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Title: In Flanders Fields and Other Poems
With an Essay in Character, by Sir Andrew Macphail
Author: John McCrae
Release Date: July 5, 2008 [EBook #353]
Last Updated: February 6, 2013
Language: English
Character set encoding: ASCII
*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK IN FLANDERS FIELDS AND OTHER POEMS ***
Produced by A. Light, L. Bowser, and David Widger
IN FLANDERS FIELDS
by John McCrae
[Canadian Poet, 1872-1918]
WITH AND ESSAY IN CHARACTER
by Sir Andrew Macphail
[This text is taken from the New York edition of 1919.]
John McCrae, physician, soldier, and poet, died in France a
Lieutenant-Colonel with the Canadian forces.
The poem which gives this collection of his lovely verse its name has
been extensively reprinted, and received with unusual enthusiasm.
The volume contains, as well, a striking essay in character by his
friend, Sir Andrew Macphail.
{Although the poem itself is included shortly, this next section is
included for completeness, and to show John McCrae's punctuation —
also to show that I'm not the only one who forgets lines. — A. L.}
IN FLANDERS FIELDS
In Flanders fields the poppies grow
Between the crosses, row on row
That mark our place: and in the sky
The larks still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.
We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved, and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders fields.
Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The Torch: be yours to hold it high!
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.
John McCrae
{From a} Facsimile of an autograph copy of the poem "In Flanders Fields"
This was probably written from memory as "grow" is used in place of "blow"
in the first line.
CONTENTS
Contents With Dates of Origin
In Flanders Fields
The Anxious Dead
The Warrior
Isandlwana
The Unconquered Dead
The Captain
The Song of the Derelict
Quebec
Then and Now
Unsolved
The Hope of My Heart
Penance
Slumber Songs
The Oldest Drama
Recompense
Mine Host
Equality
Anarchy
Disarmament
The Dead Master
The Harvest of the Sea
The Dying of Pere Pierre
Eventide
Upon
Watts' Picture "Sic Transit"
A Song
of Comfort
The Pilgrims
The Shadow of the Cross
The Night Cometh
In Due Season
JOHN MCCRAE
I. In Flanders Fields
II. With the Guns
Here ends the account of his part in this
memorable battle,
And here follow
some general observations upon the experience:
A few strokes will complete the picture:
And here is one last note to his mother:
At this time the Canadian division was moving
south to take its share in
This
phase of the war lasted two months precisely,
III. The Brand of War
IV. Going to the Wars
V. South Africa
The next entry is from South Africa:
The next letter is from the Lines of Communication:
Three weeks later he writes:
With Ian Hamilton's column near Balmoral.
At Lyndenburg:
VI. Children and Animals
VII. The Old Land and the New
VIII. The Civil Years
IX. Dead in His Prime
Contents
In Flanders Fields
1915
The Anxious Dead
1917
The Warrior
1907
Isandlwana
1910
The Unconquered Dead
1906
The Captain
1913
The Song of the Derelict
1898
Quebec
1908
Then and Now
1896
Unsolved
1895
The Hope of My Heart
1894
Penance
1896
Slumber Songs
1897
The Oldest Drama
1907
Recompense
1896
Mine Host
1897
Equality
1898
Anarchy
1897
Disarmament
1899
The Dead Master
1913
The Harvest of the Sea
1898
The Dying of Pere Pierre
1904
Eventide
1895
Upon Watts' Picture "Sic Transit"
1904
A Song of Comfort
1894
The Pilgrims
1905
The Shadow of the Cross
1894
The Night Cometh
1913
In Due Season
1897
John McCrae
An Essay in Character by Sir Andrew Macphail
In Flanders Fields
In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.
We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie,
In Flanders fields.
Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.
The Anxious Dead
O guns, fall silent till the dead men hear
Above their heads the legions pressing on:
(These fought their fight in time of bitter fear,
And died not knowing how the day had gone.)
O flashing muzzles, pause, and let them see
The coming dawn that streaks the sky afar;
Then let your mighty chorus witness be
To them, and Caesar, that we still make war.
Tell them, O guns, that we have heard their call,
That we have sworn, and will not turn aside,
That we will onward till we win or fall,
That we will keep the faith for which they died.
Bid them be patient, and some day, anon,
They shall feel earth enwrapt in silence deep;
Shall greet, in wonderment, the quiet dawn,
And in content may turn them to their sleep.
The Warrior
He wrought in poverty, the dull grey days,
But with the night his little lamp-lit room
Was bright with battle flame, or through a haze
Of smoke that stung his eyes he heard the boom
Of Bluecher's guns; he shared Almeida's scars,
And from the close-packed deck, about to die,
Looked up and saw the "Birkenhead"'s tall spars
Weave wavering lines across the Southern sky:
Or in the stifling 'tween decks, row on row,
At Aboukir, saw how the dead men lay;
Charged with the fiercest in Busaco's strife,
Brave dreams are his — the flick'ring lamp burns low —
Yet couraged for the battles of the day
He goes to stand full face to face with life.
Isandlwana
Scarlet coats, and crash o' the band,
The grey of a pauper's gown,
A soldier's grave in Zululand,
And a woman in Brecon Town.
My little lad for a soldier boy,
(Mothers o' Brecon Town!)
My eyes for tears and his for joy
When he went from Brecon Town,
His for the flags and the gallant sights
His for the medals and his for the fights,
And mine for the dreary, rainy nights
At home in Brecon Town.
They say he's laid beneath a tree,
(Come back to Brecon Town!)
Shouldn't I know? — I was there to see:
(It's far to Brecon Town!)
It's me that keeps it trim and drest
With a briar there and a rose by his breast —
The English flowers he likes the best
That I bring from Brecon Town.
And I sit beside him — him and me,
(We're back to Brecon Town.)
To talk of the things that used to be
(Grey ghosts of Brecon Town);
I know the look o' the land and sky,
And the bird that builds in the tree near by,
And times I hear the jackals cry,
And me in Brecon Town.
Golden grey on miles of sand
The dawn comes creeping down;
It's day in far off Zululand
And night in Brecon Town.
The Unconquered Dead
". . . defeated, with great loss."
Not we the conquered! Not to us the blame
Of them that flee, of them that basely yield;
Nor ours the shout of victory, the fame
Of them that vanquish in a stricken field.
That day of battle in the dusty heat
We lay and heard the bullets swish and sing
Like scythes amid the over-ripened wheat,
And we the harvest of their garnering.
Some yielded, No, not we! Not we, we swear
By these our wounds; this trench upon the hill
Where all the shell-strewn earth is seamed and bare,
Was ours to keep; and lo! we have it still.
We might have yielded, even we, but death
Came for our helper; like a sudden flood
The crashing darkness fell; our painful breath
We drew with gasps amid the choking blood.
The roar fell faint and farther off, and soon
Sank to a foolish humming in our ears,
Like crickets in the long, hot afternoon
Among the wheat fields of the olden years.
Before our eyes a boundless wall of red
Shot through by sudden streaks of jagged pain!
Then a slow-gathering darkness overhead
And rest came on us like a quiet rain.
Not we the conquered! Not to us the shame,
Who hold our earthen ramparts, nor shall cease
To hold them ever; victors we, who came
In that fierce moment to our honoured peace.
The Captain
1797
Here all the day she swings from tide to tide,
Here all night long she tugs a rusted chain,
A masterless hulk that was a ship of pride,
Yet unashamed: her memories remain.
It was Nelson in the 'Captain', Cape St. Vincent far alee,
With the 'Vanguard' leading s'uth'ard in the haze —
Little Jervis and the Spaniards and the fight that was to be,
Twenty-seven Spanish battleships, great bullies of the sea,
And the 'Captain' there to find her day of days.
Right into them the 'Vanguard' leads, but with a sudden tack
The Spaniards double swiftly on their trail;
Now Jervis overshoots his mark, like some too eager pack,
He will not overtake them, haste he e'er so greatly back,
But Nelson and the 'Captain' will not fail.
Like a tigress on her quarry leaps the 'Captain' from her place,
To lie across the fleeing squadron's way:
Heavy odds and heavy onslaught, gun to gun and face to face,
Win the ship a name of glory, win the men a death of grace,
For a little hold the Spanish fleet in play.
Ended now the "Captain"'s battle, stricken sore she falls aside
Holding still her foemen, beaten to the knee:
As the 'Vanguard' drifted past her, "Well done, 'Captain'," Jervis cried,
Rang the cheers of men that conquered, ran the blood of men that died,
And the ship had won her immortality.
Lo! here her progeny of steel and steam,
A funnelled monster at her mooring swings:
Still, in our hearts, we see her pennant stream,
And "Well done, 'Captain'," like a trumpet rings.
The Song of the Derelict
Ye have sung me your songs, ye have chanted your rimes
(I scorn your beguiling, O sea!)
Ye fondle me now, but to strike me betimes.
(A treacherous lover, the sea!)
Once I saw as I lay, half-awash in the night
A hull in the gloom — a quick hail — and a light
And I lurched o'er to leeward and saved her for spite
From the doom that ye meted to me.
I was sister to 'Terrible', seventy-four,
(Yo ho! for the swing of the sea!)
And ye sank her in fathoms a thousand or more
(Alas! for the might of the sea!)
Ye taunt me and sing me her fate for a sign!
What harm can ye wreak more on me or on mine?
Ho braggart! I care not for boasting of thine —
A fig for the wrath of the sea!
Some night to the lee of the land I shall steal,
(Heigh-ho to be home from the sea!)
No pilot but Death at the rudderless wheel,
(None knoweth the harbor as he!)
To lie where the slow tide creeps hither and fro
And the shifting sand laps me around, for I know
That my gallant old crew are in Port long ago —
For ever at peace with the sea!
Quebec
1608-1908
Of old, like Helen, guerdon of the strong —
Like Helen fair, like Helen light of word, —
"The spoils unto the conquerors belong.
Who winneth me must win me by the sword."
Grown old, like Helen, once the jealous prize
That strong men battled for in savage hate,
Can she look forth with unregretful eyes,
Where sleep Montcalm and Wolfe beside her gate?
Then and Now
Beneath her window in the fragrant night
I half forget how truant years have flown
Since I looked up to see her chamber-light,
Or catch, perchance, her slender shadow thrown
Upon the casement; but the nodding leaves
Sweep lazily across the unlit pane,
And to and fro beneath the shadowy eaves,
Like restless birds, the breath of coming rain
Creeps, lilac-laden, up the village street
When all is still, as if the very trees
Were listening for the coming of her feet
That come no more; yet, lest I weep, the breeze
Sings some forgotten song of those old years
Until my heart grows far too glad for tears.
Unsolved
Amid my books I lived the hurrying years,
Disdaining kinship with my fellow man;
Alike to me were human smiles and tears,
I cared not whither Earth's great life-stream ran,
Till as I knelt before my mouldered shrine,
God made me look into a woman's eyes;
And I, who thought all earthly wisdom mine,
Knew in a moment that the eternal skies
Were measured but in inches, to the quest
That lay before me in that mystic gaze.
"Surely I have been errant: it is best
That I should tread, with men their human ways."
God took the teacher, ere the task was learned,
And to my lonely books again I turned.
