 
 a lot no one ever did, and reasonable too, 
 six shillings for bed and breakfast, a swell 
 big room and fair breakfast, but never let 
 it be said that London is cheap. I can at- 
 test that the idea is erroneous for it sure 
 costs a pile of money to step around that 
 city. 
 
 However, it is London at night that I 
 should like to tell you of, if I can. You 
 understand practically no lights are al- 
 lowed. Stores, etc., pull down blinds and 
 only a ray peeps out of doorways. There 
 are no street lights save ghastly green ones 
 that cause every one to resemble an olive in 
 complexion; and the busses and taxis creep 
 along with no headlights, and even the side 
 lamps, which must be oil, shrouded, so that 
 for a poor pedestrian to cross a street is a 
 dangerous undertaking. But to look up at 
 the steely sky is the sight: ribbons, seem- 
 ingly miles long, shooting in every direction 
 as bright as the brightest Northern lights, 
 the anti-air craft searchlights. That is in- 
 deed a wonderful sight; the opaque little 
 glimmers that surround one on the side- 
 
 IE43] 
 
& SUNNY SUBALTERN 
 
 walk, and those only on main streets; and 
 up above, as one would think for miles 
 these powerful searchlights sweeping 
 across the sky; and then the slow-moving 
 crowds, for they saunter leisurely along at 
 all times; and the continuous nerve-racking 
 honk, honk, honk, of cars, punctuated by 
 the shrill whistles of theatre and restaurant 
 doorkeepers calling taxis, which are at a 
 premium in the evening, all impressed me 
 wonderfully. And then to step into the 
 hotel rotundas from nearly abyssmal dark- 
 ness and a veritable babel of harsh sounds — 
 into a brilliantly lit rotunda, resonant with 
 hearty laughter, male and female, encrusted 
 as it were by orchestras, is some transition, 
 I can assure you. To walk in and see the 
 women gorgeously gowned, and the officers 
 in khaki from the army, and naval blue and 
 gold, one almost forgets that 150 miles away 
 there is a war; until suddenly, direct from 
 the trench, in walks a soldier, mud from 
 toes to crown, begrimed and laden with 
 heavy marching order, jostling his way up 
 to the desk through the immaculate throng. 
 IE44] 
 
A SUNNY SUBALTERN 
 
 That brings it back, as does also the sight 
 of a poor fellow on crutches or without an 
 arm, but it scarcely seems possible. 
 
 And what a study in character is there in 
 a cosmopolitan crowd. Here a festive 
 young lieutenant, there a florid faced naval 
 man, yonder a paunchy Major, all endeav- 
 ouring to thoroughly enjoy life for six days. 
 And the women! Oh the women! Here- 
 tofore I had been under the impression that 
 English women did not know how to dress, 
 but the frumps we see are no criterion. 
 "Lord lumme !" but they sure do dress. Ra- 
 diant blondes in diaphanous garbs in greater 
 numbers than I ever imagined, beautiful 
 brunettes and sparkling sorrels in such pro- 
 fusion that it is staggering. They all loll 
 around in the places irregardless of class. 
 In the Carlton tea room one day a ravish- 
 ing creature who turned out to be one of 
 England's first beauties, sat rubbing backs 
 nearly with a woman plainly a wanton, and 
 I am told it is an every day occurrence. 
 Anyway, they all sip tea or cocktails, smoke 
 cigarettes and display an amount of silk en- 
 
 [453 
 
A SUNNY SUBALTERN 
 
 cased leg to cause me to wonder consider- 
 ably. And do you know I, in a measure, 
 doubted my earliest beliefs in the decency 
 of womanhood after some of the displays 
 that I witnessed. Certainly a shock to my 
 morals and mentality as heretofore con- 
 stituted. 
 
 Now, my dear, must close, will write 
 •more later, but we have to welcome the 
 Canadian Mechanical Transport who are 
 just arriving. 
 
 Love to all. Billy. 
 
 Later. 
 Well, dear, after reading this over I've 
 found that I haven't told you anything; at 
 least so it seems. I can't believe that my 
 thoughts won't come for I always tried to 
 tabulate everything that occurred so that I 
 could tell you about it, and figured how to 
 express it, but it seems as tho' I can't think 
 of them. When I started this page I 
 thought I could, but I can't. However, I 
 certainly enjoyed my trip and the memory 
 of it will linger long with me. I tried 
 146] 
 
A SUNNY SUBALTERN 
 
 everywhere to buy something for Aunty 
 and you. But somehow there seemed to be 
 nothing for women, except ordinary things. 
 Every one sells war materials for men and 
 the bally shops seem crammed with nothing 
 but trench clothing, smokes, alcohol lamps, 
 safety razors and steel mirrors. I wanted 
 to get an antique for the house but searched, 
 and searched, and found nothing I wanted 
 that I could afford; so finally in despera- 
 tion crashed into Harrod's and purchased 
 you each a pair of gloves. The thoughts go 
 with them even if they are only common 
 place ; you know that, dear ones. However, 
 I did buy a leather frame for your picture. 
 That was selfishness, I suppose, but I did 
 want to keep it nice and it was awfully ex- 
 pensive, the frame, nine shillings, but I'll 
 just nip off somewhere else. Things cost 
 like the devil here and food is awful. Our 
 mess is something scandalous and I'm en- 
 closing my last month's bill to let you see it. 
 It is nearly $37.75 for twenty-eight days for 
 food and some cigarettes, which is awful, 
 you'll agree. We got our $100 here, but 
 
 [47] 
 
A SUNNY SUBALTERN 
 
 most of it is gone for a revolver and binocu- 
 lars. These two sixty-five dollars alone — 
 then a compass and several small things 
 such as map case, fourteen shillings, etc., 
 and I've yet got to buy several small mat- 
 ters for my kit. 
 
 Well, dear, will close again. Love and 
 write soon. 
 
 Billy. 
 
 Royal Huts Hotel, 
 
 January JI, IQl6. 
 Dear Mother, — 
 
 I am only stopping here for an hour, and 
 as I have just finished tea, I thought I 
 would improve the shining hour, which has 
 been a mighty scarce article for the last two 
 weeks. My last epistle to you was, I think, 
 dashed off on a typewriter at Bordon. Since 
 then IVe had an eventful career. 
 
 Dates are all messed up in my mind, but 
 a week last Friday we left Bordon after two 
 weeks of awful work and marched to Wit- 
 ley, twenty-one miles. Saturday morning, 
 [48] 
 
A SUNNY SUBALTERN 
 
 under orders, the whole battalion left for 
 Bramshot, where we are now, and Sunday 
 night I was, on fifteen minutes' notice, sent 
 over to Aldershot to take an advanced sig- 
 nalling course. Some movement for your 
 one and only, and if you were a Sherlock 
 Holmes you would deduce that it presages 
 something, and that something is, that we 
 are to move to France as soon as we can be 
 equipped, which is about the third week in 
 February. Of course, dear, I know that 
 that doesn't just appeal to you as strongly as 
 it does to me, but it is really the best bit of 
 news I ever wrote you, from my viewpoint; 
 for, dear, it bespeaks much: first, that we 
 are a well-disciplined and trained regi- 
 ment; secondly, that we are physically fit 
 to go; and when you consider that it was 
 only in May last that we started and that 
 there are 45,000 troops over here from Can- 
 ada, and we with three others were selected 
 to form a new Brigade in the Second Divi- 
 sion, you'll understand that we are proud. 
 Just think; we leave the — th, — th, — th, 
 and all those others formed six months be- 
 
 [49] 
 
A SUNNY SUBALTERN 
 
 fore us, behind, and so I say again that we, 
 as a battalion, have reason to be proud. 
 And you, as my dear, dear Mother, have 
 also reason; not just because I'm in the bat- 
 talion, but because your only son was paid 
 a great compliment. An Imperial Army 
 Sergeant-Major from Aldershot who was 
 in charge of the various platoons for some 
 time, and one of those old-time regular 
 army fellows to whom discipline is a god, 
 told the Colonel that my platoon was the 
 best disciplined one in the battalion and 
 exceptionally smart; which is, you'll admit, 
 a feather in my cap, and for which I was 
 complimented by my Colonel. Then our 
 Signalling Officer has been made Brigade 
 Signaller, which is a boost for him, and one 
 of our Majors is Acting Brigade Major, 
 and likely to obtain the place permanently, 
 and our Chaplain has been made Brigade 
 Chaplain; all of which reflects great credit 
 on our battalion, and we're trying awfully 
 hard to live up to our reputation. Now, 
 aren't you proud? One of Canada's pre- 
 mier battalions and your son a "hossifer" 
 [50] 
 
A SUNNY SUBALTERN 
 
 in it! I don't suppose, dear, that gazing 
 adown the vista of years to the time of my 
 babyhood you ever dreamed that I should 
 one day stand where I am now. I suppose 
 mothers like you can sing "I didn't raise my 
 boy to be a soldier;" but since he is raised 
 and is a soldier, I do want my mother to be 
 proud of me. For, after all, dear, although 
 I've never notched very deep heretofore, 
 and, I know, not just accomplished what 
 you'd have had me do, still I think that 
 with your love for success, and the top of 
 the ladder, you'll be proud that I'm at least 
 a good lieutenant, for, oh, dear, I've tried 
 very hard. And so we're going "over 
 there," perhaps soon after you get this letter. 
 I want you at once to send me on a card, 
 if possible, obtained from the Bank of 
 Montreal, your signature, as I am going to 
 make my bank account a joint one in both 
 our names, either to draw cheques. This 
 will enable you to draw out at any time 
 anything to my credit, and avoid the ex- 
 pense of litigation or probate should they 
 bump me off. Send the signature direct to 
 
 [5i] 
 
A SUNNY SUBALTERN 
 
 the Bank as per enclosed cheque address 
 and I'll arrange it here. Don't delay a 
 day. The cheque you will keep so as to 
 have it by you, to draw if you want to. 
 
 I am expressing back to Canada my rain 
 coat, also my great coat or possibly only the 
 latter. We all had to buy what they call 
 trench coats, rubber coats, fleece lined, 
 which cost seven pounds fifteen shillings, as 
 a great coat is too heavy, and if it gets wet 
 takes days to dry out, so I fear me is not 
 much use. My other goods I'm putting in 
 storage in London and will advise you in 
 regard to them later. We are all busy buy- 
 ing trench necessities, such as high rubber 
 boots, periscopes, Wolseley valises, — a con- 
 trivance holding blankets and clothes, as we 
 are only allowed thirty-five pounds of bag- 
 gage outside what we carry, and they must 
 be in these valises. They cost four pounds, 
 but are essential, otherwise you can't have 
 anything taken. Suitcases and trunks are 
 barred for obvious reasons. In fact, when 
 I get all dolled up in heavy marching order 
 which I described before, I resemble a 
 152] 
 
A SUNNY SUBALTERN 
 
 Christmas tree that's been having a night 
 out more than anything, and feel sure 
 Richard III. was in somewhat a similar 
 state when he uttered that very salient re- 
 mark, "A horse, a horse, my kingdom, 
 etc." 
 
 However, that doesn't explain why I am 
 at the Royal Huts which I started to in the 
 preamble. Well, last Sunday the Colonel 
 suddenly walked into the mess and said, 
 "You'll go to Aldershot to-night to take an 
 advanced signalling course." I remon- 
 strated that an advanced signalling was a 
 trifle premature as I had never even had an 
 elementary one, but old Tennyson knew 
 whereof he spoke, "There's not to reason 
 why," etc., and so, like a lamb to Armour's, 
 I hied me on my way. 
 
 Arrived, and the first thing Monday 
 morning they just flung at me through 
 space, six words a minute in Morse tele- 
 graph code on a delightful invention known 
 as a buzzer, which is the same as a door bell 
 run by a telegraph key. In view of the fact 
 that I'd never even been introduced to one 
 
 [53] 
 
A SUNNY SUBALTERN 
 
 previously, and that I certainly wasn't on 
 speaking terms with it, I failed to measure 
 up, but I went to the Commandant of the 
 School and between talking to him and cry- 
 ing at him, induced him to allow me to stay, 
 insisting in right good Canadian fashion 
 that as I'd come to take a signalling course, 
 it was patent I could scarcely go home with- 
 out one. I tell you that gift of gab is jake 
 sometimes. So a sergeant was appointed to 
 give me elementary instruction in the vari- 
 ous forms of army communication, viz., 
 buzzer, heliograph — a sort of Spanish- 
 inquisition-looking-affair, which reflects the 
 sun from a mirror across the country — a 
 lamp with a shutter in front for sending at 
 night, and also by wigwagging a flag thusly 
 from here over to there, and from this posi- 
 tion over to this other one; a very simple 
 little affair, figured out by some of the 
 mightiest brains of all time, but requiring 
 arms like the village blacksmith to send and 
 eyes like a cat to read. Well, so far I've 
 grubbed along, but you'll realise that to 
 learn Morse on six different instruments in 
 154] 
 
A SUNNY SUBALTERN 
 
 fourteen days is not just what in restaurant 
 life is called a "short order." However, 
 I'm working from 9 a.m. till 10 p.m. with 
 three hours for lunch, the indispensable tea 
 and dinner, and hope to acquire sufficient 
 knowledge ere this week is out to pass out 
 at six words a minute. So far, I'm just a 
 conglomeration of churned-up dots and 
 dashes, and find myself going to sleep say- 
 ing dot — dot — dash — dash — damn — damn ; 
 which all doesn't explain why I'm here at 
 Royal Huts. In fact, I'm beginning to 
 question if I'll ever tell you, as I've just re- 
 membered that the — th battalion has been 
 broken up, only a band and a few handy 
 men left to clean up. Solomon said, "Pride 
 goeth," etc. 
 
 Anyhow, to-day, being marooned at Al- 
 dershot, and wanting mail, etc., I came 
 over to Bramshot, sixteen miles, and was 
 starting back, or rather did start back. The 
 mode of locomotion is a motor-bus which 
 is a pay-as-you-enter-run-when-it-pleases 
 affair. It resembles any street car I ever 
 remember, inasmuch as it seats fourteen, but 
 
 [55] 
 
A SUNNY SUBALTERN 
 
 holds thirty-two. It seems to have a deal 
 of trouble in breathing, and is rheumatic 
 in every joint. I feel sure if its pedigree 
 were looked into, it would have been sired 
 by the first Ford and damned by every one 
 who ever rode in it. Well, we started out, 
 the thirty-two all being present at roll call, 
 each one a soldier (private) except his 
 breath which was and still is and likely will 
 be (from the ribald glee emitting from the 
 bar) an admixture of gin and beer, (not at 
 all like the fragrant rose of old England). 
 This breath when breathed upon one in con- 
 junction with a sweet scented odour of gaso- 
 line which leaks through the floor of the 
 bus, only convinces me that I have nothing 
 to fear from German gas. Well, anyway, 
 we got thus far when the bus busted; at 
 least she sat down figuratively, and no 
 amount of coaxing would induce her to 
 arise. So we jostled out and in here where 
 I am sitting awaiting the arrival of another 
 affair which I trust is more physically fit 
 than the other was. 
 I have no more paper, this being some in 
 [56] 
 
A SUNNY SUBALTERN 
 
 my pocket, but must close anyway. Don't 
 forget all the instructions and address al- 
 ways c/o Army P.O. Will write you more 
 fully during the week, but want this to 
 catch Canadian mail leaving Monday. 
 Love to all. 
 