The Hope of My Heart
"Delicta juventutis et ignorantius ejus,
quoesumus ne memineris, Domine."
I left, to earth, a little maiden fair,
With locks of gold, and eyes that shamed the light;
I prayed that God might have her in His care
And sight.
Earth's love was false; her voice, a siren's song;
(Sweet mother-earth was but a lying name)
The path she showed was but the path of wrong
And shame.
"Cast her not out!" I cry. God's kind words come —
"Her future is with Me, as was her past;
It shall be My good will to bring her home
At last."
Penance
My lover died a century ago,
Her dear heart stricken by my sland'rous breath,
Wherefore the Gods forbade that I should know
The peace of death.
Men pass my grave, and say, "'Twere well to sleep,
Like such an one, amid the uncaring dead!"
How should they know the vigils that I keep,
The tears I shed?
Upon the grave, I count with lifeless breath,
Each night, each year, the flowers that bloom and die,
Deeming the leaves, that fall to dreamless death,
More blest than I.
'Twas just last year — I heard two lovers pass
So near, I caught the tender words he said:
To-night the rain-drenched breezes sway the grass
Above his head.
That night full envious of his life was I,
That youth and love should stand at his behest;
To-night, I envy him, that he should lie
At utter rest.
Slumber Songs
I
Sleep, little eyes
That brim with childish tears amid thy play,
Be comforted! No grief of night can weigh
Against the joys that throng thy coming day.
Sleep, little heart!
There is no place in Slumberland for tears:
Life soon enough will bring its chilling fears
And sorrows that will dim the after years.
Sleep, little heart!
II
Ah, little eyes
Dead blossoms of a springtime long ago,
That life's storm crushed and left to lie below
The benediction of the falling snow!
Sleep, little heart
That ceased so long ago its frantic beat!
The years that come and go with silent feet
Have naught to tell save this — that rest is sweet.
Dear little heart.
The Oldest Drama
"It fell on a day, that he went out to his father to the reapers.
And he said unto his father, My head, my head. And he said to a lad,
Carry him to his mother. And . . . he sat on her knees till noon,
and then died. And she went up, and laid him on the bed. . . .
And shut the door upon him and went out."
Immortal story that no mother's heart
Ev'n yet can read, nor feel the biting pain
That rent her soul! Immortal not by art
Which makes a long past sorrow sting again
Like grief of yesterday: but since it said
In simplest word the truth which all may see,
Where any mother sobs above her dead
And plays anew the silent tragedy.
Recompense
I saw two sowers in Life's field at morn,
To whom came one in angel guise and said,
"Is it for labour that a man is born?
Lo: I am Ease. Come ye and eat my bread!"
Then gladly one forsook his task undone
And with the Tempter went his slothful way,
The other toiled until the setting sun
With stealing shadows blurred the dusty day.
Ere harvest time, upon earth's peaceful breast
Each laid him down among the unreaping dead.
『Labour hath other recompense than rest,
Else were the toiler like the fool,』I said;
"God meteth him not less, but rather more
Because he sowed and others reaped his store."
Mine Host
There stands a hostel by a travelled way;
Life is the road and Death the worthy host;
Each guest he greets, nor ever lacks to say,
"How have ye fared?" They answer him, the most,
"This lodging place is other than we sought;
We had intended farther, but the gloom
Came on apace, and found us ere we thought:
Yet will we lodge. Thou hast abundant room."
Within sit haggard men that speak no word,
No fire gleams their cheerful welcome shed;
No voice of fellowship or strife is heard
But silence of a multitude of dead.
"Naught can I offer ye," quoth Death, "but rest!"
And to his chamber leads each tired guest.
Equality
I saw a King, who spent his life to weave
Into a nation all his great heart thought,
Unsatisfied until he should achieve
The grand ideal that his manhood sought;
Yet as he saw the end within his reach,
Death took the sceptre from his failing hand,
And all men said, "He gave his life to teach
The task of honour to a sordid land!"
Within his gates I saw, through all those years,
One at his humble toil with cheery face,
Whom (being dead) the children, half in tears,
Remembered oft, and missed him from his place.
If he be greater that his people blessed
Than he the children loved, God knoweth best.
Anarchy
I saw a city filled with lust and shame,
Where men, like wolves, slunk through the grim half-light;
And sudden, in the midst of it, there came
One who spoke boldly for the cause of Right.
And speaking, fell before that brutish race
Like some poor wren that shrieking eagles tear,
While brute Dishonour, with her bloodless face
Stood by and smote his lips that moved in prayer.
"Speak not of God! In centuries that word
Hath not been uttered! Our own king are we."
And God stretched forth his finger as He heard
And o'er it cast a thousand leagues of sea.
Disarmament
One spake amid the nations, "Let us cease
From darkening with strife the fair World's light,
We who are great in war be great in peace.
No longer let us plead the cause by might."
But from a million British graves took birth
A silent voice — the million spake as one —
"If ye have righted all the wrongs of earth
Lay by the sword! Its work and ours is done."
The Dead Master
Amid earth's vagrant noises, he caught the note sublime:
To-day around him surges from the silences of Time
A flood of nobler music, like a river deep and broad,
Fit song for heroes gathered in the banquet-hall of God.
The Harvest of the Sea
The earth grows white with harvest; all day long
The sickles gleam, until the darkness weaves
Her web of silence o'er the thankful song
Of reapers bringing home the golden sheaves.
The wave tops whiten on the sea fields drear,
And men go forth at haggard dawn to reap;
But ever 'mid the gleaners' song we hear
The half-hushed sobbing of the hearts that weep.
The Dying of Pere Pierre
". . . with two other priests; the same night he died,
and was buried by the shores of the lake that bears his name."
Chronicle.
"Nay, grieve not that ye can no honour give
To these poor bones that presently must be
But carrion; since I have sought to live
Upon God's earth, as He hath guided me,
I shall not lack! Where would ye have me lie?
High heaven is higher than cathedral nave:
Do men paint chancels fairer than the sky?"
Beside the darkened lake they made his grave,
Below the altar of the hills; and night
Swung incense clouds of mist in creeping lines
That twisted through the tree-trunks, where the light
Groped through the arches of the silent pines:
And he, beside the lonely path he trod,
Lay, tombed in splendour, in the House of God.
Eventide
The day is past and the toilers cease;
The land grows dim 'mid the shadows grey,
And hearts are glad, for the dark brings peace
At the close of day.
Each weary toiler, with lingering pace,
As he homeward turns, with the long day done,
Looks out to the west, with the light on his face
Of the setting sun.
Yet some see not (with their sin-dimmed eyes)
The promise of rest in the fading light;
But the clouds loom dark in the angry skies
At the fall of night.
And some see only a golden sky
Where the elms their welcoming arms stretch wide
To the calling rooks, as they homeward fly
At the eventide.
It speaks of peace that comes after strife,
Of the rest He sends to the hearts He tried,
Of the calm that follows the stormiest life —
God's eventide.
Upon Watts' Picture "Sic Transit"
"What I spent I had; what I saved, I lost; what I gave, I have."
But yesterday the tourney, all the eager joy of life,
The waving of the banners, and the rattle of the spears,
The clash of sword and harness, and the madness of the strife;
To-night begin the silence and the peace of endless years.
(One sings within.)
But yesterday the glory and the prize,
And best of all, to lay it at her feet,
To find my guerdon in her speaking eyes:
I grudge them not, — they pass, albeit sweet.
The ring of spears, the winning of the fight,
The careless song, the cup, the love of friends,
The earth in spring — to live, to feel the light —
'Twas good the while it lasted: here it ends.
Remain the well-wrought deed in honour done,
The dole for Christ's dear sake, the words that fall
In kindliness upon some outcast one, —
They seemed so little: now they are my All.
A Song of Comfort
"Sleep, weary ones, while ye may —
Sleep, oh, sleep!"
Eugene Field.
Thro' May time blossoms, with whisper low,
The soft wind sang to the dead below:
"Think not with regret on the Springtime's song
And the task ye left while your hands were strong.
The song would have ceased when the Spring was past,
And the task that was joyous be weary at last."
To the winter sky when the nights were long
The tree-tops tossed with a ceaseless song:
"Do ye think with regret on the sunny days
And the path ye left, with its untrod ways?
The sun might sink in a storm cloud's frown
And the path grow rough when the night came down."
In the grey twilight of the autumn eves,
It sighed as it sang through the dying leaves:
"Ye think with regret that the world was bright,
That your path was short and your task was light;
The path, though short, was perhaps the best
And the toil was sweet, that it led to rest."
The Pilgrims
An uphill path, sun-gleams between the showers,
Where every beam that broke the leaden sky
Lit other hills with fairer ways than ours;
Some clustered graves where half our memories lie;
And one grim Shadow creeping ever nigh:
And this was Life.
Wherein we did another's burden seek,
The tired feet we helped upon the road,
The hand we gave the weary and the weak,
The miles we lightened one another's load,
When, faint to falling, onward yet we strode:
This too was Life.
Till, at the upland, as we turned to go
Amid fair meadows, dusky in the night,
The mists fell back upon the road below;
Broke on our tired eyes the western light;
The very graves were for a moment bright:
And this was Death.
The Shadow of the Cross
At the drowsy dusk when the shadows creep
From the golden west, where the sunbeams sleep,
An angel mused: "Is there good or ill
In the mad world's heart, since on Calvary's hill
'Round the cross a mid-day twilight fell
That darkened earth and o'ershadowed hell?"
Through the streets of a city the angel sped;
Like an open scroll men's hearts he read.
In a monarch's ear his courtiers lied
And humble faces hid hearts of pride.
Men's hate waxed hot, and their hearts grew cold,
As they haggled and fought for the lust of gold.
Despairing, he cried, "After all these years
Is there naught but hatred and strife and tears?"
He found two waifs in an attic bare;
— A single crust was their meagre fare —
One strove to quiet the other's cries,
And the love-light dawned in her famished eyes
As she kissed the child with a motherly air:
"I don't need mine, you can have my share."
Then the angel knew that the earthly cross
And the sorrow and shame were not wholly loss.
At dawn, when hushed was earth's busy hum
And men looked not for their Christ to come,
From the attic poor to the palace grand,
The King and the beggar went hand in hand.
The Night Cometh
Cometh the night. The wind falls low,
The trees swing slowly to and fro:
Around the church the headstones grey
Cluster, like children strayed away
But found again, and folded so.
No chiding look doth she bestow:
If she is glad, they cannot know;
If ill or well they spend their day,
Cometh the night.
Singing or sad, intent they go;
They do not see the shadows grow;
"There yet is time," they lightly say,
"Before our work aside we lay";
Their task is but half-done, and lo!
Cometh the night.
In Due Season
If night should come and find me at my toil,
When all Life's day I had, tho' faintly, wrought,
And shallow furrows, cleft in stony soil
Were all my labour: Shall I count it naught
If only one poor gleaner, weak of hand,
Shall pick a scanty sheaf where I have sown?
"Nay, for of thee the Master doth demand
Thy work: the harvest rests with Him alone."
JOHN MCCRAE
An Essay in Character
by Sir Andrew Macphail
I. In Flanders Fields
"In Flanders Fields", the piece of verse from which this little book takes
its title, first appeared in 'Punch' in the issue of December 8th, 1915.