 Billy. 
 
 February 8, igi6. 
 Dear Mother,— 
 
 Your two letters written, one en route, 
 the other from Toronto, arrived on the 
 Canadian mail, and I was glad to hear that 
 you arrived safely. I also got some letters 
 last week at Aldershot telling me of the 
 desperate cold. Gee, that was sure some 
 
 cold, Eh! A letter also arrived from 
 
 last week and one to-day from . I am 
 
 writing to her to thank for the sox, also to 
 for the cigarettes. 
 
 I arrived back here Sunday night from 
 my signalling course and to-day received 
 word that I got "Very good" out of a class 
 of forty, which means I obtained over 
 
 [571 
 
A SUNNY SUBALTERN 
 
 ninety per cent, and the Colonel is quite 
 pleased and said to-night at mess, "Oh, I 
 knew you'd pull through." Well, I landed 
 
 back as I tell you and found that , my 
 
 Company Commander, or O. C. Co'y, 
 meaning Officer Commanding Company, 
 was ill, and I was senior, so had to take 
 charge yesterday and to-day of the whole 
 company. That is, hold orderly room, 
 which is the soldiers' court where he is 
 punished for offences. For instance, John 
 Smith in private life is John Smith; here 
 he is No. 41 144, Pte. Smith, John, and if he 
 is wont to imbibe too much of the "cup that 
 clears to-day of past regrets," is placed in 
 the clink. The next day he is brought be- 
 fore his O. C. Co'y who, if he feels he can 
 adjudicate upon the case, sentences him; but 
 as his powers are limited, and if the case de- 
 serves greater punishing, he remands him 
 to a higher court, viz. : the Colonel or Com- 
 manding Officer. Well, I had to adjudi- 
 cate upon three yesterday and four to-day, 
 all for being absent without leave, which is 
 a crime in the army. By crime I mean not 
 [58] 
 
A SUNNY SUBALTERN 
 
 as generally interpreted, but anything for 
 which he can be punished, and the longer 
 I'm in this game the more I'm convinced 
 that one can be punished for anything; and 
 when a soldier is discharged after years' 
 service without a crime on his record, I cer- 
 tainly consider him a mighty clever chap 
 for covering up his crimes. It certainly is 
 a supreme example of the two great classes, 
 the convicted and the unconvicted; for if 
 the aforesaid No. 41 144, Pte. Smith, John, 
 while standing on parade should be sud- 
 denly seized with a violent tickling of his 
 throat, such as you allay by an application 
 of jujube, and should spontaneously and os- 
 tentatiously burst forth into a loud "ahem," 
 he can be very severely dealt with under 
 section forty of the Army Act, the afore- 
 said cough "being prejudicial to good dis- 
 cipline." So you see that any one can be 
 shot at sunrise for blowing his nose. How- 
 ever, I carried on with the C. O. Co'y's 
 work for two days, and of course being 
 away first at Bordon then Aldershot was 
 not in touch very well. Then we are being 
 
 [59]: 
 
A SUNNY SUBALTERN 
 
 equipped to go to the front and are chang- 
 ing old things for new, and as the C. O. Co'y 
 is responsible (not me) for everything, 
 there is a lot of checking of figures. How- 
 ever, I am managing very well so far and 
 haven't done anything I shouldn't have. 
 Then to-day when I was in seeing the 
 Major he told me I was to have No. i 
 Platoon. That perhaps doesn't convey 
 much to you, but it is just this: No. i 
 platoon is the extreme right one when the 
 battalion is in battle and therefore its flank 
 is quite important. That is certainly a 
 promotion, in its way I mean, for unless I 
 was fitted to have command of it I wouldn't 
 get it. It is quite an important spot and 
 D.S.O.'s are usually won there, altho' I'm 
 not figuring on one. In answer to your en- 
 quiry as to whether all officers above me on 
 the list were senior, "yes." But three offi- 
 cers above me are being left here, which' 
 makes me fourth senior lieutenant in the 
 
 battalion. As for any notice in the 
 
 papers, the place is about 200 souls, and 
 anyway one battalion more or less doesn't 
 I60] 
 
A SUNNY SUBALTERN 
 
 matter very much here. A battalion is such 
 an infinitesimal affair in this war, so I im- 
 agine the only place you'll ever find any- 
 thing about us will be Canadian papers. 
 
 I was up in an aeroplane last week with 
 the O. C. Headquarters Flight at the Royal 
 Flying School, Aldershot, and enjoyed the 
 experience very much. We went up about 
 2,000 feet and I imagine I should enjoy 
 being an airman. There were no sensations 
 except a violent desire to hang on, a sinking 
 sensation at the stomach when we volplaned 
 and a violent desire to get down where the 
 air didn't bite one's face and chill you to 
 the marrow. There was a slight rocking 
 which tended to produce mal de mer, or I 
 suppose I should mal de air, but when one 
 is hopping along anywhere from fifty miles 
 to eighty miles an hour you've really no 
 time to be ill ; in fact, all I did was to hang 
 on, and just between you, me dear old Maw, 
 and myself, (and don't tell a soul) I wished 
 most of the time that I'd never gone up. 
 But then that is like the Catholic confes- 
 
 [61] 
 
A SUNNY SUBALTERN 
 
 sional, strictly confidential, and not to be 
 mentioned to a soul. 
 
 I spent Saturday and Sunday in London 
 en route from Aldershot and went in a 
 pouring rain to Westminster Abbey. Oh, 
 dear, there is something about that spot that 
 really is the story of the Empire in a vest 
 pocket edition that grips me. I sat Sunday 
 in the north transept and heard the swelling 
 (I think souls is the best word for they in- 
 duce tears in me almost) souls of that glori- 
 ous organ and listened to The Recessional. 
 I heard them once again, sitting beside the 
 monuments and statuary erected to Britain's 
 heroes, and oh, do you know, dear, I felt 
 the little wish creep in that some day my 
 name might go down to posterity in those 
 magnificent aisles. I was so close I could 
 touch the statue, "Erected by the order of 
 King and Parliament as a testimonial to 
 William Pitt, Earl of Chatham, during 
 whose administration, in the reigns of 
 George II. and George III., Great Britain 
 was exalted to a greater degree and glory 
 than in any other period;" those, if mem- 
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A SUNNY SUBALTERN 
 
 ory serves aright, are the actual words of 
 the inscription, and, as I say, unbidden came 
 the desire that one day I might prove 
 worthy of a wee small honour from my own 
 native land, for, and to which, I am con- 
 tinually longing. It's all right to say it's 
 cold, but then suddenly take away from one 
 all the things that have surrounded you 
 since childhood, suddenly remove all the 
 environment that has encircled your very 
 being and you cannot help but feel the lack. 
 I miss the snow, the crunch, crunch of it 
 under marching feet, the glisten of it in the 
 sunshine and the glint of it under the arc 
 lights at night. I miss the wind that stung 
 the face and the cold that pulsated the 
 blood, and most of all the air, the free, 
 clean, sunshiny un-misty air of the west; 
 and while I love England I wouldn't trade 
 one day of Western Canadian climate with 
 all its wintry rigours for a whole winter 
 here. Tho' I sometimes cursed a winter 
 there I now ask pardon and plead my ig- 
 norance as an excuse, for snow is immeasur- 
 
 [63] 
 
A SUNNY SUBALTERN 
 
 ably better than the same depth of gooey 
 mud. 
 
 We expect to leave sometime between 
 February twenty-third and March first, but 
 will be in France for some time ere going 
 actually into the mess, so don't figure I'm 
 in it as soon as these dates occur. 
 
 You know, my dear, that it's all very well 
 to talk about writing to this one and that 
 one, but I never get a chance to start a letter 
 till 8.30 p.m., then it's usually 10.30 before 
 it's finished, and I owe a dozen to different 
 people. If I find time I'll write, but really 
 some nights I'm so tired I can't, so they'll 
 have to understand. Love to all. 
 
 Billy. 
 
 February I J, IQl6. 
 My Dear Mother, — 
 
 Your second letter written from Toronto 
 reached me this morning. As I wrote you 
 earlier in the week we are in the throes of 
 departure and Sunday is no exception. Ten 
 officers and a number of men have been 
 [64I 
 
A SUNNY SUBALTERN 
 
 away all day firing at the Rifle Ranges, and 
 this morning in front of our mess the Ma- 
 chine Gun class was busy rattling away. 
 As I tell you, that's about all there is to 
 think about. One grows so narrow-minded 
 in this business unless you eat, sleep, breathe 
 and perspire war, its ethics, science and the 
 practical application of these, you might 
 just as well quit, and our Colonel doesn't 
 give one much chance to do anything but 
 absorb warfare. As I told you, we are in 
 the throes of departure, and I am told un- 
 officially that the Brigade sails on the 
 
 for France. You will not of course receive 
 this till after we've arrived there. 
 
 The weather here has improved quite 
 noticeably lately. The days have been 
 warm and bright, always for a few hours in 
 the middle the sun coming out and caress- 
 ing us and the landscape, so that it makes 
 life a little more bearable. There is just a 
 touch of spring in the air, the buds bursting 
 on the trees, and this afternoon I saw sev- 
 eral pussy willows and some snow drops 
 out in bloom. Five of us went for a long 
 
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A SUNNY SUBALTERN 
 
 horseback ride this afternoon, the first horse 
 I've been on since I left the farm, and a 
 rough gaited bird it was. She had a sort 
 of self-starting six-cylinder action in her 
 rear elevation and bumped along, also I 
 bumped along with her greatly to the detri- 
 ment, I fear, of certain portions of my 
 anatomy, and I fear me also I'm going to 
 be "rawther stiff" in the morning, as I cer- 
 tainly can class my middle parts as being 
 sore right now. However, I enjoyed my- 
 self thoroughly for two or three hours, and 
 laughed myself sick at one of the boys who 
 doesn't ride very well, who had the wildest 
 horse in the bunch and who certainly had a 
 really rough time ; for as soon as we started 
 for home she refused to do anything but go, 
 and of course all the rest of them also in- 
 sisted, and when his bird heard the others 
 behind, she legged it faster and faster. We 
 crashed along for about seven miles through 
 narrow lanes and tiny villages, and very 
 Gilpinlike I can assure you. Dougal, the 
 chap I speak of, lost his cap and none of us 
 could turn our horses to get it. So as we 
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A SUNNY SUBALTERN 
 
 must always pay for our good times, I fully 
 expect to pay for mine to-morrow. 
 
 I had rather an unique experience the 
 other day which I want to tell you about. 
 Every one who hailed from this insular 
 kingdom, in Canada was wont to complain 
 in my ear of the slowness of barbers over 
 there and always related how much faster 
 the tonsorial artists of Britain pushed in 
 your whiskers. I also have been told the 
 same thing since my arrival and I've proven 
 to myself the why and wherefore of it. 
 Having to go up to London one day this 
 week to the Record Office, I slept in and 
 missed my usual shave before hiking three 
 miles to the train, so upon my arrival there 
 proceeded to buy a shave, something I 
 haven't done for months, I nearly can say 
 years. So seeing a sign, "Ladies and Gentle- 
 men's Hair Dressing Saloon,"I proceeded 
 therein. Well, a bald-headed person of 
 doubtful antecedents, judging from his 
 physiognomy, motioned me into a chair. 
 Not a white enamel becushioned one with 
 a neck rest and numerous levers, but a plain- 
 
 [67] 
 
A SUNNY SUBALTERN 
 
 red plush, one showing unmistakably that 
 other thousands had sat on the same seat. It 
 was just the same type as the C. P. R. or any 
 R. R. in Canada issues to their hard worked 
 station agents. Well, I sat me down, not 
 without some misgivings, and, grasping "me 
 noble countenance," he tilted my head rear- 
 ward until I felt as tho' I were one of those 
 contortionist acts at a vaudeville show. He 
 smeared my face with lather and proceeded 
 to scrape the protruding hairs off. I say 
 scrape advisedly, for it was a process greatly 
 resembling a man with a snow shovel re- 
 moving the accumulation of last week's 
 snow from the sidewalk. He didn't take 
 long, I'll admit, and well he might do it in 
 short time. Every time he let go of my 
 head I endeavoured to raise it, but, some- 
 way, he always beat me to it and grabbed 
 it again ere I could sufficiently stretch the 
 muscles to erase the crick in it. He surely 
 was active and I took a keen delight in see- 
 ing if I couldn't beat him to it. Albeit I 
 must confess he came off best. Of course 
 he was doing it every day and it was my 
 [68] 
 
A SUNNY SUBALTERN 
 
 first game and I didn't even have beginner's 
 luck. Well, having removed some hair and 
 the outer tissue of epidermis, he smeared a 
 solution of nitric acid and chloride of lime 
 and assisted me to elevate my head to a nor- 
 mal position, and, whisking off the apron, 
 by gestures suggested I arise. I did so with 
 face smarting and neck stiff and cricked be- 
 yond straightening, I felt sure. Upon a 
 close examination which I made after a 
 hurried exit and fervent prayer of thanks- 
 giving, I found tiny tufts of whisker still 
 there and decided that the reason they do it 
 quicker is, first, because they don't do it, 
 and, second, if they took any longer they 
 would permanently dislocate their cus- 
 tomers' necks ; so I readily understand why 
 there are fewer barber shops and why every 
 Englishman always carries a set of razors. 
 Anyway I certainly prefer mine own Gil- 
 lette. 
 
 I've just paused a minute to listen to the 
 mess gramophone blare out "The Veteran's 
 Song." A glorious baritone sang it and as 
 he came to the lines, "Thank God when the 
 
 [69] 
 
A SUNNY SUBALTERN 
 
 young lads falter we still have the brave old 
 boys," I just wondered if, when the crucial 
 moment came, I would falter. Of course, 
 dear, I can't falter, there are no more old 
 boys left and so we young lads must do our 
 best. And oh, dear, while I know it's not 
 in your heart I feel sure that you wouldn't 
 want me to falter, and, somehow, on the eve 
 of our departure we all have sobered down 
 a bit. At first at the news every one was 
 gleeful, but we are quieter now. Things 
 have assumed their right aspect. We all 
 realise that it isn't a picnic we're setting out 
 for and so we've adjusted our outlook and 
 toned down our gaiety. Not noticeably, 
 perhaps, to an outsider, but every now and 
 then you'll find one or two sitting quietly 
 and a wistful look in their eye. There isn't 
 the laugh and the jest that for months has 
 been usual, and so we go away over to 
 France. 
 
 Now, my dear, there isn't much or in fact 
 
 anything more to say, except I don't want 
 
 you to worry. I know, Mother o' mine, 
 
 that's a useless order to give you, but I 
 
 [70] 
 
A SUNNY SUBALTERN 
 
 surely mean it. You know we all are in- 
 tending to come back and I grow every day 
 more or less a fatalist. So don't worry, I'll 
 come home one of these days and oh, how 
 glad I'll be, dear, to fold you in my arms 
 and hear you call me Willie. So, dear, 
 don't fear for me. Your God and mine 
 whom I know you trust, is just as present 
 there as in the quiet solitude of your bed- 
 room, and if perchance He wills that I go 
 out, well, dear, it's just one more sorrow 
 heaped on your willing shoulders, one more 
 pain to your silver locks. But as the days 
 go on more and more forcibly is borne home 
 the fact that up there beyond the Gates of 
 Pearl there is one Omnipresent, and He 
 will watch o'er me as he has done over mil- 
 lions of other sons. 
 