At the time I was living in Flanders at a convent in front of Locre, in
shelter of Kemmel Hill, which lies seven miles south and slightly west of
Ypres. The piece bore no signature, but it was unmistakably from the hand
of John McCrae.
From this convent of women which was the headquarters of the 6th Canadian
Field Ambulance, I wrote to John McCrae, who was then at Boulogne,
accusing him of the authorship, and furnished him with evidence. From
memory—since at the front one carries one book only—I quoted
to him another piece of his own verse, entitled "The Night Cometh":
"Cometh the night. The wind falls low,
The trees swing slowly to and fro;
Around the church the headstones grey
Cluster, like children stray'd away,
But found again, and folded so."
It will be observed at once by reference to the text that in form the two
poems are identical. They contain the same number of lines and feet as
surely as all sonnets do. Each travels upon two rhymes with the members of
a broken couplet in widely separated refrain. To the casual reader this
much is obvious, but there are many subtleties in the verse which made the
authorship inevitable. It was a form upon which he had worked for years,
and made his own. When the moment arrived the medium was ready. No other
medium could have so well conveyed the thought.
This familiarity with his verse was not a matter of accident. For many
years I was editor of the 'University Magazine', and those who are curious
about such things may discover that one half of the poems contained in
this little book were first published upon its pages. This magazine had
its origin in McGill University, Montreal, in the year 1902. Four years
later its borders were enlarged to the wider term, and it strove to
express an educated opinion upon questions immediately concerning Canada,
and to treat freely in a literary way all matters which have to do with
politics, industry, philosophy, science, and art.
To this magazine during those years John McCrae contributed all his verse.
It was therefore not unseemly that I should have written to him, when﹃In
Flanders Fields﹄appeared in 'Punch'. Amongst his papers I find my poor
letter, and many others of which something more might be made if one were
concerned merely with the literary side of his life rather than with his
life itself. Two references will be enough. Early in 1905 he offered﹃The
Pilgrims﹄for publication. I notified him of the place assigned to it in
the magazine, and added a few words of appreciation, and after all these
years it has come back to me.
The letter is dated February 9th, 1905, and reads:﹃I place the poem next
to my own buffoonery. It is the real stuff of poetry. How did you make it?
What have you to do with medicine? I was charmed with it: the thought
high, the image perfect, the expression complete; not too reticent, not
too full. Videntes autem stellam gavisi sunt gaudio magno valde. In our
own tongue,—'slainte filidh'.﹄To his mother he wrote, "the Latin is
translatable as, 'seeing the star they rejoiced with exceeding gladness'."
For the benefit of those whose education has proceeded no further than the
Latin, it may be explained that the two last words mean, "Hail to the
poet".
To the inexperienced there is something portentous about an appearance in
print and something mysterious about the business of an editor. A legend
has already grown up around the publication of "In Flanders Fields" in
'Punch'. The truth is,﹃that the poem was offered in the usual way and
accepted; that is all.﹄The usual way of offering a piece to an editor is
to put it in an envelope with a postage stamp outside to carry it there,
and a stamp inside to carry it back. Nothing else helps.
An editor is merely a man who knows his right hand from his left, good
from evil, having the honesty of a kitchen cook who will not spoil his
confection by favour for a friend. Fear of a foe is not a temptation,
since editors are too humble and harmless to have any. There are of course
certain slight offices which an editor can render, especially to those
whose writings he does not intend to print, but John McCrae required none
of these. His work was finished to the last point. He would bring his
piece in his hand and put it on the table. A wise editor knows when to
keep his mouth shut; but now I am free to say that he never understood the
nicety of the semi-colon, and his writing was too heavily stopped.
He was not of those who might say,—take it or leave it; but rather,—look
how perfect it is; and it was so. Also he was the first to recognize that
an editor has some rights and prejudices, that certain words make him
sick; that certain other words he reserves for his own use,—"meticulous"
once a year, "adscititious" once in a life time. This explains why editors
write so little. In the end, out of mere good nature, or seeing the
futility of it all, they contribute their words to contributors and write
no more.
The volume of verse as here printed is small. The volume might be
enlarged; it would not be improved. To estimate the value and institute a
comparison of those herein set forth would be a congenial but useless
task, which may well be left to those whose profession it is to offer
instruction to the young. To say that "In Flanders Fields" is not the best
would involve one in controversy. It did give expression to a mood which
at the time was universal, and will remain as a permanent record when the
mood is passed away.
The poem was first called to my attention by a Sapper officer, then Major,
now Brigadier. He brought the paper in his hand from his billet in
Dranoutre. It was printed on page 468, and Mr. 'Punch' will be glad to be
told that, in his annual index, in the issue of December 29th, 1915, he
has misspelled the author's name, which is perhaps the only mistake he
ever made. This officer could himself weave the sonnet with deft fingers,
and he pointed out many deep things. It is to the sappers the army always
goes for "technical material".
The poem, he explained, consists of thirteen lines in iambic tetrameter
and two lines of two iambics each; in all, one line more than the sonnet's
count. There are two rhymes only, since the short lines must be considered
blank, and are, in fact, identical. But it is a difficult mode. It is
true, he allowed, that the octet of the sonnet has only two rhymes, but
these recur only four times, and the liberty of the sestet tempers its
despotism,—which I thought a pretty phrase. He pointed out the
dangers inherent in a restricted rhyme, and cited the case of Browning,
the great rhymster, who was prone to resort to any rhyme, and frequently
ended in absurdity, finding it easier to make a new verse than to make an
end.
At great length—but the December evenings in Flanders are long, how
long, O Lord!—this Sapper officer demonstrated the skill with which
the rhymes are chosen. They are vocalized. Consonant endings would spoil
the whole effect. They reiterate O and I, not the O of pain and the Ay of
assent, but the O of wonder, of hope, of aspiration; and the I of personal
pride, of jealous immortality, of the Ego against the Universe. They are,
he went on to expound, a recurrence of the ancient question:﹃How are the
dead raised, and with what body do they come?﹄"How shall I bear my light
across?" and of the defiant cry: "If Christ be not raised, then is our
faith vain."
The theme has three phases: the first a calm, a deadly calm, opening
statement in five lines; the second in four lines, an explanation, a
regret, a reiteration of the first; the third, without preliminary
crescendo, breaking out into passionate adjuration in vivid metaphor, a
poignant appeal which is at once a blessing and a curse. In the closing
line is a satisfying return to the first phase,—and the thing is
done. One is so often reminded of the poverty of men's invention, their
best being so incomplete, their greatest so trivial, that one welcomes
what—this Sapper officer surmised—may become a new and fixed
mode of expression in verse.
As to the theme itself—I am using his words: what is his is mine;
what is mine is his—the interest is universal. The dead, still
conscious, fallen in a noble cause, see their graves overblown in a riot
of poppy bloom. The poppy is the emblem of sleep. The dead desire to sleep
undisturbed, but yet curiously take an interest in passing events. They
regret that they have not been permitted to live out their life to its
normal end. They call on the living to finish their task, else they shall
not sink into that complete repose which they desire, in spite of the balm
of the poppy. Formalists may protest that the poet is not sincere, since
it is the seed and not the flower that produces sleep. They might as well
object that the poet has no right to impersonate the dead. We common folk
know better. We know that in personating the dear dead, and calling in
bell-like tones on the inarticulate living, the poet shall be enabled to
break the lightnings of the Beast, and thereby he, being himself, alas!
dead, yet speaketh; and shall speak, to ones and twos and a host. As it is
written in resonant bronze: VIVOS . VOCO . MORTUOS . PLANGO . FULGURA .
FRANGO: words cast by this officer upon a church bell which still rings in
far away Orwell in memory of his father—and of mine.
By this time the little room was cold. For some reason the guns had
awakened in the Salient. An Indian trooper who had just come up, and did
not yet know the orders, blew "Lights out",—on a cavalry trumpet.
The sappers work by night. The officer turned and went his way to his
accursed trenches, leaving the verse with me.
John McCrae witnessed only once the raw earth of Flanders hide its shame
in the warm scarlet glory of the poppy. Others have watched this
resurrection of the flowers in four successive seasons, a fresh miracle
every time it occurs. Also they have observed the rows of crosses
lengthen, the torch thrown, caught, and carried to victory. The dead may
sleep. We have not broken faith with them.
It is little wonder then that "In Flanders Fields" has become the poem of
the army. The soldiers have learned it with their hearts, which is quite a
different thing from committing it to memory. It circulates, as a song
should circulate, by the living word of mouth, not by printed characters.
That is the true test of poetry,—its insistence on making itself
learnt by heart. The army has varied the text; but each variation only
serves to reveal more clearly the mind of the maker. The army says, "AMONG
the crosses"; "felt dawn AND sunset glow"; "LIVED and were loved". The
army may be right: it usually is.
Nor has any piece of verse in recent years been more widely known in the
civilian world. It was used on every platform from which men were being
adjured to adventure their lives or their riches in the great trial
through which the present generation has passed. Many "replies" have been
made. The best I have seen was written in the 'New York Evening Post'.
None but those who were prepared to die before Vimy Ridge that early April
day of 1916 will ever feel fully the great truth of Mr. Lillard's opening
lines, as they speak for all Americans:
"Rest ye in peace, ye Flanders dead.
The fight that ye so bravely led
We've taken up."
They did—and bravely. They heard the cry—"If ye break faith,
we shall not sleep."
II. With the Guns
If there was nothing remarkable about the publication of "In Flanders
Fields", there was something momentous in the moment of writing it. And
yet it was a sure instinct which prompted the writer to send it to
'Punch'. A rational man wishes to know the news of the world in which he
lives; and if he is interested in life, he is eager to know how men feel
and comport themselves amongst the events which are passing. For this
purpose 'Punch' is the great newspaper of the world, and these lines
describe better than any other how men felt in that great moment.
It was in April, 1915. The enemy was in the full cry of victory. All that
remained for him was to occupy Paris, as once he did before, and to seize
the Channel ports. Then France, England, and the world were doomed. All
winter the German had spent in repairing his plans, which had gone
somewhat awry on the Marne. He had devised his final stroke, and it fell
upon the Canadians at Ypres. This battle, known as the second battle of
Ypres, culminated on April 22nd, but it really extended over the whole
month.
The inner history of war is written from the recorded impressions of men
who have endured it. John McCrae in a series of letters to his mother,
cast in the form of a diary, has set down in words the impressions which
this event of the war made upon a peculiarly sensitive mind. The account
is here transcribed without any attempt at "amplification", or
"clarifying" by notes upon incidents or references to places. These are
only too well known.
Friday, April 23rd, 1915.
As we moved up last evening, there was heavy firing about 4.30 on our
left, the hour at which the general attack with gas was made when the
French line broke. We could see the shells bursting over Ypres, and in a
small village to our left, meeting General——, C.R.A., of one
of the divisions, he ordered us to halt for orders. We sent forward
notifications to our Headquarters, and sent out orderlies to get in touch
with the batteries of the farther forward brigades already in action. The
story of these guns will be read elsewhere. They had a tough time, but got
away safely, and did wonderful service. One battery fired in two opposite
directions at once, and both batteries fired at point blank, open sights,
at Germans in the open. They were at times quite without infantry on their
front, for their position was behind the French to the left of the British
line.
As we sat on the road we began to see the French stragglers—men
without arms, wounded men, teams, wagons, civilians, refugees—some
by the roads, some across country, all talking, shouting—the very
picture of debacle. I must say they were the "tag enders" of a fighting
line rather than the line itself. They streamed on, and shouted to us
scraps of not too inspiriting information while we stood and took our
medicine, and picked out gun positions in the fields in case we had to go
in there and then. The men were splendid; not a word; not a shake, and it
was a terrific test. Traffic whizzed by—ambulances, transport,
ammunition, supplies, despatch riders—and the shells thundered into
the town, or burst high in the air nearer us, and the refugees streamed.
Women, old men, little children, hopeless, tearful, quiet or excited,
tired, dodging the traffic,—and the wounded in singles or in groups.
Here and there I could give a momentary help, and the ambulances picked up
as they could. So the cold moonlight night wore on—no change save
that the towers of Ypres showed up against the glare of the city burning;
and the shells still sailed in.
At 9.30 our ammunition column (the part that had been "in") appeared.
Major—— had waited, like Casabianca, for orders until the
Germans were 500 yards away; then he started, getting safely away save for
one wagon lost, and some casualties in men and horses. He found our
column, and we prepared to send forward ammunition as soon as we could
learn where the batteries had taken up position in retiring, for retire
they had to. Eleven, twelve, and finally grey day broke, and we still
waited. At 3.45 word came to go in and support a French counterattack at
4.30 A.M. Hastily we got the order spread; it was 4 A.M. and three miles
to go.
Of one's feelings all this night—of the asphyxiated French soldiers—of
the women and children—of the cheery, steady British reinforcements
that moved up quietly past us, going up, not back—I could write, but
you can imagine.
We took the road at once, and went up at the gallop. The Colonel rode
ahead to scout a position (we had only four guns, part of the ammunition
column, and the brigade staff; the 1st and 4th batteries were back in
reserve at our last billet). Along the roads we went, and made our place
on time, pulled up for ten minutes just short of the position, where I put
Bonfire [his horse] with my groom in a farmyard, and went forward on foot—only
a quarter of a mile or so—then we advanced. Bonfire had soon to
move; a shell killed a horse about four yards away from him, and he wisely
took other ground. Meantime we went on into the position we were to occupy
for seventeen days, though we could not guess that. I can hardly say more
than that it was near the Yser Canal.
We got into action at once, under heavy gunfire. We were to the left
entirely of the British line, and behind French troops, and so we remained
for eight days. A Colonel of the R.A., known to fame, joined us and camped
with us; he was our link with the French Headquarters, and was in local
command of the guns in this locality. When he left us eight days later he
said, "I am glad to get out of this hell-hole." He was a great comfort to
us, for he is very capable, and the entire battle was largely fought "on
our own", following the requests of the Infantry on our front, and
scarcely guided by our own staff at all. We at once set out to register
our targets, and almost at once had to get into steady firing on quite a
large sector of front. We dug in the guns as quickly as we could, and took
as Headquarters some infantry trenches already sunk on a ridge near the
canal. We were subject from the first to a steady and accurate shelling,
for we were all but in sight, as were the German trenches about 2000 yards
to our front. At times the fire would come in salvos quickly repeated.
Bursts of fire would be made for ten or fifteen minutes at a time. We got
all varieties of projectile, from 3 inch to 8 inch, or perhaps 10 inch;
the small ones usually as air bursts, the larger percussion and air, and
the heaviest percussion only.
My work began almost from the start—steady but never overwhelming,
except perhaps once for a few minutes. A little cottage behind our ridge
served as a cook-house, but was so heavily hit the second day that we had
to be chary of it. During bursts of fire I usually took the back slope of
the sharply crested ridge for what shelter it offered. At 3 our 1st and
4th arrived, and went into action at once a few hundred yards in our rear.
Wires were at once put out, to be cut by shells hundreds and hundreds of
times, but always repaired by our indefatigable linemen. So the day wore
on; in the night the shelling still kept up: three different German
attacks were made and repulsed. If we suffered by being close up, the
Germans suffered from us, for already tales of good shooting came down to
us. I got some sleep despite the constant firing, for we had none last
night.
Saturday, April 24th, 1915.
Behold us now anything less than two miles north of Ypres on the west side
of the canal; this runs north, each bank flanked with high elms, with bare
trunks of the familiar Netherlands type. A few yards to the West a main
road runs, likewise bordered; the Censor will allow me to say that on the
high bank between these we had our headquarters; the ridge is perhaps
fifteen to twenty feet high, and slopes forward fifty yards to the water,
the back is more steep, and slopes quickly to a little subsidiary water
way, deep but dirty. Where the guns were I shall not say; but they were
not far, and the German aeroplanes that viewed us daily with all but
impunity knew very well. A road crossed over the canal, and interrupted
the ridge; across the road from us was our billet—the place we
cooked in, at least, and where we usually took our meals. Looking to the
south between the trees, we could see the ruins of the city: to the front
on the sky line, with rolling ground in the front, pitted by French
trenches, the German lines; to the left front, several farms and a
windmill, and farther left, again near the canal, thicker trees and more
farms. The farms and windmills were soon burnt. Several farms we used for
observing posts were also quickly burnt during the next three or four
days. All along behind us at varying distances French and British guns;
the flashes at night lit up the sky.
These high trees were at once a protection and a danger. Shells that
struck them were usually destructive. When we came in the foliage was
still very thin. Along the road, which was constantly shelled "on spec" by
the Germans, one saw all the sights of war: wounded men limping or
carried, ambulances, trains of supply, troops, army mules, and tragedies.
I saw one bicycle orderly: a shell exploded and he seemed to pedal on for
eight or ten revolutions and then collapsed in a heap—dead.
Straggling soldiers would be killed or wounded, horses also, until it got
to be a nightmare. I used to shudder every time I saw wagons or troops on
that road. My dugout looked out on it. I got a square hole, 8 by 8, dug in
the side of the hill (west), roofed over with remnants to keep out the
rain, and a little sandbag parapet on the back to prevent pieces of
"back-kick shells" from coming in, or prematures from our own or the
French guns for that matter. Some straw on the floor completed it. The
ground was treacherous and a slip the first night nearly buried——.
So we had to be content with walls straight up and down, and trust to the
height of the bank for safety. All places along the bank were more or less
alike, all squirrel holes.
This morning we supported a heavy French attack at 4.30; there had been
three German attacks in the night, and everyone was tired. We got heavily
shelled. In all eight or ten of our trees were cut by shells—cut
right off, the upper part of the tree subsiding heavily and straight down,
as a usual thing. One would think a piece a foot long was just instantly
cut out; and these trees were about 18 inches in diameter. The gas fumes
came very heavily: some blew down from the infantry trenches, some came
from the shells: one's eyes smarted, and breathing was very laboured. Up
to noon to-day we fired 2500 rounds. Last night Col. Morrison and I slept
at a French Colonel's headquarters near by, and in the night our room was
filled up with wounded. I woke up and shared my bed with a chap with "a
wounded leg and a chill". Probably thirty wounded were brought into the
one little room.
Col.——, R.A., kept us in communication with the French General
in whose command we were. I bunked down in the trench on the top of the
ridge: the sky was red with the glare of the city still burning, and we
could hear the almost constant procession of large shells sailing over
from our left front into the city: the crashes of their explosion shook
the ground where we were. After a terribly hard day, professionally and
otherwise, I slept well, but it rained and the trench was awfully muddy
and wet.
Sunday, April 25th, 1915.
The weather brightened up, and we got at it again. This day we had several
heavy attacks, prefaced by heavy artillery fire; these bursts of fire
would result in our getting 100 to 150 rounds right on us or nearby: the
heavier our fire (which was on the trenches entirely) the heavier theirs.
Our food supply came up at dusk in wagons, and the water was any we could
get, but of course treated with chloride of lime. The ammunition had to be
brought down the roads at the gallop, and the more firing the more wagons.
The men would quickly carry the rounds to the guns, as the wagons had to
halt behind our hill. The good old horses would swing around at the
gallop, pull up in an instant, and stand puffing and blowing, but with
their heads up, as if to say, "Wasn't that well done?" It makes you want
to kiss their dear old noses, and assure them of a peaceful pasture once
more. To-day we got our dressing station dugout complete, and slept there
at night.
Three farms in succession burned on our front—colour in the
otherwise dark. The flashes of shells over the front and rear in all
directions. The city still burning and the procession still going on. I
dressed a number of French wounded; one Turco prayed to Allah and Mohammed
all the time I was dressing his wound. On the front field one can see the
dead lying here and there, and in places where an assault has been they
lie very thick on the front slopes of the German trenches. Our telephone
wagon team hit by a shell; two horses killed and another wounded. I did
what I could for the wounded one, and he subsequently got well. This
night, beginning after dark, we got a terrible shelling, which kept up
till 2 or 3 in the morning. Finally I got to sleep, though it was still
going on. We must have got a couple of hundred rounds, in single or pairs.
Every one burst over us, would light up the dugout, and every hit in front
would shake the ground and bring down small bits of earth on us, or else
the earth thrown into the air by the explosion would come spattering down
on our roof, and into the front of the dugout. Col. Morrison tried the
mess house, but the shelling was too heavy, and he and the adjutant joined
Cosgrave and me, and we four spent an anxious night there in the dark. One
officer was on watch "on the bridge" (as we called the trench at the top
of the ridge) with the telephones.
Monday, April 26th, 1915.
Another day of heavy actions, but last night much French and British
artillery has come in, and the place is thick with Germans. There are many
prematures (with so much firing) but the pieces are usually spread before
they get to us. It is disquieting, however, I must say. And all the time
the birds sing in the trees over our heads. Yesterday up to noon we fired
3000 rounds for the twenty-four hours; to-day we have fired much less, but
we have registered fresh fronts, and burned some farms behind the German
trenches. About six the fire died down, and we had a peaceful evening and
night, and Cosgrave and I in the dugout made good use of it. The Colonel
has an individual dugout, and Dodds sleeps "topside" in the trench. To all
this, put in a background of anxiety lest the line break, for we are just
where it broke before.
Tuesday, April 27th, 1915.
This morning again registering batteries on new points. At 1.30 a heavy
attack was prepared by the French and ourselves. The fire was very heavy
for half an hour and the enemy got busy too. I had to cross over to the
batteries during it, an unpleasant journey. More gas attacks in the
afternoon. The French did not appear to press the attack hard, but in the
light of subsequent events it probably was only a feint. It seems likely
that about this time our people began to thin out the artillery again for
use elsewhere; but this did not at once become apparent. At night usually
the heavies farther back take up the story, and there is a duel. The
Germans fire on our roads after dark to catch reliefs and transport. I
suppose ours do the same.
Wednesday, April 28th, 1915.