 Good-bye, dearie. The last good-bye for 
 a time at least. I'll write you from France. 
 Good-bye and God bless and keeo you safe 
 for my return. BlLLy 
 
 Love to all with heaps to Auntie and 
 Uncle when you write. 
 
 [7i] 
 
A SUNNY SUBALTERN 
 
 We've left the lights of London 
 And the dreary rain of Hants, 
 For we're slowly steaming outward 
 "Over there" to France. 
 
 The while I watch the choppy waves 
 And taste the salty foam, 
 My thoughts are ever speeding 
 To Canada and Home. 
 
 I wonder, be there thought waves 
 Or static in the air 
 To shoot the thoughts I'm thinking 
 To my dear ones "Over there." 
 
 For "Over there" is two spots, 
 One is Flanders, damp and low, 
 While the other place is Canada, 
 My "Lady of the Snow." 
 
 And tho' my thoughts always are split 
 Betwixt the one and t'other, 
 I think to-night they're turning most 
 To Canada and Mother. 
 
 Crossing the Channel as the lights of Folkestone died 
 into black and Boulogne grew brighter. 
 
 Billy. 
 [72]; 
 
A SUNNY SUBALTERN 
 
 Somewhere, 
 February 26, IQl6. 
 My Dear Mother, — 
 
 Well, we arrived "somewhere," and are 
 billeted, some miles at the rear of the actual 
 firing line where the boom of guns comes 
 to us ever and anon. So we are actually in 
 the ring side seats of the big fight and soon 
 will, I suppose, be actually in the ring. 
 
 The trip here was very interesting, but 
 I'm not allowed to mention anything about 
 it so will have to tell you when I get back. 
 However, I can tell you that I had my wish 
 about the snow, for we landed in the midst 
 of a soft melting snow storm which has kept 
 up intermittently ever since. The whole 
 country is covered about a foot thick with 
 soft snow and the roads frozen hard, mak- 
 ing walking and transport difficult. In fact, 
 the weather has been very cold and almost 
 like Canadian winter, as the cold seems to 
 go clean through. However, the men and 
 all of us are happy and that counts a lot. 
 I've just thought all day what a complex 
 thing is human nature. We arrived here, 
 
 [73] 
 
A SUNNY SUBALTERN 
 
 as I told you, in a blinding snow storm and 
 after a twelve to fifteen mile march, finally- 
 got into the barns, where we are billeted, 
 about eight o'clock at night, cold, horribly 
 hungry and wet through, every man sore 
 and grouchy, railing against the officers and 
 any one else on whom he could vent his 
 spleen. It wasn't an easy day and I, too, 
 was dead tired, but next morning in the 
 clear cold air we had changed completely. 
 Everything looked rosy and in the midst of 
 it all here and there a song or a cheery 
 whistle, and after a good warm meal we 
 were as chirpy as sparrows. Indeed, a con- 
 trast from the night before. Human nature 
 is indeed a funny thing. I went out to-day 
 to buy some woollen gloves and other things 
 in a village about two miles away and I can 
 assure you that National song of ours, "The 
 Maple Leaf our Emblem Dear" is just as 
 fitting here as elsewhere. They sure soak 
 one here for anything. 
 
 We are quartered in a farm house, the 
 six company officers in one room of Flemish 
 architecture — great oaken beams across the 
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A SUNNY SUBALTERN 
 
 ceiling and a cold wind-swept brick floor 
 and no heat. The men in the barns with 
 plenty of straw are, I believe, fairly warm, 
 at least I hope warmer than we are. The 
 glass is out of our window and the wind 
 "she's blow de herrieane" across the floor, 
 wafting in all the varied odours of the farm 
 yard. However, it must be worse in the 
 trenches and every cloud has its silver lin- 
 ing. But it's some miserable in the morning, 
 arising and shaving and washing at a pump 
 with a foot of snow on the ground. 
 
 They say that to be a really good fighter 
 a man must feel a personal animosity against 
 his adversary. Well, I feel certain that if 
 old Kaiser Bill could suddenly appear some 
 morning when I hop out of blankets and 
 with goose flesh over "me noble frame," 
 shiver and swear, he'd find in me a foeman 
 worthy of his steel ; and I think as the hard- 
 ships (which really aren't so awfully hard) 
 grow worse, we all acquire that spirit of 
 animosity. The men, too, are not at all slow 
 at expressing their opinion about the enemy, 
 
 [751 
 
A SUNNY SUBALTERN 
 
 and they seem to be ready to fight, so I guess 
 we will give a good account of ourselves. 
 
 Everything is strange and new over here. 
 The very ground we walk on was the scene 
 of fierce fighting early in the war. The 
 fields, however, are all ploughed and crops 
 in, in fact "busy as usual" is the motto, pigs, 
 cows, etc., chewing away, not even moving 
 their ears. The buildings, however, bear 
 mute testimony that there is a war on, and 
 in the fields here and there are the remains 
 of wire entanglements. I picked up a rusty 
 old brass casing of a shell, while a few hun- 
 dred yards away a tiny forest of crosses 
 mark the graves of some English soldiers, 
 and not far distant is a bog where, I'm told, 
 the Princess Pats were first cut up a year 
 ago. 
 
 It is all war over here. Every breath you 
 draw seems to charge your blood with a 
 desire to get into it, and it's truly surprising 
 how one actually feels no qualms about go- 
 ing into the trenches. So far I haven't felt 
 the slightest tinge of fear, but of course I 
 don't know exactly how I'll act when the 
 {7V 
 
A SUNNY SUBALTERN 
 
 crucial moment arrives; but I've practised 
 control of myself in preparation for it and 
 I guess that's about all it amounts to, self- 
 control. Our first touch of the real thing 
 was a hospital train we passed filled with 
 the wounded and seeing motor ambulances 
 flying along the road to and from the firing 
 line. Occasionally a stretcher with a ban- 
 daged figure on it, and once a body lying on 
 the roadside, probably a real casualty. It's 
 very hard writing, every one is talking and 
 I can't seem to collect my thoughts, also it 
 is some cold. I'm using a lone candle so I 
 think I've written enough. Excuse paper 
 which is out of my message book and also 
 the carbon copies, but I'm writing the same 
 
 letter to the little girlie in , and I know 
 
 you'll excuse me. I'll try to write you a 
 letter again as soon as possible and try to do 
 so regularly. 
 
 Remember me to every one and send love 
 
 to the . Heaps of love and millions of 
 
 thoughts of you and home. 
 Good-bye. 
 
 Billy. 
 [77] 
 
A SUNNY SUBALTERN 
 
 Somewhere, 
 
 February 28, IQl6. 
 Dear Mother, — 
 
 Just a few lines to enclose some docu- 
 ments, one a joint agreement for the Bank 
 which please forward direct, also receipt 
 for goods stored at Thomas Cook & Sons. 
 There is really nothing much there, and I 
 cannot think it would be worth while to 
 send for them from Canada, as there is 
 nothing of any great value. However, here 
 is the receipt. 
 
 Well, dear, the most important news I 
 have to tell you is that we move up into the 
 fight to-morrow and will be in the ring for 
 a starter for ten days or so. Just to get our 
 baptism of fire, as it were. 
 
 I received your two letters, the last dated 
 14th inst., and you seem worried re the 
 Christmas parcel. I got it O.K. and ac- 
 knowledged it the same day. I think, if 
 memory serves me aright, the night before 
 I went to London. In fact I'm sure it was 
 that night, as I gave the letters to my man 
 to post and will ask him re them. As for 
 [78] 
 
A SUNNY SUBALTERN 
 
 others, well, previous letters will have an* 
 swered your queries. 
 
 I'm at present engaged in studying gas 
 and how to combat it, and it's very interest- 
 ing work. I have to walk each morning 
 about six miles, and this morning as I 
 walked along I couldn't help thinking how 
 peaceful everything looked. Bright, warm 
 sunshine, glistening down on the snow, birds 
 twittering, quaint old houses with cheery 
 children running about and wee wisps of 
 smoke curling out of the chimneys ; in fact 
 the landscape might have been a water 
 colour of any country, so peaceful did it 
 look. One would scarce believe that a short 
 twelve to fifteen months ago this whole area 
 was the scene of actual fighting, nor yet 
 realise that less than a score of miles away 
 the greatest battles of all time are being 
 waged. Indeed, if it weren't for two things 
 and you could suddenly transplant some one 
 from a foreign land here, I feel sure it 
 would be hard to convince them of their 
 whereabouts. Two things, however, give 
 away the ending to the story; first, ever and 
 
 [79] 
 
A SUNNY SUBALTERN 
 
 anon rumbles over the land the reverbera- 
 tions of the guns, sometimes short, staccato 
 sounds, again long crashing rolls ending in 
 a sort of roar, and then, on the pave roads, 
 a never ending line of transport waggons 
 either bearing up munitions and coming 
 back empty, or Red Cross motor ambu- 
 lances going empty and coming back loaded. 
 Nearly all the work is done by mechanical 
 transport (motor lorries) which rattle and 
 bump along at a great rate, spraying rather 
 than splashing mud on you, while now and 
 then a despatch rider clad in khaki oilskins 
 hurtles by on a motor cycle, or a long line 
 of the famous two-decker London busses, 
 all painted war office grey, crawl along, 
 sometimes loaded just as heavily as ever 
 they were on the Strand or Regent St. But 
 every passenger is now a non-paying one 
 and there is no difference in style, all in 
 "marching order." And speaking of march- 
 ing order reminds me that I was in an 
 "estaminet" or Cafe to-day, and there was 
 a chubby gamin of about four marching to 
 and fro with a water bottle and mess tin 
 [80] 
 
A SUNNY SUBALTERN 
 
 strung from his shoulders and over his left 
 one a long poker, and would you believe 
 me, as we entered he came to the "present" 
 with his poker, then calmly strode back and 
 forth as if on sentry go. And this almost 
 within range of the big guns. The passive 
 bearing and positive equanimity of these 
 villagers also seem beyond one's ken. Busi- 
 ness as usual is evidently their slogan and 
 they certainly lose no opportunity to carry 
 on any kind of bargain. As an example, the 
 urchin, whose home is where we billet, ap- 
 peared yesterday with one of our cap badges 
 on, and fearing mayhap that kleptomania 
 was developing and feeling that keenly in 
 one so young, I questioned him (for all the 
 kids have a smattering of "Anglais") as to 
 whence it came. Promptly came the an- 
 swer "two eggs," "Eengleesh soldier," so 
 you see the French are just as thrifty as 
 ever. In fact, more so, I fancy, as every 
 second house has been turned into one of 
 these estaminets. It is possible to purchase 
 anything eatable from packages of Quaker 
 Oats to Heinz's Pork and Beans, and drink- 
 
 [81] 
 
A SUNNY SUBALTERN 
 
 able from beer to champagne, excluding 
 spirits like whiskey or brandy. As far as 
 eats are concerned no one needs anything 
 staple anyway for we eat like fighting cocks. 
 Meat, some fresh, some bully beef, bread 
 or hard tack, potatoes and one other vege- 
 table, bacon for breakfast, jam, tea, rice, 
 cheese, condensed milk and plenty of it. 
 The meat is usually beef, but alternated 
 with mutton, and our Company Com- 
 mander, who is an old British army officer, 
 says this is a picnic. Not knowing cannot 
 say, but while there are some discomforts 
 they are absolutely nothing to what I ex- 
 pected and we are all happy as kings. Of 
 course I'm usually happy, but I find myself 
 breaking into song every now and then just 
 for sheer joy. That is, I suppose, a rather 
 queer idea to any one who at a distance 
 views the situation, but such is the case. 
 
 I cannot recall to memory all the queer 
 things that have happened, as you may im- 
 agine, but it certainly is a very funny ex- 
 pedition. My French at the best is none 
 too healthy, being rather pale and coming 
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A SUNNY SUBALTERN 
 
 under the heading anaemic, so I've had 
 some queer times making myself under- 
 stood. In the first place through which we 
 marched several gamins crowded along be- 
 side us crying "Beeskit, Beeskit," and I 
 racked my brain for all French salutations 
 and forms of greeting, but nothing seemed 
 to fit, and finally a little older boy said 
 "souveneer," and I tumbled. He wanted a 
 biscuit like we eat. Hard tack, in other 
 words. It may seem easy when it's spelled 
 out, but when a dirty faced youngster grabs 
 your thumb and adds his weight to the 
 already enormous tonnage which you're 
 carrying, your powers of understanding 
 cease and your perspective rather clouds. 
 
 Well, my dear, I don't think there is 
 much more to tell, but will write from our 
 new quarters next week. 
 
 Love to all. 
 
 Billy. 
 
 [83I 
 
A SUNNY SUBALTERN 
 
 Somewhere, 
 
 March 6, IQl6. 
 Dear Mother,— 
 
 Your letter dated February 15 arrived 
 to-day and finds me in hospital where I've 
 been for five days. Nothing serious but a 
 nasty attack of "toenail" poisoning from 
 eating something too near the side of a tin. 
 It occurred a week to-day, just before we 
 moved down to Brigade reserve about two 
 miles from the firing line. I had nothing 
 to eat for two days, that is, could eat noth- 
 ing, and suffered from acute diarrhoea and 
 then did thirteen miles in marching order 
 to here, which was more or less of a "via 
 dolorosa" for me, and when I arrived was 
 glad to lay me down in a dugout which 
 leaked. Next morning the Colonel and 
 Medical Officer insisted upon me going into 
 hospital, much against my will, for the bat- 
 talion moved up to the firing line, for its 
 first time that night. It was a bitter dis- 
 appointment to your "only only" for, dear, 
 after one has laboured for months studying 
 and instructing his men, and when the cli- 
 [84] 
 
A SUNNY SUBALTERN 
 
 max comes and all his work is to be put into 
 actual practice, it comes hard to lie down 
 and feel that he is not to have a part in it. 
 However, here I am, hoping to get out to- 
 day and go in the line for four days the day 
 after to-morrow. I'm feeling much better, 
 thank you, and considerably stronger. I 
 think I would have been jake but for that 
 march over the pave roads which aggra- 
 vated the case considerably. Of those roads 
 more anon. 
 
 Well, dear, here we are, as I say, a scant 
 two miles from the first line trenches and 
 even here one is scarce able to realise that 
 there is a war. For instance this morning, 
 to look out of the window the sun is shining 
 and birds singing. Here and there a touch 
 of snow glistening amongst the green of the 
 fields or fast being dyed by the mud of the 
 roads, and not a sound of war penetrates the 
 walls of the hospital. Except for khaki 
 moving around from the window view 
 nothing denotes war at all. Of course it is 
 not always like that and there was a noisome 
 bombardment the first few nights. In fact 
 
 [85] 
 
A SUNNY SUBALTERN 
 
 the first night when I lay in the dugout it 
 seemed to never cease. Battery after bat- 
 tery rumbled on and only a few hundred 
 yards away one of the real big guns thun- 
 dered occasionally. All this noise punctuat- 
 ing, as it were, the tinny notes of a piano 
 grinding out a blare of ragtime from a 
 Y.M.C.A. hut, the while motor trucks tat- 
 tooed by on a road as it were beating time 
 for the piano. Incongruous, well I should 
 say so. It certainly, to one who hasn't seen 
 it, must seem inexplicable. And yet it 
 exists not only here as an isolated example 
 but all up and down the line. How truly 
 remarkable are modern conditions! 
 