I have to confess to an excellent sleep last night. At times anxiety says,
"I don't want a meal," but experience says "you need your food," so I
attend regularly to that. The billet is not too safe either. Much German
air reconnaissance over us, and heavy firing from both sides during the
day. At 6.45 we again prepared a heavy artillery attack, but the infantry
made little attempt to go on. We are perhaps the "chopping block", and our
"preparations" may be chiefly designed to prevent detachments of troops
being sent from our front elsewhere.
I have said nothing of what goes on on our right and left; but it is
equally part and parcel of the whole game; this eight mile front is
constantly heavily engaged. At intervals, too, they bombard Ypres. Our
back lines, too, have to be constantly shifted on account of shell fire,
and we have desultory but constant losses there. In the evening rifle fire
gets more frequent, and bullets are constantly singing over us. Some of
them are probably ricochets, for we are 1800 yards, or nearly, from the
nearest German trench.
Thursday, April 29th, 1915.
This morning our billet was hit. We fire less these days, but still a good
deal. There was a heavy French attack on our left. The "gas" attacks can
be seen from here. The yellow cloud rising up is for us a signal to open,
and we do. The wind is from our side to-day, and a good thing it is.
Several days ago during the firing a big Oxford-grey dog, with beautiful
brown eyes, came to us in a panic. He ran to me, and pressed his head HARD
against my leg. So I got him a safe place and he sticks by us. We call him
Fleabag, for he looks like it.
This night they shelled us again heavily for some hours—the same
shorts, hits, overs on percussion, and great yellow-green air bursts. One
feels awfully irritated by the constant din—a mixture of anger and
apprehension.
Friday, April 30th, 1915.
Thick mist this morning, and relative quietness; but before it cleared the
Germans started again to shell us. At 10 it cleared, and from 10 to 2 we
fired constantly. The French advanced, and took some ground on our left
front and a batch of prisoners. This was at a place we call Twin Farms.
Our men looked curiously at the Boches as they were marched through. Some
better activity in the afternoon by the Allies' aeroplanes. The German
planes have had it too much their way lately. Many of to-day's shells have
been very large—10 or 12 inch; a lot of tremendous holes dug in the
fields just behind us.
Saturday, May 1st, 1915.
May day! Heavy bombardment at intervals through the day. Another heavy
artillery preparation at 3.25, but no French advance. We fail to
understand why, but orders go. We suffered somewhat during the day.
Through the evening and night heavy firing at intervals.
Sunday, May 2nd, 1915.
Heavy gunfire again this morning. Lieut. H—— was killed at the
guns. His diary's last words were,﹃It has quieted a little and I shall
try to get a good sleep.﹄I said the Committal Service over him, as well
as I could from memory. A soldier's death! Batteries again registering
barrages or barriers of fire at set ranges. At 3 the Germans attacked,
preceded by gas clouds. Fighting went on for an hour and a half, during
which their guns hammered heavily with some loss to us. The French lines
are very uneasy, and we are correspondingly anxious. The infantry fire was
very heavy, and we fired incessantly, keeping on into the night. Despite
the heavy fire I got asleep at 12, and slept until daylight which comes at
3.
Monday, May 3rd, 1915.
A clear morning, and the accursed German aeroplanes over our positions
again. They are usually fired at, but no luck. To-day a shell on our hill
dug out a cannon ball about six inches in diameter—probably of
Napoleon's or earlier times—heavily rusted. A German attack began,
but half an hour of artillery fire drove it back. Major——,
R.A., was up forward, and could see the German reserves. Our 4th was
turned on: first round 100 over; shortened and went into gunfire, and his
report was that the effect was perfect. The same occurred again in the
evening, and again at midnight. The Germans were reported to be constantly
massing for attack, and we as constantly "went to them". The German guns
shelled us as usual at intervals. This must get very tiresome to read; but
through it all, it must be mentioned that the constantly broken
communications have to be mended, rations and ammunition brought up, the
wounded to be dressed and got away. Our dugouts have the French Engineers
and French Infantry next door by turns. They march in and out. The back of
the hill is a network of wires, so that one has to go carefully.
Tuesday, May 4th, 1915.
Despite intermittent shelling and some casualties the quietest day yet;
but we live in an uneasy atmosphere as German attacks are constantly being
projected, and our communications are interrupted and scrappy. We get no
news of any sort and have just to sit tight and hold on. Evening closed in
rainy and dark. Our dugout is very slenderly provided against it, and we
get pretty wet and very dirty. In the quieter morning hours we get a
chance of a wash and occasionally a shave.
Wednesday, May 5th, 1915.
Heavily hammered in the morning from 7 to 9, but at 9 it let up; the sun
came out and things looked better. Evidently our line has again been
thinned of artillery and the requisite minimum to hold is left. There were
German attacks to our right, just out of our area. Later on we and they
both fired heavily, the first battery getting it especially hot. The
planes over us again and again, to coach the guns. An attack expected at
dusk, but it turned only to heavy night shelling, so that with our fire,
theirs, and the infantry cracking away constantly, we got sleep in small
quantity all night; bullets whizzing over us constantly. Heavy rain from 5
to 8, and everything wet except the far-in corner of the dugout, where we
mass our things to keep them as dry as we may.
Thursday, May 6th, 1915.
After the rain a bright morning; the leaves and blossoms are coming out.
We ascribe our quietude to a welcome flock of allied planes which are over
this morning. The Germans attacked at eleven, and again at six in the
afternoon, each meaning a waking up of heavy artillery on the whole front.
In the evening we had a little rain at intervals, but it was light.
Friday, May 7th, 1915.
A bright morning early, but clouded over later. The Germans gave it to us
very heavily. There was heavy fighting to the south-east of us. Two
attacks or threats, and we went in again.
Saturday, May 8th, 1915.
For the last three days we have been under British divisional control, and
supporting our own men who have been put farther to the left, till they
are almost in front of us. It is an added comfort. We have four officers
out with various infantry regiments for observation and co-operation; they
have to stick it in trenches, as all the houses and barns are burned. The
whole front is constantly ablaze with big gunfire; the racket never
ceases. We have now to do most of the work for our left, as our line
appears to be much thinner than it was. A German attack followed the
shelling at 7; we were fighting hard till 12, and less regularly all the
afternoon. We suffered much, and at one time were down to seven guns. Of
these two were smoking at every joint, and the levers were so hot that the
gunners used sacking for their hands. The pace is now much hotter, and the
needs of the infantry for fire more insistent. The guns are in bad shape
by reason of dirt, injuries, and heat. The wind fortunately blows from us,
so there is no gas, but the attacks are still very heavy. Evening brought
a little quiet, but very disquieting news (which afterwards proved
untrue); and we had to face a possible retirement. You may imagine our
state of mind, unable to get anything sure in the uncertainty, except that
we should stick out as long as the guns would fire, and we could fire
them. That sort of night brings a man down to his "bare skin", I promise
you. The night was very cold, and not a cheerful one.
Sunday, May 9th, 1915.
At 4 we were ordered to get ready to move, and the Adjutant picked out new
retirement positions; but a little later better news came, and the
daylight and sun revived us a bit. As I sat in my dugout a little white
and black dog with tan spots bolted in over the parapet, during heavy
firing, and going to the farthest corner began to dig furiously. Having
scraped out a pathetic little hole two inches deep, she sat down and
shook, looking most plaintively at me. A few minutes later, her owner came
along, a French soldier. Bissac was her name, but she would not leave me
at the time. When I sat down a little later, she stole out and shyly
crawled in between me and the wall; she stayed by me all day, and I hope
got later on to safe quarters.
Firing kept up all day. In thirty hours we had fired 3600 rounds, and at
times with seven, eight, or nine guns; our wire cut and repaired eighteen
times. Orders came to move, and we got ready. At dusk we got the guns out
by hand, and all batteries assembled at a given spot in comparative
safety. We were much afraid they would open on us, for at 10 o'clock they
gave us 100 or 150 rounds, hitting the trench parapet again and again.
However, we were up the road, the last wagon half a mile away before they
opened. One burst near me, and splattered some pieces around, but we got
clear, and by 12 were out of the usual fire zone. Marched all night, tired
as could be, but happy to be clear.
I was glad to get on dear old Bonfire again. We made about sixteen miles,
and got to our billets at dawn. I had three or four hours' sleep, and
arose to a peaceful breakfast. We shall go back to the line elsewhere very
soon, but it is a present relief, and the next place is sure to be better,
for it cannot be worse. Much of this narrative is bald and plain, but it
tells our part in a really great battle. I have only had hasty notes to go
by; in conversation there is much one could say that would be of greater
interest. Heard of the 'Lusitania' disaster on our road out. A terrible
affair!
Here ends the account of his part in this memorable battle,
And here follow some general observations upon the experience:
Northern France, May 10th, 1915.
We got here to refit and rest this morning at 4, having marched last night
at 10. The general impression in my mind is of a nightmare. We have been
in the most bitter of fights. For seventeen days and seventeen nights none
of us have had our clothes off, nor our boots even, except occasionally.
In all that time while I was awake, gunfire and rifle fire never ceased
for sixty seconds, and it was sticking to our utmost by a weak line all
but ready to break, knowing nothing of what was going on, and depressed by
reports of anxious infantry. The men and the divisions are worthy of all
praise that can be given. It did not end in four days when many of our
infantry were taken out. It kept on at fever heat till yesterday.
This, of course, is the second battle of Ypres, or the battle of the Yser,
I do not know which. At one time we were down to seven guns, but those
guns were smoking at every joint, the gunners using cloth to handle the
breech levers because of the heat. We had three batteries in action with
four guns added from the other units. Our casualties were half the number
of men in the firing line. The horse lines and the wagon lines farther
back suffered less, but the Brigade list has gone far higher than any
artillery normal. I know one brigade R.A. that was in the Mons retreat and
had about the same. I have done what fell to hand. My clothes, boots, kit,
and dugout at various times were sadly bloody. Two of our batteries are
reduced to two officers each. We have had constant accurate shell-fire,
but we have given back no less. And behind it all was the constant
background of the sights of the dead, the wounded, the maimed, and a
terrible anxiety lest the line should give way.
During all this time, we have been behind French troops, and only helping
our own people by oblique fire when necessary. Our horses have suffered
heavily too. Bonfire had a light wound from a piece of shell; it is
healing and the dear old fellow is very fit. Had my first ride for
seventeen days last night. We never saw horses but with the wagons
bringing up the ammunition. When fire was hottest they had to come two
miles on a road terribly swept, and they did it magnificently. But how
tired we are! Weary in body and wearier in mind. None of our men went off
their heads but men in units nearby did—and no wonder.
France, May 12th, 1915.
I am glad you had your mind at rest by the rumour that we were in reserve.
What newspaper work! The poor old artillery never gets any mention, and
the whole show is the infantry. It may interest you to note on your map a
spot on the west bank of the canal, a mile and a half north of Ypres, as
the scene of our labours. There can be no harm in saying so, now that we
are out of it. The unit was the most advanced of all the Allies' guns by a
good deal except one French battery which stayed in a position yet more
advanced for two days, and then had to be taken out. I think it may be
said that we saw the show from the soup to the coffee.
France, May 17th, 1915.
The farther we get away from Ypres the more we learn of the enormous power
the Germans put in to push us over. Lord only knows how many men they had,
and how many they lost. I wish I could embody on paper some of the varied
sensations of that seventeen days. All the gunners down this way passed us
all sorts of 'kudos' over it. Our guns—those behind us, from which
we had to dodge occasional prematures—have a peculiar bang-sound
added to the sharp crack of discharge. The French 75 has a sharp
wood-block-chop sound, and the shell goes over with a peculiar whine—not
unlike a cat, but beginning with n—thus,—n-eouw. The big
fellows, 3000 yards or more behind, sounded exactly like our own, but the
flash came three or four seconds before the sound. Of the German shells—the
field guns come with a great velocity—no warning—just
whizz-bang; white smoke, nearly always air bursts. The next size, probably
5 inch howitzers, have a perceptible time of approach, an increasing
whine, and a great burst on the percussion—dirt in all directions.
And even if a shell hit on the front of the canal bank, and one were on
the back of the bank, five, eight, or ten seconds later one would hear a
belated WHIRR, and curved pieces of shell would light—probably
parabolic curves or boomerangs. These shells have a great back kick; from
the field gun shrapnel we got nothing BEHIND the shell—all the
pieces go forward. From the howitzers, the danger is almost as great
behind as in front if they burst on percussion. Then the large shrapnel—air-burst—have
a double explosion, as if a giant shook a wet sail for two flaps; first a
dark green burst of smoke; then a lighter yellow burst goes out from the
centre, forwards. I do not understand the why of it.
Then the 10-inch shells: a deliberate whirring course—a deafening
explosion—black smoke, and earth 70 or 80 feet in the air. These
always burst on percussion. The constant noise of our own guns is really
worse on the nerves than the shell; there is the deafening noise, and the
constant whirr of shells going overhead. The earth shakes with every
nearby gun and every close shell. I think I may safely enclose a cross
section of our position. The left is the front: a slope down of 20 feet in
100 yards to the canal, a high row of trees on each bank, then a short 40
yards slope up to the summit of the trench, where the brain of the outfit
was; then a telephone wired slope, and on the sharp slope, the dugouts,
including my own. The nondescript affair on the low slope is the gun
position, behind it the men's shelter pits. Behind my dugout was a rapid
small stream, on its far bank a row of pollard willows, then 30 yards of
field, then a road with two parallel rows of high trees. Behind this
again, several hundred yards of fields to cross before the main gun
positions are reached.
More often fire came from three quarters left, and because our ridge died
away there was a low spot over which they could come pretty dangerously.
The road thirty yards behind us was a nightmare to me. I saw all the
tragedies of war enacted there. A wagon, or a bunch of horses, or a stray
man, or a couple of men, would get there just in time for a shell. One
would see the absolute knock-out, and the obviously lightly wounded
crawling off on hands and knees; or worse yet, at night, one would hear
the tragedy—"that horse scream"—or the man's moan. All our own
wagons had to come there (one every half hour in smart action), be
emptied, and the ammunition carried over by hand. Do you wonder that the
road got on our nerves? On this road, too, was the house where we took our
meals. It was hit several times, windows all blown in by nearby shells,
but one end remained for us.
Seventeen days of Hades! At the end of the first day if anyone had told us
we had to spend seventeen days there, we would have folded our hands and
said it could not be done. On the fifteenth day we got orders to go out,
but that was countermanded in two hours. To the last we could scarcely
believe we were actually to get out. The real audacity of the position was
its safety; the Germans knew to a foot where we were. I think I told you
of some of the "you must stick it out" messages we got from our [French]
General,—they put it up to us. It is a wonder to me that we slept
when, and how, we did. If we had not slept and eaten as well as possible
we could not have lasted. And while we were doing this, the London office
of a Canadian newspaper cabled home "Canadian Artillery in reserve." Such
is fame!
Thursday, May 27th, 1915.
Day cloudy and chilly. We wore our greatcoats most of the afternoon, and
looked for bits of sunlight to get warm. About two o'clock the heavy guns
gave us a regular "black-smithing". Every time we fired we drew a perfect
hornet's nest about our heads. While attending to a casualty, a shell
broke through both sides of the trench, front and back, about twelve feet
away. The zigzag of the trench was between it and us, and we escaped. From
my bunk the moon looks down at me, and the wind whistles along the trench
like a corridor. As the trenches run in all directions they catch the wind
however it blows, so one is always sure of a good draught. We have not had
our clothes off since last Saturday, and there is no near prospect of
getting them off.
Friday, May 28th, 1915.
Warmer this morning and sunny, a quiet morning, as far as we were
concerned. One battery fired twenty rounds and the rest "sat tight".
Newspapers which arrive show that up to May 7th, the Canadian public has
made no guess at the extent of the battle of Ypres. The Canadian papers
seem to have lost interest in it after the first four days; this
regardless of the fact that the artillery, numerically a quarter of the
division, was in all the time. One correspondent writes from the Canadian
rest camp, and never mentions Ypres. Others say they hear heavy bombarding
which appears to come from Armentieres.
A few strokes will complete the picture:
Wednesday, April 29th*, 1915.
This morning is the sixth day of this fight; it has been constant, except
that we got good chance to sleep for the last two nights. Our men have
fought beyond praise. Canadian soldiers have set a standard for themselves
which will keep posterity busy to surpass. And the War Office published
that the 4.1 guns captured were Canadian. They were not: the division has
not lost a gun so far by capture. We will make a good job of it—if
we can.
* [sic] This should read April 28th.—A. L., 1995.
May 1st, 1915.
This is the ninth day that we have stuck to the ridge, and the batteries
have fought with a steadiness which is beyond all praise. If I could say
what our casualties in men, guns, and horses were, you would see at a
glance it has been a hot corner; but we have given better than we got, for
the German casualties from this front have been largely from artillery,
except for the French attack of yesterday and the day before, when they
advanced appreciably on our left. The front, however, just here remains
where it was, and the artillery fire is very heavy—I think as heavy
here as on any part of the line, with the exception of certain cross-roads
which are the particular object of fire. The first four days the anxiety
was wearing, for we did not know at what minute the German army corps
would come for us. We lie out in support of the French troops entirely,
and are working with them. Since that time evidently great reinforcements
have come in, and now we have a most formidable force of artillery to turn
on them.
Fortunately the weather has been good; the days are hot and summer-like.
Yesterday in the press of bad smells I got a whiff of a hedgerow in bloom.
The birds perch on the trees over our heads and twitter away as if there
was nothing to worry about. Bonfire is still well. I do hope he gets
through all right.
Flanders, March 30th, 1915.
The Brigade is actually in twelve different places. The ammunition column
and the horse and wagon lines are back, and my corporal visits them every
day. I attend the gun lines; any casualty is reported by telephone, and I
go to it. The wounded and sick stay where they are till dark, when the
field ambulances go over certain grounds and collect. A good deal of
suffering is entailed by the delay till night, but it is useless for
vehicles to go on the roads within 1500 yards of the trenches. They are
willing enough to go. Most of the trench injuries are of the head, and
therefore there is a high proportion of killed in the daily warfare as
opposed to an attack. Our Canadian plots fill up rapidly.
And here is one last note to his mother:
On the eve of the battle of Ypres I was indebted to you for a letter which
said﹃take good care of my son Jack, but I would not have you unmindful
that, sometimes, when we save we lose.﹄I have that last happy phrase to
thank. Often when I had to go out over the areas that were being shelled,
it came into my mind. I would shoulder the box, and "go to it".
At this time the Canadian division was moving south to take its share in
the events that happened in the La Bassee sector. Here is the record:
Tuesday, June 1st, 1915.
1-1/2 miles northeast of Festubert, near La Bassee.
Last night a 15 pr. and a 4-inch howitzer fired at intervals of five
minutes from 8 till 4; most of them within 500 or 600 yards—a very
tiresome procedure; much of it is on registered roads. In the morning I
walked out to Le Touret to the wagon lines, got Bonfire, and rode to the
headquarters at Vendin-lez-Bethune, a little village a mile past Bethune.
Left the horse at the lines and walked back again. An unfortunate shell in
the 1st killed a sergeant and wounded two men; thanks to the strong
emplacements the rest of the crew escaped. In the evening went around the
batteries and said good-bye. We stood by while they laid away the sergeant
who was killed. Kind hands have made two pathetic little wreaths of roses;
the grave under an apple-tree, and the moon rising over the horizon; a
siege-lamp held for the book. Of the last 41 days the guns have been in
action 33. Captain Lockhart, late with Fort Garry Horse, arrived to
relieve me. I handed over, came up to the horse lines, and slept in a
covered wagon in a courtyard. We were all sorry to part—the four of
us have been very intimate and had agreed perfectly—and friendships
under these circumstances are apt to be the real thing. I am sorry to
leave them in such a hot corner, but cannot choose and must obey orders.
It is a great relief from strain, I must admit, to be out, but I could
wish that they all were.
This phase of the war lasted two months precisely,
and to John McCrae it must have seemed a lifetime since he went into this
memorable action. The events preceding the second battle of Ypres received
scant mention in his letters; but one remains, which brings into relief
one of the many moves of that tumultuous time.
April 1st, 1915.
We moved out in the late afternoon, getting on the road a little after
dark. Such a move is not unattended by danger, for to bring horses and
limbers down the roads in the shell zone in daylight renders them liable
to observation, aerial or otherwise. More than that, the roads are now
beginning to be dusty, and at all times there is the noise which carries
far. The roads are nearly all registered in their battery books, so if
they suspect a move, it is the natural thing to loose off a few rounds.
However, our anxiety was not borne out, and we got out of the danger zone
by 8.30—a not too long march in the dark, and then for the last of
the march a glorious full moon. The houses everywhere are as dark as
possible, and on the roads noises but no lights. One goes on by the long
rows of trees that are so numerous in this country, on cobblestones and
country roads, watching one's horses' ears wagging, and seeing not much
else. Our maps are well studied before we start, and this time we are not
far out of familiar territory. We got to our new billet about 10—quite
a good farmhouse; and almost at once one feels the relief of the strain of
being in the shell zone. I cannot say I had noticed it when there; but one
is distinctly relieved when out of it.
Such, then, was the life in Flanders fields in which the verse was born.
This is no mere surmise. There is a letter from Major-General E. W. B.
Morrison, C.B., C.M.G., D.S.O., who commanded the Brigade at the time,
which is quite explicit. "This poem," General Morrison writes, "was
literally born of fire and blood during the hottest phase of the second
battle of Ypres. My headquarters were in a trench on the top of the bank
of the Ypres Canal, and John had his dressing station in a hole dug in the
foot of the bank. During periods in the battle men who were shot actually
rolled down the bank into his dressing station. Along from us a few
hundred yards was the headquarters of a regiment, and many times during
the sixteen days of battle, he and I watched them burying their dead
whenever there was a lull. Thus the crosses, row on row, grew into a
good-sized cemetery. Just as he describes, we often heard in the mornings
the larks singing high in the air, between the crash of the shell and the
reports of the guns in the battery just beside us. I have a letter from
him in which he mentions having written the poem to pass away the time
between the arrival of batches of wounded, and partly as an experiment
with several varieties of poetic metre. I have a sketch of the scene,
taken at the time, including his dressing station; and during our
operations at Passchendaele last November, I found time to make a sketch
of the scene of the crosses, row on row, from which he derived his
inspiration."