 The hospital is run by a field ambulance 
 and is a large building of four stories with 
 a dozen smaller ones around it. Prior to 
 the war it was a convent and school and still 
 the patient nuns work here. Black robed 
 and smiling they go about their duties look- 
 ing after Belgian refugees, doing washing 
 for the soldiers and running a small hospice 
 where officers can get a meal. I haven't had 
 one, but the boys tell me they are great. 
 [86] 
 
A SUNNY SUBALTERN 
 
 Fried chicken, cauliflower and pie. Pie I 
 said. Imagine pie. To me that over- 
 shadows the fact that they serve with each 
 meal a pint of champagne. Yes, there cer- 
 tainly is a high light over the pie. I care 
 not what; custard, apple, lemon, raisin, 
 mince, blueberry or cocoanut, but I could 
 certainly cultivate a quarter section of pie 
 right now. "Much better this morning, 
 nurse!" The place has never been shelled 
 and in the officers' ward with me, now, is a 
 Colonel and a Major. The Colonel said he 
 asked one of the nuns how it came that they 
 had never been shelled. She pointed to the 
 crucifix (an inevitable symbol in every room 
 in every house that I've been in over here) 
 and said "We're kept by the Grace of God," 
 and I believe it. To think that for nineteen 
 months in this maelstrom of war from every 
 quarter, the buildings have never been hit 
 and these quiet nuns have gone about tend- 
 ing sick and wounded, daily holding their 
 matins and vespers, seems to me a modern 
 miracle, 
 
 [87] 
 
A SUNNY SUBALTERN 
 
 "O, woman! in our hours of ease, 
 Uncertain, coy, and hard to please, 
 When pain and anguish wring the brow 
 A ministering angel thou! — " 
 
 As I've lain here the force of those lines 
 comes home more and more. You know 
 I've always said a nurse had a halo around 
 her head, well, here there's nothing but 
 males, mere male orderlies, and oh, for the 
 touch of woman's hand. I know that if 
 there was a woman, were she princess or 
 charwoman, that your beef tea would at 
 least be warm and have salt in it, and there 
 would be no sticky sediment in the bottom 
 of the cup. That, and a hundred other 
 things I could recount, betoken the lack of 
 the touch feminine. However, I've no de- 
 sire to disparage the work of the dirty, 
 clumsy hands which ministered unto me, 
 for they are the boys who in their turn go up 
 into the line and carry back the wounded. 
 All honour to them! But that is just an 
 insistent little fact that presses home quite 
 poignantly. 
 
 After one has been a gay and festive sub- 
 [88] 
 
A SUNNY SUBALTERN 
 
 altern in the C. E. F. for ten months one 
 learns to do a weird yet fascinating occupa- 
 tion known as Map Reading. It consists 
 of being able to trace one's way on an ord- 
 nance map by means of hieroglyphical 
 marks and to know by the manner in which 
 a road is shown whether it is a first class, 
 or a second class, or a third class, or a fourth 
 class road. Now, a first class road is sup- 
 posed to be one, but I think that the first 
 class roads here are the ones mentioned in 
 the epigram or proverb, "The Road to hell, 
 etc. ;" at least they are hellish roads. They 
 are all pave roads and consist, first, of a line 
 of Flemish poplars on each side. Tall and 
 stately trees they are and from afar betoken 
 a quiet shady highway, a dolce far niente 
 effect, but, ye gods, what awful purgatory 
 to walk between those lovely trees! These 
 pave roads consist of small blocks (cobble 
 stones), and I have it for a fact from a re- 
 spectable source that there was a clause in 
 the contract which called that no two blocks 
 be laid at the same height or angle in any 
 space not exceeding ten metres in width by 
 
 [89] 
 
A SUNNY SUBALTERN 
 
 thirty metres in depth. So you can readily 
 imagine that walking is anything but a 
 pleasure. In fact, if I were a parish priest 
 and my worthy confessees had hoofs like 
 mine, I could think up no greater penance 
 than to have them do five miles twice a day 
 over these roads. Peas in your shoes and 
 pave roads rank side by side. In any event 
 thirteen miles of them was too much for 
 "me noble hoofs," which at present are 
 blistered and sore. In fact any time after 
 the first five miles I would willingly have 
 walked on anything soft, Hampshire mud, 
 a custard pie, six inches of snow or an eider- 
 down quilt. I certainly can never recom- 
 mend a walking tour in France. 
 
 Well, dear, I can't tell you much about 
 the trenches for I haven't been there but 
 will doubtless have a few remarks about 
 them next time. 
 
 Received the joint agreement and will 
 forward it. You can tear up the one I sent 
 you. 
 
 Love to all. 
 
 Billy. 
 [90] 
 
A SUNNY SUBALTERN 
 
 Somewhere in France, 
 
 March 17, 1 9 16. 
 Dear Mother, — 
 
 Here I am again in hospital. It seems 
 as tho' I never get out of the bally spot. 
 Nothing serious, you know, just crocked up 
 with a deuce of a cold and a very sore heel. 
 The heel comes from endeavouring to break 
 in a new pair of shoes and started with a 
 blister which, like Finney's Turnip, grew 
 until the length, breadth and depth thereof 
 was something to marvel at, and the pain in 
 keeping with the dimensions. Talk about 
 exquisite torture, but I sure feel that the 
 methods of the Inquisition have nothing on 
 this. However, she is fast healing up and 
 we will go back to finish the breaking in 
 of the new shoes. This breaking in stuff is 
 no joke and I have not yet discovered 
 whether it consists in moulding the boot to 
 the shape of your foot or vice versa, but I 
 think it is vice versa. 
 
 Well, my dear, IVe already done a tour 
 or two in the trenches and can assure you 
 that they are the only experiences IVe had 
 
 [91] 
 
A SUNNY SUBALTERN 
 
 that fail to live up to their reputation. 
 Frankly, they were a keen disappointment 
 to me in every respect, altho' I, perhaps, 
 have not had sufficient time to properly 
 sample them. There was mud and water 
 to the prescribed quantities all right, but 
 things are not so beastly uncomfortable and 
 for forty-eight hours I never lay down or 
 was even in a dugout owing to the crowded 
 condition of the line. Of course one was 
 wet and cold, but that's what weVe been 
 expecting, and the hardships are not, so far, 
 nearly as great as I anticipated. Of course 
 there was the danger of getting bumped off 
 any time but altho' I'm sure at least two 
 million shells and bullets sang, shrieked, 
 roared, rattled, whistled (add here any ad- 
 jective used by war correspondents, they all 
 fit) hurtled by and around, none hit me. It 
 was rather terrifying I'll admit, but some- 
 how or other there was a distinct fascina- 
 tion about it. One's nerves certainly require 
 to be constructed on the gyroscopic princi- 
 ple, however, to stand the strain. But the 
 surprising thing was that despite all in- 
 tfe] 
 
A SUNNY SUBALTERN 
 
 formation re accuracy hardly one shell in 
 ten does any damage. At least that was the 
 impression I got, for none of my men were 
 hit and the battalion up to the time I was 
 brought here had no casualties after ten 
 days in the front line. Of course I realised 
 that perhaps the weather conditions were 
 not as inclement as early in the winter, but 
 still I really can see no such awful condi- 
 tions as one pictured in their mind's eye. 
 I talked in England to hundreds of men 
 returned from the front, and by piecing to- 
 gether their garbled accounts, had a sort of 
 patchwork quilt composition which I chose 
 to call my conception of the trenches, a sort 
 of pre-impression, but I guess either I was 
 a bad artist or else the men I talked to were 
 bad raconteurs, for I surely saw nothing 
 like my conception when we finally reached 
 the goal. While nothing is so bad that 
 it might not be worse, and the same I 
 suppose applies to things, good conditions 
 in the firing line are neither so good they 
 couldn't be better, nor yet so bad they 
 couldn't be worse. Everything humanly 
 
 [93] 
 
A SUNNY SUBALTERN 
 
 possible is done for the comfort of the men, 
 and every dugout has a brazier with char- 
 coal and coke burning to get warm by, and 
 there is food to spare. The meals are not 
 of course served table d'hote, and finger 
 bowls, I believe, even in the best battalions, 
 have been reserved for future use; but eat 
 you can, and a little management combined 
 with the aid of a company cook, does won- 
 ders at getting a hot meal. Always granted 
 that it is discouraging in extremis, also 
 provocative of much blasphemy when 
 George the cook is suddenly compelled to 
 duck and use as a shield the dixie or pan on 
 which rested your dinner. Because, despite 
 all efforts of the A. S. C. and your own 
 quartermaster sergeant, there is only so 
 much for every one, and when yours has co- 
 mingled with the soup lying underfoot it 
 neither adds zest to your appetite nor yet 
 improves the flavour of "Mulligan." Al- 
 beit this does not occur thrice a day and we 
 usually are able to say inwardly, if not 
 aloud, "For what we are about to receive." 
 Of course sleep is rather a minus quan- 
 [94] 
 
A SUNNY SUBALTERN 
 
 tity, particularly for officers, and it was 
 doubly so with us, for I know I felt at times 
 rather timid about the small sector of trench 
 I was responsible for and wanted to be sure 
 that nothing occurred. In any event we 
 have not yet acquired the blase air or non- 
 chalant bearing that veterans of six months 
 carry, so I say sleep was lacking in large 
 chunks. I am now recharging the cells 
 here, having lain dormant for two days, in 
 fact hibernated, so to speak, despite the fact 
 that out of doors it is beautiful weather. 
 
 Yes, I think that the "winter of our dis- 
 content" is gone for that laggard lover, Old 
 Sol, has for two days wooed Mother Earth. 
 And what an ardent affair! None of your 
 brotherly pecks as kisses, but long warm 
 Elinor Glynny ones, so that she is all dolled 
 up in her spring sartorial effect. Violets, 
 snowdrops and crocuses underfoot, bursting 
 buds and the songs of mating birds over 
 head, a blue filmy haze rising from the 
 ground and every now and then a sleek grey 
 Belgian hare scampering through the mid- 
 dle distance. That's the picture that limns 
 
 [951 
 
A SUNNY SUBALTERN 
 
 itself on your brain as you walk along the 
 road. Beauty, beauty everywhere, till one 
 wishes one had the gift of a Turner to put 
 on canvas the glories of this French land. 
 IVe just gloried in the view from my win- 
 dow here, trying to forget that the whole 
 land is given over to war and that one or 
 two high explosives could dint the land- 
 scape so badly as to mar it for sight-seeing 
 purposes. It seems indeed a shame that so 
 beautiful a part of the world should be 
 warped out of all recognition. This hos- 
 pital or rest station for officers is in a beau- 
 tiful old Chateau placed on a small hill in 
 a circular basin. Around the valley, as it 
 were, runs a long arc of hills shutting off 
 the view after five or six miles, but in be- 
 tween is really beyond my poor pen to de- 
 scribe. Wonderfully treed are the imme- 
 diate grounds of the Chateau; Oak, Flem- 
 ish poplar and several trees of unknown 
 (at least to me) species, their tops gradually 
 blending into one another till the bottom 
 of the hill is reached, a sort of terraced 
 lawn. Then the plain small farms with 
 [96] 
 
A SUNNY SUBALTERN 
 
 their cluster of buildings around them, tiny 
 quadrangles and triangles hedged off with 
 mounds of earth and sparse hedgerows 
 where they grow their crops. Here and 
 there a haystack or a terra cotta roof shows 
 up, while the smoke from a village some 
 three miles away, veers upward just as 
 lazily as our smoke at home does on a lack- 
 adaisical day in spring. Everything over 
 here, dear, seems to move so much slower 
 than at home. For instance, every village 
 has its church and spire, and every spire its 
 chimes ; and in place of clanging out with 
 strident notes its quarters, half and hour, 
 languorously the sounds float over in deep 
 resonant waves. Long, long seconds seem 
 to elapse between notes, in fact you count, 
 say ten, and, knowing it's eleven, you figure 
 you've missed one at the first, when "blong!" 
 over comes the final sound. So also the 
 windmills. I've read innumerable stories 
 about the lazy Dutch mills, and here they 
 are. Square, grey buildings with the regu- 
 lation four arms that turn slowly and rather 
 jerkily. They always seem to me as if a 
 
 [97] 
 
A SUNNY SUBALTERN 
 
 tired man were turning them at a windlass 
 inside, and when the handle reached the 
 top, he got a little more pressure on the 
 downward stroke. I may have failed to 
 give you the right idea, but it's here in my 
 own brain. Well, I could go on telling you 
 about this picturesque spot and describing 
 the beauties of the surrounding country in- 
 definitely, but better stop here. 
 
 As I tell you, we are quartered in this old 
 Chateau — truly an old world place if one 
 ever existed. Set upon this hill with mag- 
 nificent grounds around, flower beds, rhodo- 
 dendron bushes, stately oaks, tall slim pop- 
 lars, deciduous trees of every kind arching 
 over long shaded walks which wind round 
 and round, always coming back to the 
 Chateau. These walks, lined with secluded 
 spots and arbours, where perchance lurks an 
 inviting rustic bench or maybe a stone or 
 marble statue in a variety of subjects from 
 Circe to Diana and Mercury to Cupid. 
 Then snuggling in the side of the hill is a 
 disused conservatory with hundreds of 
 broken panes and a seemingly impossible 
 [98] 
 
A SUNNY SUBALTERN 
 
 number of flower pots whole or otherwise; 
 and I could not help thinking of you and 
 your watering can and a certain third story 
 garden I know of. Anyway there are pots 
 enough here that if filled would keep you 
 watering from dawn to dark. Adjoining 
 this is a very pretentious pheasant house all 
 wired off in pens and walks and constructed 
 of mortar, stone and wood like a Swiss 
 Chalet, while stables and a .most modern 
 garage are further on. As for the house 
 itself, a quaint old spot with high corniced 
 ceilings and walls covered with tapestry. 
 A large hall, dining room, lounge, salon 
 and writing room elaborately decorated, 
 and all connected by wide, high glass doors. 
 Beautiful parquet floors of Spanish oak. 
 The furniture is all old, very old, some of 
 it Louis XIV. Old candelabra, antique 
 brassware, etc., fill every corner, while 
 paintings, whose value I know not, adorn 
 the walls. And to offset this mediaeval old 
 spot, it is lighted with both gas and elec- 
 tricity and has lightning rods and steam 
 heat. 
 
 199] 
 
A SUNNY SUBALTERN 
 
 Will write again next week. Love to all 
 with heaps for you. 
 
 Billy. 
 
 Somewhere, 
 
 March 24, IQl6. 
 Dear Mother- 
 As you will see by the heading I'm at 
 Somewhere. I believe you may have heard 
 of this place, but I know that its importance 
 is not known to you. Ask any school boy 
 the principal city of France and he'll say 
 Paris, but "Somewhere" has recently so in- 
 creased in population that I believe it super- 
 sedes gay Paree in importance to-day. Of 
 course it is young; less than two years ago 
 it was all peaceful farming land but to-day 
 it is a vast seething mass of humanity, its 
 thoroughfares teem with motors, while o'er 
 head fast flitting aeroplanes act as messen- 
 gers. It is, indeed, the most prominent spot 
 in the world to-day and gives promise. 
 Desist, I prithee. It almost seems like the 
 good old pre-war days when one sold or 
 [100] 
 
A SUNNY SUBALTERN 
 
 bought lots. However, dear, I to-day re- 
 ceived your letters dated March 6 and 16th 
 and was very glad to hear from you as 
 usual. Mail day means a lot over here, you 
 know. I also received another letter earlier 
 in the week, the date of which I've forgot- 
 ten, and I think a parcel you sent and some 
 letters have gone astray. But they'll turn 
 up; they always do. We've moved twice 
 since they came, and I believe they were 
 sent to hospital when I was there, but just 
 as surely as fate they'll follow on for the 
 Army P.O. is a wonderful institution and 
 no matter where or when you move, within 
 a few hours along comes your mail. For 
 instance, yesterday we moved some miles 
 and Canadian mail is due to-day. No mat- 
 ter where you are, along she comes. 
 
 Well, dear, as I say, a letter is always 
 most welcome, for it's the only link that 
 forges the ends of "home" and "here" to- 
 gether. It's welcome whether it contains a 
 lot of news or just a little, because really the 
 alchemy of a dear one's handwriting causes 
 all the dross of this war to sink, the golden 
 
 [ioi] 
 
A :SUNJNY SUBALTERN 
 
 memories of home, happier times, friends, 
 and, best of all, love, to rise up ; and then 
 your letter was so newsy, dear, and what a 
 coincidence, the dream I mean. By com- 
 paring dates I think you'll find I was lying 
 in hospital when you dreamed and every 
 few minutes over and around flew aero- 
 planes. So perchance there is something in 
 telepathy even more than just a web o' 
 dreams. 
 
 Well, dear one, I really don't know much 
 to tell you, for actually news is mighty 
 scarce. You see officers censor their own 
 letters. That is, we seal them up and they 
 are not liable to be censored at the base. 
 We are put on our honour not to mention 
 anything of importance, and it is left to our 
 judgment what to tell; so really honour is 
 a stricter censor than the much hated one at 
 the base. However, we moved from billets 
 up nearer the firing line and are four miles 
 from the front line trenches, in huts which 
 are more or less shelter-affairs. If one 
 spoke about a shelter in Canada, I always 
 associated with it at once the Salvation 
 [102] 
 
A SUNNY SUBALTERN 
 
 Army, or the Children's Aid Society, or a 
 nearby doorway in a rainstorm. Here a 
 shelter consists of some pieces of two and 
 six surrounded by sacking, with perhaps a 
 door. Of course it is very healthy in dry 
 weather for all the air you get is filtered 
 through the sacking. However, I told you 
 that Old Sol was wooing Mother Earth. 
 Well, publish it not in Gath, but they had 
 a tiff last night and that hoary old beast 
 Winter called in his (Sol's) absence. The 
 ground was about an inch deep in snow this 
 morning and the atmosphere accordingly, 
 and now there is once more six inches of 
 mud on the roads; result being that she 
 was "some chillsome" at six a.m. when you 
 arose and tremblingly tucked your goose- 
 fleshy legs into breeches and socks "dewy 
 like the rose." C'est la vie. 
 
 I am sending you a photo of the little 
 girlie, one of four she sent me. I don't 
 mind telling you it is the worst of the bunch 
 and really isn't much like her, but she is a 
 dear thing, and I'm really not horribly 
 sentimental. As for your being an in-law, 
 
 [103] 
 
A SUNNY SUBALTERN 
 
 I know you'll make just as good a one as 
 you do a Maw. Anyway we'll try you out 
 when I get back. 
 
 As for that code, my dear, if I'm taken 
 prisoner there's not much you could do. 
 I'm afraid Wilhelm wouldn't or couldn't 
 do anything, and I presume I would be 
 given the same treatment as the rest. Of 
 course food is a necessity, I'm told, and 
 Aunt Elizabeth could send bread and stuff 
 over. However, if I am taken, which isn't 
 
 likely, I'll misspell thus , if I 
 
 think anything you could do through 
 Cousin Jane would be any use, and if I do 
 not receive the parcels sent, which by the 
 way are a necessity, I'll misspell recieve or 
 recieved by transposing ei to ie; both these 
 will get by as natural, I should say, but 
 there is a very strict censorship in regard to 
 letters and they'll only let you write two a 
 month, I am told. 
 
 We are in a part of the line now which 
 is a trifle more lively than any we've been in 
 before. You see over here the aspect of the 
 war narrows down considerably. You are 
 
 [!°4] 
 
A SUNNY SUBALTERN 
 
 really only interested in your actual front, 
 as it were, and usually have enough to do 
 to look after that. What the Grand Duke 
 Nicholas is doing, or whether Turkey has 
 been carved, or why Manitoba voted dry, 
 doesn't count. It's what is Fritz going to 
 do next in this few yards of trench I'm re- 
 sponsible for, or I wonder if we'll move in 
 or out to-morrow; and one has plenty to do 
 to see the men fed and quartered and inspect 
 their feet and rifles twice a day and see that 
 they have their proper amount of ammuni- 
 tion and an emergency ration uneaten. You 
 see an emergency ration consists of a pound 
 of hard tack or biscuits, a small tin of tea and 
 sugar and a tin of corn beef. Every man 
 must always keep that, for it is against regu- 
 lations to eat it except when in dire straits 
 and on the orders of a Company Com- 
 mander. But once in a while Tommy has 
 a gnawing in his eight-cylinder self-starting 
 1 916 model stomach. Then you see he has 
 to report that "I've lost my iron ration, Sir." 
 Of course you ask where, and he says that 
 some one stole it, or the rats ran away with 
 
 [105] 
 
A SUNNY SUBALTERN 
 
 the works, or it fell in a well, or a starving 
 aviator came down and stopped him, so out 
 of the goodness of his heart he gave him the 
 food. Almost any story made up on the in- 
 stant goes. You berate him for being care- 
 less, knowing meanwhile he ate it, then 
 proceed to apply through your Company 
 Commander to the Colonel, thence the 
 Quarter Master, who indents on the A. S. C. 
 for another. Hurrah for the life of a sol- 
 dier! 
 
 As I started to say, we narrow down our 
 view here and a perusal of Canadian papers 
 re the Canadian Corps can tell more every 
 day than we know. Anyway the general 
 opinion here seems to be that the war can't 
 last much longer than, say, next fall. The 
 Verdun affair means something and per- 
 haps a few last gasps like that will see the 
 tag end in sight. There is one thing I've 
 always intended to confide in you since we 
 arrived here, and that is I'm only another 
 Henry Ford. As a Peacemaker I'm a frost 
 pure and simple. I say this after unsuccess- 
 fully, for many nights in succession, en- 
 [106] 
 
A SUNNY SUBALTERN 
 
 deavouring to arrange for an eight hour 
 armistice between my left hip and a board 
 floor. I started out with the idea of a per- 
 manent peace ; gradually felt I'd be satisfied 
 with an amnesty; now an armistice is all I 
 crave. There is one consolation, I'll never 
 need a luxurious boudoir "Apres la guerre" 
 (you'll see my French is quite fluent, in 
 fact I speak it just like a — — Canadian). 
 Albeit a disused dog kennel, an abused 
 woodshed or even a dilapidated windmill 
 (Canadian type), is a perfectly elegant spot 
 in which to sleep. Ostermoors, homo- 
 quinge beds or eiderdowns can be classed 
 with Dodo or mastodons. Herewith a small 
 Encyclopaedia Soldierannica: — 
 
 Batman: a soldier paid by you to be ab- 
 sent when you want him. 
 
 Beer, Belgian: a liquid resembling beer 
 British or beer American; evidently a dis- 
 tant branch of the same family. 
 
 Billet: and place so designated by a bil- 
 leting officer. 
 
 Dugout: (a) men's, a patriotic dog ken- 
 
 [107J 
 
A SUNNY SUBALTERN 
 
 nel that enlisted, (b) officer's, a root cellar 
 that got into society. 
 
 Duty: anything, everything. 
 
 Heaven: (a) Leave, (b) Rum, (c) Heat. 
 
 Hell : working party. 
 
 Home: a poignant memory relegated to 
 the limbo of things unattainable. 
 
 Jam: a sticky substance invariably made 
 of plums, used to smear bread. 
 
 M.T. (Mechanical Transport) : a Jug- 
 gernautical affair demanding three-fourths 
 of the road and made to splash mud. 
 
 Projectile : see working party. 
 
 Rations: "Man wants but little here 
 below." 
 
 Rum: a warming elixir issued in tooth- 
 fuls by zealous officers. 
 
 Sausages: pork, a species of animal ex- 
 tinct. 
 
 Sock: an ever wet, sticky article, used as 
 a covering for foot, hand or rifle. 
 
 Working party: hell. 
 
 Whiskey: well, the Governor of North 
 Carolina said — 
 I108] 
 
A SUNNY SUBALTERN 
 
 I really don't think there is any more to 
 say this time. 
 
 Remember me to any one who would 
 
 care to remember me, with love to and 
 
 heaps for you. 
 
 Billy. 
 
 f April 5, iqi6. 
 Dear Mother, — 
 
 Just a few lines. IVe neglected you hor- 
 ribly this week, but work has pressed aw- 
 fully. Saturday last, the battalion moved 
 up into the trenches, and just before they 
 left I was detailed to act as Transport Offi- 
 cer. That is, nightly to take up the rations 
 to the men in addition to many other duties. 
 
 It is no sinecure, I can assure you, as it 
 means cold blooded riding on a horse at the 
 head of your transport column, seven lim- 
 bers, at a walk, along roads subjected to 
 high explosives, shrapnel and whizz bangs, 
 in addition to being potted at by snipers 
 when you get close to the trenches. 
 
 We go through one of the most famous 
 
 [109] 
 
A SUNNY SUBALTERN 
 
 ruined cities of Belgium each night, which 
 they shell continuously, and also all along 
 the way. We leave at dusk, go sixteen 
 miles there and back, returning between 
 twelve p.m. and two a.m., and I would like 
 you to know all about it, but cannot spare 
 time just now to write, but will to-morrow. 
 A message has just come to say that the 
 roads are being shelled more than ever to- 
 night and we must proceed with twenty 
 yards interval between limbers, that is to 
 minimise the danger of the whole transport 
 being blown up. 
 
 You see troops must be fed. No excuses 
 go if rations don't come. If one way fails 
 you must have another, and your brain amid 
 the rumble of wheels and the rattle and 
 shriek of shells, is always figuring a way 
 out if one limber gets blown up. Person- 
 ally I prefer the trenches. There, one has 
 a rifle at least and the excitement and lust 
 of retaliation helps. This business is de- 
 liberately slowly and precisely walking into 
 an inferno — one that puts Dante's in the 
 class of a skating rink. I had two horses 
 [no] 
 
A SUNNY SUBALTERN 
 
 injured last night and one man shot straight 
 through his cap. 
 
 Anyway, dear, you and I are queer, 
 psychically I mean. I've never had any 
 odd premonitions, but to-night I feel a sense 
 of foreboding, an impending danger, so 
 scribble these lines. 
 
 Of course you realise, dear, that one 
 schools oneself to dying if necessary. Not 
 that life isn't very sweet but, when one is 
 five seconds away from death for twenty- 
 four hours a day, one grows rather careless, 
 I suppose. However, dear, I feel that way 
 to-night as I know I'm riding into it, so in 
 case I get bumped off I wanted to write 
 you. 
 
 All my love and all my thoughts. 
 
 Billy. 
 
 I enclose a letter I've never finished I 
 want you to have. 
 
 Dear Mother, — 
 
 . Although it was only yesterday I wrote 
 you the mood is on me to-night and I want 
 
 [in] 
 
A SUNNY SUBALTERN 
 
 to have a paper talk with you. You see, 
 dear, there's something new come into my 
 life and I just don't know how to cope with 
 it. Although it's old, old, I guess it was 
 old when Nineveh and Tyre flourished; yet 
 right now in my own time, my own heart, 
 it is very real and so I want to tell you 
 about it. 
 
 You'll doubtless remember, dear, I spoke 
 often within the last two years or so of hav- 
 ing a home of my own. The ardent long- 
 ing that ever and anon pressed upon me for 
 something other than the vacuum of a room 
 when night came on. It was always night 
 when the desire came; night, when my 
 thoughts, relieved from the duties of the 
 day, spent their own time in rambling day 
 dreams. Always with night-time came, I 
 say, that insistent little wish for something 
 beside a bar room, a club, a theatre, a gilded 
 restaurant, or the four walls of a bedroom. 
 Well, dear, I suppose that wish was the 
 forerunner of the new something that has 
 burst out into my days and nights. That 
 [112] 
 
A SUNNY SUBALTERN 
 
 something that I suppose must be called 
 Love. 
 
 In retrospect to-night, I can not recall 
 any event in my life of any importance that 
 you didn't know about first. With the ex- 
 ception of a few boyish secrets that really 
 cannot be considered, I fail to rake from 
 memory's heap, one joy or sorrow that your 
 mother's intuition didn't learn of or that I 
 didn't tell you, and so, dear, I want to go 
 to you to-night, my Mother Confessor. 
 
 Since I've really grown up and known 
 my mind I don't think I've ever been what 
 is popularly known as a ladies' man. I 
 never had my nails manicured but once, and 
 as a juggler of macaroons at afternoon teas 
 I'm a decided frost. In fact, reduced 
 down, I guess I failed to qualify in the opin- 
 ion of the ladies. I am no Apollo, and as 
 a matter of fact was too fond of my Oster- 
 moor to arise early enough to titivate my- 
 self. Perhaps, largely because I had no in- 
 centive other than a desire to be only neatly 
 dressed, I aroused in no woman more than 
 a passing interest. I was always content to 
 
 [113J 
 
A SUNNY SUBALTERN 
 
 dance with them, take them to a theatre and 
 home, with an occasional kiss surrepti- 
 tiously stolen (I've flattered myself). Self- 
 ish perhaps, I made myself pleasant, or 
 tried to, because it gave me pleasure to trot 
 out a well dressed, good looking damsel. 
 But when I left her, that ended it. 
 