The last letter from the Front is dated June 1st, 1915. Upon that day he
was posted to No. 3 General Hospital at Boulogne, and placed in charge of
medicine with the rank of Lieutenant-Colonel as of date 17th April, 1915.
Here he remained until the day of his death on January 28th, 1918.
III. The Brand of War
There are men who pass through such scenes unmoved. If they have eyes,
they do not see; and ears, they do not hear. But John McCrae was
profoundly moved, and bore in his body until the end the signs of his
experience. Before taking up his new duties he made a visit to the
hospitals in Paris to see if there was any new thing that might be
learned. A Nursing Sister in the American Ambulance at Neuilly-sur-Seine
met him in the wards. Although she had known him for fifteen years she did
not recognize him,—he appeared to her so old, so worn, his face
lined and ashen grey in colour, his expression dull, his action slow and
heavy.
To those who have never seen John McCrae since he left Canada this change
in his appearance will seem incredible. He was of the Eckfords, and the
Eckford men were "bonnie men", men with rosy cheeks. It was a year before
I met him again, and he had not yet recovered from the strain. Although he
was upwards of forty years of age when he left Canada he had always
retained an appearance of extreme youthfulness. He frequented the company
of men much younger than himself, and their youth was imputed to him. His
frame was tall and well knit, and he showed alertness in every move. He
would arise from the chair with every muscle in action, and walk forth as
if he were about to dance.
The first time I saw him he was doing an autopsy at the Montreal General
Hospital upon the body of a child who had died under my care. This must
have been in the year 1900, and the impression of boyishness remained
until I met him in France sixteen years later. His manner of dress did
much to produce this illusion. When he was a student in London he employed
a tailor in Queen Victoria Street to make his clothes; but with advancing
years he neglected to have new measurements taken or to alter the pattern
of his cloth. To obtain a new suit was merely to write a letter, and he
was always economical of time. In those days jackets were cut short, and
he adhered to the fashion with persistent care.
This appearance of youth at times caused chagrin to those patients who had
heard of his fame as a physician, and called upon him for the first time.
In the Royal Victoria Hospital, after he had been appointed physician, he
entered the wards and asked a nurse to fetch a screen so that he might
examine a patient in privacy.
"Students are not allowed to use screens," the young woman warned him with
some asperity in her voice.
If I were asked to state briefly the impression which remains with me most
firmly, I should say it was one of continuous laughter. That is not true,
of course, for in repose his face was heavy, his countenance more than
ruddy; it was even of a "choleric" cast, and at times almost livid,
especially when he was recovering from one of those attacks of asthma from
which he habitually suffered. But his smile was his own, and it was
ineffable. It filled the eyes, and illumined the face. It was the smile of
sheer fun, of pure gaiety, of sincere playfulness, innocent of irony; with
a tinge of sarcasm—never. When he allowed himself to speak of
meanness in the profession, of dishonesty in men, of evil in the world,
his face became formidable. The glow of his countenance deepened; his
words were bitter, and the tones harsh. But the indignation would not
last. The smile would come back. The effect was spoiled. Everyone laughed
with him.
After his experience at the front the old gaiety never returned. There
were moments of irascibility and moods of irritation. The desire for
solitude grew upon him, and with Bonfire and Bonneau he would go apart for
long afternoons far afield by the roads and lanes about Boulogne. The
truth is: he felt that he and all had failed, and that the torch was
thrown from failing hands. We have heard much of the suffering, the
misery, the cold, the wet, the gloom of those first three winters; but no
tongue has yet uttered the inner misery of heart that was bred of those
three years of failure to break the enemy's force.
He was not alone in this shadow of deep darkness. Givenchy, Festubert,
Neuve-Chapelle, Ypres, Hooge, the Somme—to mention alone the battles
in which up to that time the Canadian Corps had been engaged—all
ended in failure; and to a sensitive and foreboding mind there were sounds
and signs that it would be given to this generation to hear the pillars
and fabric of Empire come crashing into the abysm of chaos. He was not at
the Somme in that October of 1916, but those who returned up north with
the remnants of their division from that place of slaughter will remember
that, having done all men could do, they felt like deserters because they
had not left their poor bodies dead upon the field along with friends of a
lifetime, comrades of a campaign. This is no mere matter of surmise. The
last day I spent with him we talked of those things in his tent, and I
testify that it is true.
IV. Going to the Wars
John McCrae went to the war without illusions. At first, like many others
of his age, he did not "think of enlisting", although "his services are at
the disposal of the Country if it needs them."
In July, 1914, he was at work upon the second edition of the 'Text-Book of
Pathology' by Adami and McCrae, published by Messrs. Lea and Febiger, and
he had gone to Philadelphia to read the proofs. He took them to Atlantic
City where he could "sit out on the sand, and get sunshine and oxygen, and
work all at once."
It was a laborious task, passing eighty to a hundred pages of highly
technical print each day. Then there was the index, between six and seven
thousand items. "I have," so he writes,﹃to change every item in the old
index and add others. I have a pile of pages, 826 in all. I look at the
index, find the old page among the 826, and then change the number. This
about 7000 times, so you may guess the drudgery.﹄On July 15th, the work
was finished, registered, and entrusted to the mail with a special
delivery stamp. The next day he wrote the preface,﹃which really finished
the job.﹄In very truth his scientific work was done.
It was now midsummer. The weather was hot. He returned to Montreal.
Practice was dull. He was considering a voyage to Havre and﹃a little trip
with Dr. Adami﹄when he arrived. On July 29th, he left Canada﹃for better
or worse. With the world so disturbed,﹄he records,﹃I would gladly have
stayed more in touch with events, but I dare say one is just as happy away
from the hundred conflicting reports.﹄The ship was the 'Scotian' of the
Allan Line, and he "shared a comfortable cabin with a professor of Greek,"
who was at the University in his own time.
For one inland born, he had a keen curiosity about ships and the sea.
There is a letter written when he was thirteen years of age in which he
gives an account of a visit to a naval exhibition in London. He describes
the models which he saw, and gives an elaborate table of names,
dimensions, and tonnage. He could identify the house flags and funnels of
all the principal liners; he could follow a ship through all her
vicissitudes and change of ownership. When he found himself in a seaport
town his first business was to visit the water front and take knowledge of
the vessels that lay in the stream or by the docks. One voyage he made to
England was in a cargo ship. With his passion for work he took on the
duties of surgeon, and amazed the skipper with a revelation of the new
technique in operations which he himself had been accustomed to perform by
the light of experience alone.
On the present and more luxurious voyage, he remarks that the decks were
roomy, the ship seven years old, and capable of fifteen knots an hour, the
passengers pleasant, and including a large number of French. All now know
only too well the nature of the business which sent those ardent spirits
flocking home to their native land.
Forty-eight hours were lost in fog. The weather was too thick for making
the Straits, and the 'Scotian' proceeded by Cape Race on her way to Havre.
Under date of August 5-6 the first reference to the war appears:﹃All is
excitement; the ship runs without lights. Surely the German kaiser has his
head in the noose at last: it will be a terrible war, and the finish of
one or the other. I am afraid my holiday trip is knocked galley west; but
we shall see.﹄The voyage continues. A "hundred miles from Moville we
turned back, and headed South for Queenstown; thence to the Channel; put
in at Portland; a squadron of battleships; arrived here this morning."
The problem presented itself to him as to many another. The decision was
made. To go back to America was to go back from the war. Here are the
words: "It seems quite impossible to return, and I do not think I should
try. I would not feel quite comfortable over it. I am cabling to Morrison
at Ottawa, that I am available either as combatant or medical if they need
me. I do not go to it very light-heartedly, but I think it is up to me."
It was not so easy in those days to get to the war, as he and many others
were soon to discover. There was in Canada at the time a small permanent
force of 3000 men, a military college, a Headquarters staff, and
divisional staff for the various districts into which the country was
divided. In addition there was a body of militia with a strength of about
60,000 officers and other ranks. Annual camps were formed at which all
arms of the service were represented, and the whole was a very good
imitation of service conditions. Complete plans for mobilization were in
existence, by which a certain quota, according to the establishment
required, could be detailed from each district. But upon the outbreak of
war the operations were taken in hand by a Minister of Militia who assumed
in his own person all those duties usually assigned to the staff. He
called to his assistance certain business and political associates, with
the result that volunteers who followed military methods did not get very
far.
Accordingly we find it written in John McCrae's diary from London:
"Nothing doing here. I have yet no word from the Department at Ottawa, but
I try to be philosophical until I hear from Morrison. If they want me for
the Canadian forces, I could use my old Sam Browne belt, sword, and saddle
if it is yet extant. At times I wish I could go home with a clear
conscience."
He sailed for Canada in the 'Calgarian' on August 28th, having received a
cablegram from Colonel Morrison, that he had been provisionally appointed
surgeon to the 1st Brigade Artillery. The night he arrived in Montreal I
dined with him at the University Club, and he was aglow with enthusiasm
over this new adventure. He remained in Montreal for a few days, and on
September 9th, joined the unit to which he was attached as medical
officer. Before leaving Montreal he wrote to his sister Geills:
"Out on the awful old trail again! And with very mixed feelings, but some
determination. I am off to Val-cartier to-night. I was really afraid to go
home, for I feared it would only be harrowing for Mater, and I think she
agrees. We can hope for happier times. Everyone most kind and helpful: my
going does not seem to surprise anyone. I know you will understand it is
hard to go home, and perhaps easier for us all that I do not. I am in good
hope of coming back soon and safely: that, I am glad to say, is in other
and better hands than ours."
V. South Africa
In the Autumn of 1914, after John McCrae had gone over-seas, I was in a
warehouse in Montreal, in which one might find an old piece of mahogany
wood. His boxes were there in storage, with his name plainly printed upon
them. The storeman, observing my interest, remarked:﹃This Doctor McCrae
cannot be doing much business; he is always going to the wars.﹄The remark
was profoundly significant of the state of mind upon the subject of war
which prevailed at the time in Canada in more intelligent persons. To this
storeman war merely meant that the less usefully employed members of the
community sent their boxes to him for safe-keeping until their return. War
was a great holiday from work; and he had a vague remembrance that some
fifteen years before this customer had required of him a similar service
when the South African war broke out.
Either 'in esse' or 'in posse' John McCrae had﹃always been going to the
wars.﹄At fourteen years of age he joined the Guelph Highland Cadets, and
rose to the rank of 1st Lieutenant. As his size and strength increased he
reverted to the ranks and transferred to the Artillery. In due time he
rose from gunner to major. The formal date of his "Gazette" is 17-3-02 as
they write it in the army; but he earned his rank in South Africa.
War was the burden of his thought; war and death the theme of his verse.
At the age of thirteen we find him at a gallery in Nottingham, writing
this note:﹃I saw the picture of the artillery going over the trenches at
Tel-el-Kebir. It is a good picture; but there are four teams on the guns.
Perhaps an extra one had to be put on.﹄If his nomenclature was not
correct, the observation of the young artillerist was exact. Such excesses
were not permitted in his father's battery in Guelph, Ontario. During this
same visit his curiosity led him into the House of Lords, and the sum of
his written observation is, "When someone is speaking no one seems to
listen at all."