 But now, away over here in war ridden 
 Belgium, comes the grand desire for just 
 one woman. It's a queer psychological 
 fact, that every man in khaki wants a wife ; 
 witness the war weddings. I presume it's 
 the old primordial instinct come out. He 
 seems to want some one to leave behind; 
 some one to fight for. He seems to want 
 the sensation of the cave man, that of bat- 
 tling for one being, his woman. So, the nat- 
 ural supposition comes that it's one woman, 
 my woman. At any rate constantly there is, 
 before me, the vision of the face of the "Girl 
 I left behind me." Queer little memories 
 that come intruding into my mind, which 
 should perhaps be employed in the weight- 
 ier problem of figuring out how many tins 
 of the inevitable plum jam my platoon 
 I114] 
 
A SUNNY SUBALTERN 
 
 should draw in to-night's rations, or some 
 similar worry. But as I say, the memory 
 of her intrudes in so many ways. Some- 
 times on a route march, as I swing along in 
 the self-same monotonous step — for one gets 
 to be an automaton at marching — the pic- 
 tures of her come back. A picture of how 
 she looked the first night I met her, of the 
 profile of her, marked in memory's book at 
 a movie, of sitting in the gleam of a grate 
 fire, of the last weepy moments before the 
 train left. All these and many more recur 
 with insistent demand for my attention at 
 queer times, and in queer places. I think 
 that every night in that magic space of min- 
 utes that are one's very own, the fleeting sec- 
 onds between the time I slide shiveringly 
 into a blanket and the drowsy instant I fall 
 asleep, comes the mental picture of her. 
 And because that has always been a sort of 
 sacred minute of mine own, a moment for 
 my deepest thought, my sincerest resolu- 
 tions, I feel sure that Love has come to me. 
 As I said before, the sensation is new — 
 the longing for one person in all the world, 
 
 [iiSl 
 
A SUNNY SUBALTERN 
 
 so infinitely foreign heretofore — I can 
 scarcely dissect my feelings, can really not 
 comprehend it. Albeit, the desire for her 
 is there, the heart-hunger for the sight of 
 her, the wish to be beside her to-night, now, 
 and ever. Ever the plans for a future 
 home — that seems to be the goal of all the 
 thoughts, no matter where the train of 
 memory started, nor how tortuous the road; 
 always the end is in the home I'll come back 
 to, the home I've planned. 
 
 Billy. 
 
 Somewhere, 
 April 16, 1916. 
 Dear Mother,— 
 
 Your letters of March 20, 26, 29 all to 
 hand. I received a parcel from Eaton's. 
 Thanks very much. Also the parcels from 
 
 Auntie for which I am going to write. 
 
 Well, my dear, I sent you a scribbled lit- 
 tle note some days ago but you see every- 
 thing is all right. The prescience of the 
 future was a little strong that evening, I fear 
 [116] 
 
A SUNNY SUBALTERN 
 
 me, but I sure felt queer. As a matter of 
 fact nothing could have been more quiet 
 than that night. I guess I mustn't let my 
 vivid imagination run riot any more. The 
 nervous strain is absolutely too much, so 
 will not do it again. 
 
 Well, dear, I'm still on this transport job, 
 and I can assure you it will be somewhat of 
 a relief to get off. You see you sit on a 
 nervous horse and head a procession up to 
 the ration dump. It's too bally cold 
 blooded an affair for me. There one sits in 
 calm majesty, as it were, and from the time 
 you start out till you get within a few hun- 
 dred yards of the trenches, Fritz heaves 
 over H. E. shrapnel and whizz bangs — all 
 very real forms of frightfulness. Then as 
 one gets up to the line the road is peppered 
 by indirect machine gun fire, and still one 
 sits and takes it. You see there is no re- 
 taliation, — if one is on a front line trench, 
 well, you could work off your superfluous 
 hate by fifteen rounds rapid; or you know 
 that by a telephone you can have your sup- 
 porting battery heave a dozen or so upon 
 
 [117] 
 
A SUNNY SUBALTERN 
 
 the heads of the Huns, thereby proving to 
 him you're asleep; but this old transport 
 job is such a helpless, hopeless affair. It's 
 as much the moral effect as anything, for, 
 each time you start out, you know that 
 somewhere along the road you're going to 
 run into it and you bake that thought into 
 a russet brown as it heats in the oven of 
 your mind. You see Napoleon said an 
 army moved on its stomach, and while 
 movement these days is just a trifle differ- 
 ent from his time, Tommy to-day has to 
 have his beans, bully beef and jam, etc., 
 just the same. There is no such word as 
 can't in the bright lexicon of a subaltern, 
 and I am thinking it applies even more to 
 a transport officer, for no excuses are ac- 
 cepted if rations don't come. If you get a 
 bump there's a sergeant, if both get it, a 
 corporal, and finally a driver to every team, 
 who'll do his duty and get the stuff there. 
 
 However, it is a wonderful experience to 
 
 ride along a road that is being shelled. 
 
 Perchance in the glory of a sunset, or in 
 
 the light of the old moon, or yet again on a 
 
 [n8] 
 
A SUNNY SUBALTERN 
 
 coal black night with rain making the roads 
 like a banana peel on a granolithic sidewalk, 
 and you as miserable as a human being can 
 feel. It's wonderful, I say, to look into 
 the hell of a big shell that bursts fifty feet 
 away and of which you can feel the concus- 
 sion. In fact, the longer I'm here the more 
 wonderful this war seems. The psychology 
 of the human element is most amazing. 
 The other night as I rode up a road, above 
 my head was the whish-whish-whish, ad in- 
 finitum, of machine gun fire, while on the 
 ground the put-put-put of the same, or 
 rather other guns ; and, will you believe me, 
 I found myself humming "Little Grey 
 Home of the West." That sounds incredi- 
 ble but nevertheless is absolutely a fact. 
 
 Well, Old Mumsie, I'd like to recount 
 for you some of my impressions. For in- 
 stance, can you imagine riding along a road- 
 way, with the moon beneath a cloud and, 
 from right to left, the light of thousands of 
 flares going up ; flares that make the white 
 lights at Toronto Exhibition Fireworks 
 seem, like a candle, as against a ioo watt 
 
 
A SUNNY SUBALTERN 
 
 Mazda. As I say, flares radiating a pale 
 white glow, guns booming, rifle fire crack- 
 ing, and suddenly, out from the clouds, 
 comes the moon, and there, beside the road, 
 glistening in the light of Luna, is one of 
 the small graveyards which punctuate the 
 land. Perhaps fifty men have been 
 "dumped" — that's the word — under those 
 mounds, with the scant short liturgy of the 
 service read over them; and you see the 
 gleaming white wooden crosses like so many 
 spectres standing out against the ground. 
 "God's Acre," if ever there was one, not 
 one acre, but thousands that forever and a 
 day will be a lasting tribute to the manhood 
 of the Empire. At one place along my 
 route there is a tiny roadside shrine. It 
 stands beside a road untouched, and senti- 
 nels the tiny white forest of crosses that 
 loom out of the night. 
 
 That's but one picture limned in bold 
 lines on my brain; there are dozens that I 
 can't write of. But one is a ride in moon- 
 light through a ruined city. Can you pic- 
 ture a city as large as, well, Brandon; a city 
 [120] 
 
A SUNNY SUBALTERN 
 
 noted for its wonderful Gothic architecture, 
 absolutely razed — not a whole building 
 left — here a wall, there a conglomeration of 
 debris; a city of homes and stores deserted, 
 save for a few soldiers who control traffic 
 through its streets and who live like rats in 
 a cellar? I know you couldn't picture it 
 any more than my poor pen can write of it, 
 but still I wonder if you can imagine the 
 impression etched on my mind as I rode 
 between those ruined walls while the moon- 
 light sifted between crags of bricks and 
 fantastic minarets of mortar. 
 
 I dismounted the other night and went 
 into the ruins of a seventeenth century 
 Cathedral, a glorious structure in its day, 
 a world renowned spot; and there in the 
 dusty debris of its chancel I stood and 
 thought. Gone was the spell of sanctity 
 that pervades one as he enters a consecrated 
 place, gone the inimitable gothic work of 
 its altar, gone the images of gold and 
 porcelain, the gold lace of the altar cloth. 
 Never again will the Nunc Dimittis be 
 
 [121] 
 
A SUNNY SUBALTERN 
 
 chanted, never the incense of swinging 
 brazier scent the air, and never again will 
 a black-robed priest from his latticed con- 
 fessional box listen to the story of human 
 frailties. It's hard to tell you, Mother o' 
 mine, just the thoughts that came and went, 
 hard to dissect the notes that sounded in my 
 heart; but one that was as a clarion was the 
 absence of a GOD. That may sound funny 
 or sacrilegious, but it was the uppermost 
 thought in my mind. Here a house of His 
 wrecked until only a wall of broken stone 
 and a statue of the Virgin stood to remem- 
 ber it by. Anyway, herewith a small piece 
 of handmade lace dug from out the debris 
 and presumably made by palefaced nuns 
 as part of the altar cloth. I'll try and get 
 some more for Auntie. Do not attempt to 
 wash it. I also have some stained glass 
 which I'll not be able to send yet. 
 
 Well, dear, it's bedtime, which is a mov- 
 able feast in this land, and one must grab 
 as much as you can when you can. 
 
 Love to all. 
 
 Billy. 
 
 [122]. 
 
A SUNNY SUBALTERN 
 
 Flanders, 
 
 April 27, IQl6. 
 My Dear Mother, — 
 
 I've been waiting every day for a letter 
 from you, but so far it seems that there isn't 
 one. It's over two weeks since one came, 
 and every day I've put off writing, patiently 
 waiting so that I could answer it. 
 
 There really isn't very much news to 
 write you this time. The transport officer 
 came back, so I return to my company to- 
 night. The transport job was all right but 
 I'd just as soon go back to my platoon. 
 However, the C. O. in turning over to the 
 T. O. said I had done good work and he 
 would remember it; also, he wouldn't re- 
 move me were it not for the fact that I was 
 a senior sub. in the regiment. So to-mor- 
 row night up we go into the trenches, into 
 a real delightful spot; at least delightful in 
 the fact that Fritz makes it very warm there. 
 Casualties have been quite heavy there 
 lately. From the distance come the sounds 
 of a band playing "Marching Through 
 Georgia," and you know I've a sneaking 
 
A SUNNY SUBALTERN 
 
 wish I were. The bands out here are surely 
 a great delight for, on an afternoon, from 
 the four quarters come marches, waltzes, 
 or overtures, punctuated by an occasional 
 artillery prelude, and none too pleasantly 
 obliterated by the strident skirl of the pi- 
 broch. Nevertheless the old adage that 
 "Music hath charms" holds good out here 
 and our savage breasts are soothed and our 
 minds refreshed by the airs, be they mar- 
 tial or motherly, that every band sends out, 
 from the famous Coldstreams, down to a 
 cheeping fife and drum. 
 
 Humour out here is a saving grace and I 
 can assure you there are lots of chances to 
 acquire the grace. For instance, while 
 passing through a certain town which has 
 been, and is, continually shelled, a soldier 
 on sentry duty in my hearing said "I was 
 sent back to do base duty. This is a 'ell of 
 a base." This caustic remark was made as 
 he stopped the transport to inform me the 
 road ahead was being shelled, and as we 
 stopped Fritz lobbed over a couple of shrap- 
 nel just ahead some twenty yards. Of 
 [124] 
 
A SUNNY SUBALTERN 
 
 course no one who hasn't been out here can 
 appreciate the story. You must know the 
 setting ere the crux penetrates, but I rode 
 along and laughed as much as if I were in 
 Shea's and Al Jolson was "on." 
 
 But what I started to say was that the 
 most humorous humors we have are the 
 home papers with their vivid descriptions, 
 etc., gleaned by men who never go nearer 
 to the front than where the rail head is, 
 also the letters from budding officers in 
 Canada. For instance, I read one the other 
 
 day where a subaltern in , who is in 
 
 charge of the recruiting of some battalion, 
 said he certainly didn't think that anything 
 could be so arduous. I'll bet if that guy 
 knew how many laughs he handed a lot of 
 us out here he'd feel qualified to start an 
 act in vaudeville. I'll also bet that if half 
 the gang in Canada who are breaking their 
 necks to get commissions, realised the re- 
 sponsibilities entailed by a Sam Brown belt 
 and two stars on their sleeves, they'd not be 
 so anxious. It's jake swanking around Can- 
 ada as a Major, but it's different over here. 
 
 [125] 
 
A SUNNY SUBALTERN 
 
 One's responsibilities seem enormous, and 
 really are, together with just the same dis- 
 comforts and hard work that any one on 
 the front line goes through. Your men, 
 while they are men and must not be treated 
 as children, depend absolutely on you for 
 their very being. You are a sort of last re- 
 sort for everything in their lives, from 
 clothes and food to seeing their effects go 
 to their people after they are gone to the 
 "Last Parade." You know, dear, I some- 
 times think it's pathetic the dependence of 
 these chaps on me, and one only really real- 
 ises what a King's Commission means when 
 you get out here. 
 
 I believe they've stopped publishing casu- 
 alties by battalions or are going to, so now 
 you'll never know whether we've been 
 bumped or not. 
 
 I've not found time to write to any one 
 but you, lately, so you'll have to convey my 
 love or regards, as the case may be, to every 
 one. 
 
 Heaps of love. 
 
 Billy. 
 [126] 
 
A SUNNY SUBALTERN 
 
 May 13, 1916. 
 Dear Mother, — 
 
 I have your letters of the 16th, 18th and 
 22nd of April, and altho' I've been out of 
 the trenches for five days I've not been able 
 to concentrate my thoughts on writing. 
 
 We spent eight days of veritable hell in 
 a rotten part of the line, in fact the worst 
 part I've ever been in. We occupied a se- 
 ries of holes, some connected and some iso- 
 lated, ranging in distance from thirty to 
 fifteen yards from Fritz's lines. They 
 were old German trenches taken some time 
 ago, and it is almost impossible to do any 
 great amount of work on them. 
 
 Well, as I say, we spent the time in them, 
 and I was heartily thankful to get out. I 
 went through my first heavy bombardment 
 at really close range. They dumped 
 "Crumps," Coal Boxes, Shrapnel and 
 Whizz-bangs to the number of about three 
 hundred all around us for two hours and 
 then attacked. Just as night overshadowed 
 daylight and objects began to grow indis- 
 tinct, one of my sentries reported a party out 
 
 [127] 
 
A SUNNY SUBALTERN 
 
 in the front. Suddenly from our right, 
 rapid fire and machine guns opened up, and 
 so I gave the order "fifteen rounds rapid." 
 Keyed up and ready were the boys, and we 
 gave them a few hundred capsules of steel. 
 Squeals, grunts, and moans, then the re- 
 verberating roar of machine guns, and rifle 
 fire ceased. So, our first real attack was re- 
 pulsed. Further on, our line suffered more 
 heavily but I guess we were fairly lucky. 
 All the night they kept at us with bombs, 
 rifle grenades and trench mortars to which 
 we replied in kind vigorously, but they 
 learned their lesson from that taut tense ten 
 minutes. No more attacks. 
 
 That is, I suppose, a pretty tame story of 
 a bombardment, an attack, its repulsion, but 
 words fail me. The confines of expression 
 are not competent to tell you much more. 
 I've refrained from writing, hoping that in 
 the interim some inspiration would come 
 that would adequately convey to you a pic- 
 ture. I tried to dissect my emotions so that 
 you might visualise, partially at least, what 
 
 [128] 
 
A SUNNY SUBALTERN 
 
 a day and a night — twenty-four hours in a 
 front line trench mean; but I have failed 
 dismally. 
 
 To begin with, the nervous strain is great, 
 and when one has his heart broken in addi- 
 tion, it's hard to limn for another, the lines 
 etched on your soul, the impressions reg- 
 istered in your memory. 
 
 My heart was broken, dear, because be- 
 fore this bombardment at all I lost eighteen 
 men of my own platoon; eighteen of the 
 best and truest fellows I've ever known; 
 saw five of them die — one in my arms — all 
 hit by these devils of Huns — hit by snipers 
 who use explosive bullets — a bullet that 
 tears a hole as large as a tomato can, and if 
 it strikes anything hard bursts into three 
 pieces, each the size of a quarter, that maims 
 and wounds — a bullet that if it hits the head 
 tears off the top. 
 
 God! I wonder if you could even im- 
 agine the primordial lust of battle that 
 courses through one's brain, the desire to 
 kill that permeates the muscle, the exhilara- 
 
 [129] 
 
A SUNNY SUBALTERN 
 
 tion that comes when you know you've actu- 
 ally hit one of your enemies. 
 
 I can candidly say there was no fear in 
 me. 
 
 For months, in fact long ere we left old 
 Canada, the fear I had that dominated my 
 waking moments was not will I be afraid, 
 but will I be able to control my fear. I was 
 always afraid I would be afraid. Well, 
 after the bombardment ceased I wasn't, and 
 even during that two hours of mental tor- 
 ture I wasn't afraid, just nervous. But 
 when I knew they were actually coming, ah! 
 what exhilaration, what primeval bloody 
 thoughts I had! A valiant desire came 
 amid the fight to do all the damage I could, 
 and I rushed from bay to bay of the sector 
 of trench I commanded, exhorting my men 
 to be steady and cursing them if they 
 weren't, here grabbing an extra rifle and 
 blazing its magazine full at the indistinct 
 forms, or there firing one shot from my re- 
 volver. No fear, no thought of self; just 
 the hope that we'd beat them off; just the 
 I130] 
 
A SUNNY SUBALTERN 
 
 thought constantly of what was best to do, 
 how best to preserve every life in my 
 charge — every life in my charge that was 
 preserving my life. So you see, analysed 
 and tested down, the ancient self-preserva- 
 tion rule holds good. 
 
 But the aftermath — the vacuum at the 
 stomach — the palpitating heart — the deep 
 breaths you needed, that, if you did not take, 
 it seemed as if you'd choke, the feeling you 
 must sit down — the desire for a drink — the 
 insatiable way in which you ate up cigarette 
 after cigarette in long deep inhales — the 
 hope they would not start bombarding 
 again — the cheery voice you forced as you 
 walked along a bath mat and jokingly 
 curbed your own desire to shout by praising 
 the men and belittling "the show;" all these 
 when your emotions that had bubbled to 
 the boiling point again simmered down. 
 That night as I walked along and did my 
 best to restore the steadiness of my men, 
 ever and anon came those immortal lines of 
 Kipling: 
 
 [131] 
 
A SUNNY SUBALTERN 
 
 "If you can force your heart and nerve and 
 
 sinew 
 To serve your turn, long after they are 
 
 gone 
 And so hold on, when there is nothing in 
 
 you 
 Except the Will, which says to them 'Hold 
 
 on/ " 
 
 recurred again and again, and I offered up 
 to the Almighty, He whose name a few 
 minutes before I had taken in vain, a fer- 
 vent, silent, little prayer, that I should be 
 given the strength of will and body to keep 
 it up. 
 
 Then the interminable night with every 
 nerve and muscle strained in a long "stand 
 to," with the added exertion of placing an 
 additional platoon that came up as rein- 
 forcements, and the cramped, numb feeling 
 as one sat in a narrow trench with the in- 
 termittent rattle of rifle fire, the insistent 
 tattoo of a machine gun, or the hazy smoke 
 of flares that ever and anon "swizzed" up 
 here and there, lighting in their ghastly 
 
A SUNNY SUBALTERN 
 
 magnesium the faces of the men who, 
 cramped and cold, waited for they knew 
 not what. All these factors, I say, broke 
 the nerve and strained the mentality. 
 
 And the wait for dawn. I sat and 
 watched the sky star-studded, if ever it was, 
 watched Ursus Major, Polaris, The Plei- 
 ades, Andromeda, a star I thought was 
 Saturn, and one I knew was Mars — Mars 
 the God we're propitiating over here. I 
 watched them and untold millions more 
 fade into the steel vault that, by the alchemy 
 of old Sol, melted into priscilla grey and 
 imperceptibly changed to whitey blue, 
 while rimming the East was the orange 
 band that I knew some six hours later would 
 herald the dawn of day to you in dear old 
 Homeland. Then the real diurnal "stand 
 to" as dawn comes up. Every man ready, 
 alert and anxious, until bright daylight dis- 
 pels all fears of an attack. 
 
 After that "stand down" and then Rum. 
 Ah, that Rum! If some of those carping 
 criers at home whose protests against Tom- 
 my getting his tot could sit with their feet 
 
 [133] 
 
A SUNNY SUBALTERN 
 
 numbed and chilled by eighteen inches of 
 stinking water, could sit or stand for 
 twenty-four hours a day in a cramped 
 crouch and feel, as I have felt, that a chance 
 to stretch their legs and arms would be a 
 luxury rivalling the dearest wish that here- 
 tofore you'd ever had; I say, if some of 
 those people at home could do these things, 
 oh how I'd love to take them for an eight 
 day tour, I feel sure they'd never open their 
 mouths again. That mouthful of rum, 
 about a half wine-glass, trickles down 
 warming and burning, meanwhile restoring 
 in a man whose nerves are like the lace on 
 a window blind, a little vigour, a further 
 lease on life, that in the grey dawn seems 
 cheap at best. If they want to do away 
 with their own drinks let them, but until 
 they've been through the acid test of ninety- 
 six hours without much rest, ninety-six 
 hours of mental strain and physical exer- 
 tion, mayhap ninety-six hours when every 
 stitch of clothing has been wet through, 
 please let them keep their hands off the 
 question out here. 
 Ii34] 
 
A SUNNY SUBALTERN 
 
 After that elixir, "Stand down!" when 
 only the various sentries are left on duty 
 all through the long day, but every man 
 cleans his rifle and equipments, and if any 
 water is available shaves, washes and tries 
 to scrape some of the mud from his clothes. 
 And then a breakfast You who at home 
 sit down to a half of a succulent grape-fruit 
 or a sliced orange, with porridge and cream 
 (I had almost forgotten that word), or a 
 browned and sizzling omelet with thin, 
 crisp toast and a cup of coffee, will never 
 know what it is to boil water over a candle 
 wrapped in sacking. The recipe for this is : 
 Fold a piece of sacking, preferably dry, if 
 available, around one and a half inches of 
 waxed candle, place these ingredients wick- 
 end up in an empty jam tin, which has been 
 perforated with a knife ; on this one places 
 his mess tin full of water and lights the 
 candle. Then comes in President Wilson s 
 idea, "A watchful, waiting policy." Mean- 
 while, Fritz is sending notes in the form of 
 shrapnel, which, while conciliatory, are 
 nevertheless likely to cause a breach in your 
 
 [135] 
 
A SUNNY SUBALTERN 
 
 relations with the aforesaid can and candle, 
 or even in your anatomy, if you are in its 
 way. Well, after you've watched and 
 waited and heaped on more fuel, which is 
 obtained by cutting off the fat from your 
 meagre slice of bacon, the water bubbles 
 and actually boils. Then you add a hand- 
 ful of tea and sugar mixed by a thoughtful 
 Quartermaster-sergeant, and the ambrosia 
 is ready to serve. This with the unex- 
 pended- portion of your extra fuel men- 
 tioned above, which is crisped in the same 
 manner, forms your matutinal feast, at least, 
 with the addition of your half loaf of bread 
 which is held in your left hand, and eaten 
 as a school boy does an apple. 
 
 I fear that this epistle grows weary, so 
 will start with lots of little things. To 
 begin with, I received a parcel of socks, 
 candy, coffee and cream cheese from A. 
 S., for which I wrote a note, also sent a 
 
 souvenir. I am sending a parcel 
 
 which is for you, two nose caps off German 
 shells and a bullet which clipped a piece 
 [136] 
 
A SUNNY SUBALTERN 
 
 out of my sleeve, afterwards burying itself 
 in a good old sand bag. 
 
 Read the bottom of a Grape Nuts. Don't 
 waste postage on newspapers and don't send 
 anything except cakes, as we can buy here, 
 more cheaply than you, fruits, etc. Ca- 
 nadian cigarettes always acceptable, also 
 handerchiefs, cheapest obtainable, as we 
 lose vast quantities. 
 
 Socks are jake, for if we can't use them 
 ourselves we give them to the men. 
 
 Hope this bally "show" will be over in 
 a short time. Yours, 
 
 Billy. 
 
 P.S. — Later will send story of the poor 
 chap who died in my arms. 
 
 B. 
 
 See page 158. 
 
 London, 
 August 8, IQl6. 
 My Dear Mother, — 
 
 I am going to try to put on paper, my 
 dear, a few of the million pictures that are 
 
 1^7} 
 
A SUNNY SUBALTERN 
 
 etched in the gallery of my memory. The 
 picture I'm trying to pen for you is the 
 one which comes to me here in hospital as 
 I try to piece together the events leading 
 up to the time that I got mine. I realise 
 full well how difficult it is to describe "the 
 front" to any one who has never seen a 
 trench, and I know if I'm not explicit 
 sometimes you'll understand, I'm only do- 
 ing my best. I fear me it will be a poor 
 best at that, for so many, many times I've 
 said that only a Dante could describe and 
 Dore paint it. 
 
 To begin with, you must understand that 
 our brigade had been relieved at night after 
 eight days of very trying times in which the 
 Bosche put over about every kind of pro- 
 jectile he owns, from Minenwarfers or 
 heavy trench mortars, to his delectable 
 whizz bangs. He didn't fail even to pre- 
 sent us with some of his famous "Silent An- 
 nies," a large calibre shell which makes 
 practically no noise till it bursts. Well, as 
 I say, we were relieved and finally in the 
 grey "coolth" of dawn arrived in billets. 
 [138] 
 
A SUNNY SUBALTERN 
 
 After some breakfast, we proceeded to 
 go to bed, a most welcome thought. Off 
 came the sticky clothes that for sixteen 
 days — eight spent in reserve — had alter- 
 nately been wet through with sweat and 
 water, only to dry again; and after a few 
 preliminary scratchings of sides and backs 
 and shoulders, we dropped into the pro- 
 found sleep that only weary men know 
 about on that first morning in billets. 
 
 I don't suppose I'm any bigger coward 
 than the average man, but I always felt 
 fervently thankful after a tour in the line, 
 when we arrived in billets. There, while 
 not safe from long range guns, one could 
 at least, relax, throw off the harassing strain, 
 physical and mental, drop as like a cloak 
 the responsibility incurred while actually 
 on the firing line. So, I say, I, and I'm 
 sure every one else, was pleased with the 
 thought that for some time, except for work- 
 ing parties, we were free. A "Thank God 
 that's over!" feeling. 
 
 I was awakened by my man about ten 
 a.m. — so blessed shave and wash — some 
 
 [i39] 
 
A SUNNY SUBALTERN 
 
 more breakfast, and then we revelled in 
 the thought of a bath. We went from hut 
 to hut laughing and jesting, here compar- 
 ing notes, there condoling with some chap 
 who ordered us to "Get out, I didn't get in 
 til 7.30," happy and free, little realising 
 what was going on a scant eight miles away. 
 Always, always, there came the dull boom 
 of guns, perhaps more marked than usual, 
 but we jocularly said that the "morning 
 hate" was a little worse, rather pitying the 
 poor devils who were getting it. We 
 didn't know whether it was the Huns or 
 not, for our guns were speaking more than 
 ordinarily. As we heard ours, up went that 
 little wish one always had that those shells 
 wouldn't be "duds," and the hope they 
 would knock some of our dear enemy out. 
 So, as I tell you, we passed an hour, when 
 the word was brought to be ready to "move 
 in an hour." Every man must pack his kit 
 and not move from his own hut. Gone, of 
 course, was the bath. We rather regretted 
 that. We felt, I think, rather upset be- 
 cause we had looked forward to a rest, and 
 [140] 
 
A SUNNY SUBALTERN 
 
 I remember cursing the Bosche for start- 
 ing his dirty work so soon. 
 
 Gathered in anxious little groups we 
 awaited further word. After a couple of 
 hours, we heard some rumoured reports 
 that told only too well what we afterwards 
 learned. Well, we "stood to" till some- 
 time in the afternoon, I couldn't say just the 
 hour for one loses all sense of time; then 
 came the word to "move off." 
 
 Once more, with the slow step that is 
 used on the road to the front line, we started. 
 The first part of the journey was easy. Oc- 
 casionally a lone shrapnel would burst on 
 the road, but it was only when we got up 
 into the area where the "heavies" were that 
 we felt the force of the bombardment. 
 Steadily we marched in the bright after- 
 noon sun, here and there halting; at this 
 corner turning off the main road into a by- 
 way because the Germans were "searching" 
 the road, until just at twilight tide we ar- 
 rived, by devious by-paths, outside "Wip- 
 ers." 
 
 The order was passed "no lights, no 
 
 [141] 
 
A SUNNY SUBALTERN 
 
 smoking, no noise." The last injunction 
 was entirely superfluous, for between the 
 shriek and boom of our shells, also theirs, 
 coupled with the rumble of the artillery 
 limbers that galloped up with more "iron 
 rations," one could scarce be heard. Here 
 we sat or sprawled in the dewy grass await- 
 ing orders. Just as twilight faded into 
 night, amid the roar of an exceptional burst 
 of artillery, the sky lighted up by what 
 seemed millions of "flares." The whole 
 place was bathed in the ghastly magnesium 
 white they cast about, the scene here and 
 there being punctuated by a red or green 
 rocket. It was indeed, I can assure you, 
 one of the prettiest sights I've ever wit- 
 nessed. The average pyrotechnic display 
 pales considerably in comparison. This 
 arc of light was continuous for some few 
 minutes, mingled with the lurid yellow red 
 burst of shrapnel. The colour of shrap- 
 nel bursting at night is hard to liken ; it re- 
 sembles more than anything a deep tiger 
 lily which bloomed for an infinitesimal 
 space, then melted into black oblivion. 
 [142] 
 
A SUNNY SUBALTERN 
 
 So, as I say, we waited, as good soldiers 
 always do, for orders. There wasn't much 
 talking, in fact, I imagine that every one 
 was rather too busy with thoughts of Home. 
 Somehow in the veriest thick of things, 
 there's usually a thought of Home creeps 
 into your mind. However, here and there 
 a jest or a laugh came out. One man as I 
 passed said to his mate — "Write to her." 
 Some "her" who I suppose would have been 
 thrice as excited as he, had she known. Oc- 
 casionally, as a shell burst somewhere near, 
 the inevitable question, "Where did that one 
 go?" came out; but conversation was at a 
 premium. 
 
 Just at the night of night, an hour before 
 dawn, came the word to advance, and in ex- 
 tended order across shell-swept ground we 
 started over an area pitted and potted by 
 shells, with here a clump of scarred trees, 
 or there a few gaunt stones, the remnant of 
 a building. Everything is patterned in the 
 Army by the Guards. To do things as they 
 do is the aim of every one, and while I've 
 never seen them make an attack, I have 
 
 [143] 
 
A SUNNY SUBALTERN 
 
 walked along the same road under heavy 
 shelling. Therefore I admire them. Al- 
 beit, I question if ever the Guards went 
 forward more valiantly than did those civil- 
 ian soldiery of ours. The Guards' line may 
 perhaps have been straighter, but it could 
 waver no less. The psychology of a soldier 
 in the brief moments of an attack or coun- 
 ter-attack, is something beyond my ken. In 
 retrospect, I come on the thought I had as 
 I saw that line move forward: that line of 
 my men, the men whom I worked over dur- 
 ing months of training, the men, who with 
 me, had laughed and laboured, cried and 
 cursed for many moons, slowly advancing 
 to we knew not what. A picture of a green 
 sward in Canada months before came back, 
 and I recollected my exhortations on keep- 
 ing a line and steady pace. I conjured up 
 also the visions of thousands in training who 
 sweep over grassy slopes not cut by shell 
 fire or devastated by warfare. I only tell 
 you this to show the queer kinks in my 
 brain. 
 
 On we went in the grey of the early morn- 
 [i44l 
 
A SUNNY SUBALTERN 
 
 ing, past verdant stretches of fields, rank 
 with ungarnered crops, which were be- 
 sprinkled with scarlet poppies. We clam- 
 bered through hedge-rows of hawthorn in 
 bloom, the smell of which mingled with the 
 sweet sickly odour of "lachrymators" or 
 tear shells. We dodged shell holes or 
 climbed in and over the remains of trenches, 
 all the while drawing nearer, nearer the 
 ceaseless rattle of musketry, the rhythmic 
 rip of machine guns. 
 
 The order to fix bayonets passed along: 
 this done, the clicking of bolts, to ensure 
 that every magazine had its quota of car- 
 tridges, sounded. Over a little rise we 
 came: just ahead was a line of lurid light 
 and noise. Now, night was going and 
 against the sky we showed up quite plainly, 
 a long thin line of silhouettes, the lighter 
 fawn of the bombers' aprons, each pocket 
 bulging with its lemon-shaped grenade, dis- 
 tinctive from the others. So on toward the 
 line of lurid light and noise we walked. 
 They don't run nowadays ; gone is the glory 
 
 [145] 
 
A SUNNY SUBALTERN 
 
 of the charge with its huzzas and flashing 
 swords; it's slow and steady does it. 
 
 This doesn't take long to write but it was 
 composed of minutes, each age-long; and 
 looking at it now, I wonder how I, or any- 
 one, got so far amid the pandemonium of 
 bursting shells, siffling bullets and detonat- 
 ing bombs. 
 
 From somewhere, one of our officers 
 rushed up and ordered me to retire to a 
 certain spot about a half mile, as they, I 
 mean higher command, had decided to 
 postpone the counter-attack. Accordingly, 
 back we started. Daylight with its tur- 
 quoise sky had come and as we plodded 
 back the Germans saw the irregular line. 
 If before, we thought the bombardment 
 heavy, now it was tenfold, a tearing, roaring 
 inferno as the Hun "searched and brack- 
 eted" the entire area in which our lines 
 were. Shrapnel, whizz bangs, high explo- 
 sives, hurtled and burst in nerve-shattering 
 salvos. Every one was mixed up, some men 
 of another company with ours, also men 
 of another battalion. We walked steadily 
 [146] 
 
A SUNNY SUBALTERN 
 
 on, until, the barrage becoming too hot, the 
 order was given to take cover. Some few 
 of us managed to crouch behind a hedge- 
 row where, once a trench, was now a 
 shambles. Here for the first time the really 
 hell of the war came to me. That trench, 
 or what was left of it, was congested with 
 dead and dying. Men crawled along, over 
 dead bodies distorted beyond only the ken 
 of one who has been there. We lifted 
 wounded men a little to one side while from 
 each turn of the trench came the heart- 
 rending, throaty sob of dying. Ghastly! 
 well, I don't suppose there's a word been 
 coined in English to describe it. Mean- 
 while, shrapnel rained on its horrible 
 hail, high explosive lifted sandbag and bod- 
 ies househigh. Everywhere men lay half 
 buried, gasping. Some, reason fled, 
 climbed out only to be struck down a few 
 yards away. And all this, kept up for what 
 seemed aeons, but really was only about 
 three hours. One chap, since dead, said to 
 me, "I thought these devils were running 
 short of shells. Well, I'd like to let some 
 
 [147] 
 
A SUNNY SUBALTERN 
 
 of those people at home feel this." Feel is 
 the right word, for you "feel" a heavy bom- 
 bardment. I care not how brave a man is, 
 I say it reduces him to the consistency of a 
 jelly fish. For after all, life is sweet and 
 when one is a fraction of a second from the 
 grave, he starts to ponder. Howbeit, the 
 fire abated and we gathered together what 
 few men we could. What regiment mat- 
 tered not. Messengers were sent to report 
 to the Colonel as to our position. There 
 were just three officers left of the company, 
 so we held a council of war, and endeav- 
 oured to see to the wounded, sending out 
 those slightly hurt, then sat down to wait. 
 Oh! What waiting it was! Expectantly, 
 nervously, sitting while the time dragged 
 on. After an hour or two had elapsed, one 
 of the "runners" we had sent crawled back 
 to say that the Colonel had been killed, he 
 could find no other officers, and would we 
 get him a drink — all in a breath. He was 
 just a boy, eighteen I think, and the strain 
 was too much for him. He was completely 
 unstrung, for, after awhile, he laughed 
 [148] 
 
A SUNNY SUBALTERN 
 
 rather hysterically and babbled incoher- 
 ently. Suddenly he jumped up, climbed 
 into the open, his sole thought to get away; 
 but there, a scant hundred yards, we saw 
 him fall. He had found quiet and peace 
 all right. After a time one of the boys 
 crawled out to find him dead. 
 
 Gradually, as the morning wore on, 
 limping or crawling men came up to re- 
 port themselves. Men of other units, men 
 of our own, and one poor chap, quite in- 
 sane, who insisted that one of the officers 
 was his brother. Up above, aeroplanes 
 purred, as, glinting in the sunlight, they 
 kept off the enemy machines, whose object 
 would have been to discover the position 
 of ourselves and other reinforcements. I 
 sat and looked at a little triangular lake 
 shimmering in the distance, and longed for 
 some fish. I recollect resolving that when 
 I got leave, the first meal in England would 
 be fish. Looking back, I cannot remember 
 that I ever doubted I would get leave, the 
 idea never struck me that I might go on 
 
 [149] 
 
A SUNNY SUBALTERN 
 
 "The Long Leave." So is the human brain 
 constituted. 
 
 Regularly, at intervals all morning, the 
 area was shelled by the Germans. Start- 
 ing in one place they systematically blasted 
 almost every square yard of the ground, 
 and each time seemed to be worse than the 
 former ones; tho' God knows any one was 
 a cataclysm. 
 
 The day wore on. In mid-afternoon 
 
 came word to proceed to there to 
 
 counter-attack a certain part of the line. 
 We gathered together the men, some eighty 
 that were immediately at hand, and started 
 off. It was a trip practically in the open 
 as any trenches had been so battered as to 
 be useless. From every direction came long 
 files of men, all centralising along a given 
 line. I can't remember the exact time the 
 thing was planned for, but we started off. 
 Of course so did the artillery. Ours 
 opened up, and if we got unutterable hell 
 before so did the Germans now. However, 
 they still had some ammunition, and the 
 [ISO] 
 
A SUNNY SUBALTERN 
 
 shells burst there — and there — and there — 
 and then — 
 
 A drink of water; 
 
 A scarlet cross fronting a vision in blue 
 and white; 
 
 Cool deft hands; 
 
 White sheets; 
 
 The throb of a motor; 
 
 The swirl of water; 
 
 The tiny toot of an English engine ; 
 
 Another motor; 
 
 A bunch of roses mixed up with eye- 
 glasses and perfume; 
 
 A white handkerchief; 
 
 A few jolts; 
 
 Abed; 
 
 Familiar street noises with the dawning 
 realisation of a hospital in Blighty, dear 
 old London at last. 
 
 That's the best way I can tell you. I'm 
 enclosing a couple of pictures of the Red 
 House. Will write again this week. 
 Yours, 
 
 Billy. 
 
 1*5*1 
 
A SUNNY SUBALTERN 
 
 Moriturus Te Salutat 
 
 McCarthy was his name. On his attesta- 
 tion paper was the statement that he was a 
 chef, and in the C. E. F. he was usually to 
 be found in the cook house. The chef of 
 even a second-rate hotel would have blushed 
 had one linked his name with Mac's, for I 
 presume that he, McCarthy, in his entire 
 life had never handled "hors d'oeuvre 
 varies," or that "boeuf froid" suggested to 
 him anything but a joint of red and yellow 
 roasted yesterday. No, Mac knew nothing 
 of table d'hote meals or French pastry. 
 His cooking was of the kind known as Mul- 
 ligan, and a rattling good Mulligan he 
 made. I've stood and watched him many 
 a day last summer, as under the canvas cook 
 house of a camp in Canada, he diced onions 
 with a butcher knife, non-chalantly stirring 
 boiling rice with the same knife — a per- 
 functory wipe on an erstwhile white apron 
 
 [152] 
 
A SUNNY SUBALTERN 
 
 being as it were the "entr'acte." In fact, 
 Mac's culinary abilities had been fostered 
 in camps not military, but lumbering and 
 construction. His was an art that could set 
 a pot of beans to soak yesterday, and to- 
 night, for 200 men, turn out a dish of "pork 
 and" so tempting that I was often wont to 
 ask for a plate of them myself. He also 
 turned out porridge in such quantities as to 
 stagger one who had never watched a 
 hungry hundred, fresh from one hour's 
 physical line up for their morning feast. 
 What boots it if there were lumps or if per- 
 haps one got a small ladle full that could 
 have stood another quarter hour cooking; 
 it filled up that insatiable maw of a man in 
 training. 
 
 Such a cook was McCarthy, but he shone 
 in another sphere with even greater bril- 
 liance than that of the cook house. That 
 was as a comedian. 
 
 His assets were cooking and comedy, and 
 when Generals and things came round to 
 "suspect" our battalion, all ranks being on 
 parade, these attributes did not redound par- 
 
 [i53] 
 
A SUNNY SUBALTERN 
 
 ticularly to the glory of the pageant. For 
 McCarthy never learned to "present" a 
 Ross Mark III in three motions. Whether 
 he carried his comedy on into the parade 
 ground of Generals, or whether it was be- 
 cause his hands were more adept with a 
 chef's knife than a rifle, I'll not judge ; but 
 his "present," done in manner similar to the 
 way he stirred the rice, always spoiled the 
 effect, and I've often cursed him to myself 
 when hearing a movement behind me after 
 all was quiet, knew McCarthy to be still 
 "presenting arms." 
 
 However, forgotten were these little 
 faults when, just after reveille on orderly 
 dog duty, one walked into the kitchens and 
 McCarthy was the first to say — "Good 
 morning, Sir; it's a trifle cold this morning. 
 Will you have a cup of coffee?" I can't say 
 about the other chaps, but I always did, and 
 as one overlooked the kitchens, inquiring 
 from the Sergeant cook if things were un- 
 der way or the rations all right, McCarthy 
 usually produced a crisp, hot-buttered slice 
 1*543 
 
A SUNNY SUBALTERN 
 
 of brown toast. So, for these, we forgave 
 those. 
 
 But as I say, far above his cooking was 
 his comedy. A master in the art of re- 
 partee, of his kind, he never failed to have a 
 jest ready when the chance came ; or if the 
 Y. M. C. A. man got up a concert, Mc- 
 Carthy was sure to be there, either head- 
 lining or as an added attraction. His was 
 the comedy that on the fields of Flanders 
 "bucks up" a whole company, nay a bat- 
 talion, as some merry quip just made is 
 laughingly told from bay to bay, so that in 
 the midst of shelling a laugh infectious and 
 hearty rings as a tocsin. 
 
 I couldn't tell you all the merry words he 
 uttered — all the good-natured banter he 
 gave between the day he 'listed and the day 
 he died. And that reminds me, I must to 
 my muttons. 
 
 It was just at "stand down" one morning 
 last May — a beautiful morn it was I re- 
 member. The grass was green and the 
 shrapnel-scarred trees were trying to burst 
 out into a few sparse leaves. A hawthorn 
 
 [i55] 
 
A SUNNY SUBALTERN 
 
 bush or two just to the rear of the trench 
 was white with bloom, as Maeterlinck says 
 "Yielding up its soul in perfume" distinctly 
 noticeable even among the varied smells of 
 the trench. In the distance, over from the 
 Bosche trenches, one heard the plaintive 
 triple cry of a cuckoo, that hoohoo, hoohoo, 
 hoohooed every morning. Here and there 
 a swallow flitted and dove in the first smile 
 of old Sol rimming the tree tops to the east, 
 and all was still, as still as that first hour of 
 dawn on the Front can be, sometimes. 
 
 I remember it well and thought how 
 ominous it was, and as I walked with a 
 once full rum jar along bay and traverse, 
 I pondered upon the stillness. I came to 
 the bay where McCarthy was on duty. 
 Alone he stood, lazily cleaning his rifle, 
 meanwhile watching a mess tin of water 
 heating over a candle. He looked at the 
 rum jar and laughingly asked if he couldn't 
 have his ration, knowing full well that I 
 knew he'd had it; when with a dull boom 
 from the east came the herald announcing 
 the morning hate. I passed on, was in the 
 [156] 
 
A SUNNY SUBALTERN 
 
 traverse, when, hearing the sough of a shell, 
 I turned. There stood McCarthy, rifle in 
 hand, face turned to the azure above and in 
 his loudest tones, addressed the screaming 
 shell with "Good morning, Fritz." 
 
 I heard him say it as plainly, as at the 
 same instant I heard it burst almost directly 
 overhead. Its pall of black smoke hovered 
 there, while its rain of death descended with 
 the peculiar indescribable whine of shrap- 
 nel. It caromed off my tin hat, it smashed 
 the rum charge in my hand, it ripped sand 
 bag and tore corrugated iron, but, as they 
 say, "It didn't have my number on it." 
 One of the freaks of shell fire. It left me, 
 but took McCarthy. 
 
 I turned and saw him slowly sink clutch- 
 ing at his tunic. I sent an inquiring in- 
 dividual, whose head popped out of a dug- 
 out close by, for the stretcher-bearer, and 
 with a man who came moved McCarthy to 
 another bay. There he lay as I cut off his 
 tunic, his shirt, only to find his breast and 
 shoulders peppered as a colander. Just 
 over his heart was a huge ragged hole, from 
 
 [157] 
 
A SUNNY SUBALTERN 
 
 which the red arterial blood pulsed slowly 
 in great jets. He was gone — I knew that — 
 but I forced a quarter grain of morphia be- 
 tween the blood-flecked lips. 
 
 The stretcher-bearers came, but Mc- 
 Carthy needed no shell dressings, no iodine 
 capsule. The ashy grey of his face, the 
 wild stare of his eye, the convulsive clutch 
 of his hand betokened that the strange 
 metamorphosis known as Death was silently 
 creeping nigh. 
 
 I gave him a cup of water. As I low- 
 ered his head a wan smile lit his counte- 
 nance and he weakly said — "Do you remem- 
 ber, Sir, the night you said 'Gunga Din?' 
 Well, that's how the water tastes." And 
 then to some of the boys who had gathered, 
 he turned, "No more Mulligan, boys." 
 And with the same smile to me, "It's funny, 
 Sir, how I spoke to that shell. It ain't often 
 one calls their own number." 
 
 Which was how McCarthy, cook-come- 
 dian, in his own way, said 
 
 Moriturus Te Salutat 
 [158] 
 
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