His mother I never knew. Canada is a large place. With his father I had
four hours' talk from seven to eleven one June evening in London in 1917.
At the time I was on leave from France to give the Cavendish Lecture, a
task which demanded some thought; and after two years in the army it was a
curious sensation—watching one's mind at work again. The day was
Sunday. I had walked down to the river to watch the flowing tide. To one
brought up in a country of streams and a moving sea the curse of Flanders
is her stagnant waters. It is little wonder the exiles from the Judaean
hillsides wept beside the slimy River.
The Thames by evening in June, memories that reached from Tacitus to
Wordsworth, the embrasure that extends in front of the Egyptian obelisk
for a standing place, and some children "swimming a dog";—that was
the scene and circumstance of my first meeting with his father. A man of
middle age was standing by. He wore the flashings of a Lieutenant-Colonel
and for badges the Artillery grenades. He seemed a friendly man; and under
the influence of the moment, which he also surely felt, I spoke to him.
"A fine river,"—That was a safe remark.
"But I know a finer."
"Pharpar and Abana?" I put the stranger to the test.
"No," he said. "The St. Lawrence is not of Damascus." He had answered to
the sign, and looked at my patches.
"I have a son in France, myself," he said. "His name is McCrae."
"Not John McCrae?"
"John McCrae is my son."
The resemblance was instant, but this was an older man than at first sight
he seemed to be. I asked him to dinner at Morley's, my place of resort for
a length of time beyond the memory of all but the oldest servants. He had
already dined but he came and sat with me, and told me marvellous things.
David McCrae had raised, and trained, a field battery in Guelph, and
brought it overseas. He was at the time upwards of seventy years of age,
and was considered on account of years alone "unfit" to proceed to the
front. For many years he had commanded a field battery in the Canadian
militia, went on manoeuvres with his "cannons", and fired round shot. When
the time came for using shells he bored the fuse with a gimlet; and if the
gimlet were lost in the grass, the gun was out of action until the useful
tool could be found. This "cannon ball" would travel over the country
according to the obstacles it encountered and, "if it struck a man, it
might break his leg."
In such a martial atmosphere the boy was brought up, and he was early
nourished with the history of the Highland regiments. Also from his father
he inherited, or had instilled into him, a love of the out of doors, a
knowledge of trees, and plants, a sympathy with birds and beasts, domestic
and wild. When the South African war broke out a contingent was dispatched
from Canada, but it was so small that few of those desiring to go could
find a place. This explains the genesis of the following letter:
I see by to-night's bulletin that there is to be no second contingent. I
feel sick with disappointment, and do not believe that I have ever been so
disappointed in my life, for ever since this business began I am certain
there have not been fifteen minutes of my waking hours that it has not
been in my mind. It has to come sooner or later. One campaign might cure
me, but nothing else ever will, unless it should be old age. I regret
bitterly that I did not enlist with the first, for I doubt if ever another
chance will offer like it. This is not said in ignorance of what the
hardships would be.
I am ashamed to say I am doing my work in a merely mechanical way. If they
are taking surgeons on the other side, I have enough money to get myself
across. If I knew any one over there who could do anything, I would
certainly set about it. If I can get an appointment in England by going, I
will go. My position here I do not count as an old boot in comparison.
In the end he accomplished the desire of his heart, and sailed on the
'Laurentian'. Concerning the voyage one transcription will be enough:
On orderly duty. I have just been out taking the picket at 11.30 P.M. In
the stables the long row of heads in the half-darkness, the creaking of
the ship, the shivering of the hull from the vibration of the engines, the
sing of a sentry on the spar deck to some passer-by. Then to the forward
deck: the sky half covered with scudding clouds, the stars bright in the
intervals, the wind whistling a regular blow that tries one's ears, the
constant swish as she settles down to a sea; and, looking aft, the funnel
with a wreath of smoke trailing away off into the darkness on the
starboard quarter; the patch of white on the funnel discernible dimly; the
masts drawing maps across the sky as one looks up; the clank of shovels
coming up through the ventilators,—if you have ever been there, you
know it all.
There was a voluntary service at six; two ships' lanterns and the men all
around, the background of sky and sea, and the strains of﹃Nearer my God
to Thee﹄rising up in splendid chorus. It was a very effective scene, and
it occurred to me that THIS was "the rooibaatjees singing on the road," as
the song says.
The next entry is from South Africa:
Green Point Camp, Capetown,
February 25th, 1900.
You have no idea of the WORK. Section commanders live with their sections,
which is the right way. It makes long hours. I never knew a softer bed
than the ground is these nights. I really enjoy every minute though there
is anxiety. We have lost all our spare horses. We have only enough to turn
out the battery and no more.
After a description of a number of the regiments camped near by them, he
speaks of the Indian troops, and then says:
We met the High Priest of it all, and I had a five minutes' chat with him—Kipling
I mean. He visited the camp. He looks like his pictures, and is very
affable. He told me I spoke like a Winnipeger. He said we ought to "fine
the men for drinking unboiled water. Don't give them C.B.; it is no good.
Fine them, or drive common sense into them. All Canadians have common
sense."
The next letter is from the Lines of Communication:
Van Wyks Vlei,
March 22nd, 1900.
Here I am with my first command. Each place we strike is a little more
God-forsaken than the last, and this place wins up to date. We marched
last week from Victoria west to Carnovan, about 80 miles. We stayed there
over Sunday, and on Monday my section was detached with mounted infantry,
I being the only artillery officer. We marched 54 miles in 37 hours with
stops; not very fast, but quite satisfactory. My horse is doing well,
although very thin. Night before last on the road we halted, and I
dismounted for a minute. When we started I pulled on the lines but no
answer. The poor old chap was fast asleep in his tracks, and in about
thirty seconds too.
This continuous marching is really hard work. The men at every halt just
drop down in the road and sleep until they are kicked up again in ten
minutes. They do it willingly too. I am commanding officer, adjutant,
officer on duty, and all the rest since we left the main body. Talk about
the Army in Flanders! You should hear this battalion. I always knew
soldiers could swear, but you ought to hear these fellows. I am told the
first contingent has got a name among the regulars.
Three weeks later he writes:
April 10th, 1900.
We certainly shall have done a good march when we get to the railroad, 478
miles through a country desolate of forage carrying our own transport and
one-half rations of forage, and frequently the men's rations. For two days
running we had nine hours in the saddle without food. My throat was sore
and swollen for a day or two, and I felt so sorry for myself at times that
I laughed to think how I must have looked: sitting on a stone, drinking a
pan of tea without trimmings, that had got cold, and eating a shapeless
lump of brown bread; my one "hank" drawn around my neck, serving as hank
and bandage alternately. It is miserable to have to climb up on one's
horse with a head like a buzz saw, the sun very hot, and "gargle" in one's
water bottle. It is surprising how I can go without water if I have to on
a short stretch, that is, of ten hours in the sun. It is after nightfall
that the thirst really seems to attack one and actually gnaws. One thinks
of all the cool drinks and good things one would like to eat. Please
understand that this is not for one instant in any spirit of growling.
The detail was now established at Victoria Road. Three entries appear*:
* I only count two. . . . A. L., 1995.
April 23rd, 1900.
We are still here in camp hoping for orders to move, but they have not yet
come. Most of the other troops have gone. A squadron of the M.C.R., my
messmates for the past five weeks, have gone and I am left an orphan. I
was very sorry to see them go. They, in the kindness of their hearts, say,
if I get stranded, they will do the best they can to get a troop for me in
the squadron or some such employment. Impracticable, but kind. I have no
wish to cease to be a gunner.
Victoria Road, May 20th, 1900.
The horses are doing as well as one can expect, for the rations are
insufficient. Our men have been helping to get ready a rest camp near us,
and have been filling mattresses with hay. Every fatigue party comes back
from the hospital, their jackets bulging with hay for the horses. Two
bales were condemned as too musty to put into the mattresses, and we were
allowed to take them for the horses. They didn't leave a spear of it.
Isn't it pitiful? Everything that the heart of man and woman can devise
has been sent out for the "Tommies", but no one thinks of the poor horses.
They get the worst of it all the time. Even now we blush to see the
handful of hay that each horse gets at a feed.
The Boer War is so far off in time and space that a few further detached
references must suffice:
When riding into Bloemfontein met Lord——'s funeral at the
cemetery gates,—band, firing party, Union Jack, and about three
companies. A few yards farther on a "Tommy" covered only by his blanket,
escorted by thirteen men all told, the last class distinction that the
world can ever make.
We had our baptism of fire yesterday. They opened on us from the left
flank. Their first shell was about 150 yards in front—direction
good. The next was 100 yards over; and we thought we were bracketed. Some
shrapnel burst over us and scattered on all sides. I felt as if a hail
storm was coming down, and wanted to turn my back, but it was over in an
instant. The whistle of a shell is unpleasant. You hear it begin to
scream; the scream grows louder and louder; it seems to be coming exactly
your way; then you realize that it has gone over. Most of them fell
between our guns and wagons. Our position was quite in the open.
With Ian Hamilton's column near Balmoral.
The day was cold, much like a December day at home, and by my kit going
astray I had only light clothing. The rain was fearfully chilly. When we
got in about dark we found that the transport could not come up, and it
had all our blankets and coats. I had my cape and a rubber sheet for the
saddle, both soaking wet. Being on duty I held to camp, the others making
for the house nearby where they got poor quarters. I bunked out,
supperless like every one else, under an ammunition wagon. It rained most
of the night and was bitterly cold. I slept at intervals, keeping the same
position all night, both legs in a puddle and my feet being rained on: it
was a long night from dark at 5.30 to morning. Ten men in the infantry
regiment next us died during the night from exposure. Altogether I never
knew such a night, and with decent luck hope never to see such another.
As we passed we saw the Connaughts looking at the graves of their comrades
of twenty years ago. The Battery rode at attention and gave "Eyes right":
the first time for twenty years that the roll of a British gun has broken
in on the silence of those unnamed graves.
We were inspected by Lord Roberts. The battery turned out very smart, and
Lord Roberts complimented the Major on its appearance. He then inspected,
and afterwards asked to have the officers called out. We were presented to
him in turn; he spoke a few words to each of us, asking what our corps and
service had been. He seemed surprised that we were all Field Artillery
men, but probably the composition of the other Canadian units had to do
with this. He asked a good many questions about the horses, the men, and
particularly about the spirits of the men. Altogether he showed a very
kind interest in the battery.
At nine took the Presbyterian parade to the lines, the first Presbyterian
service since we left Canada. We had the right, the Gordons and the Royal
Scots next. The music was excellent, led by the brass band of the Royal
Scots, which played extremely well. All the singing was from the psalms
and paraphrases: "Old Hundred" and "Duke Street" among them. It was very
pleasant to hear the old reliables once more. "McCrae's Covenanters" some
of the officers called us; but I should not like to set our conduct up
against the standard of those austere men.
At Lyndenburg:
The Boers opened on us at about 10,000 yards, the fire being accurate from
the first. They shelled us till dark, over three hours. The guns on our
left fired for a long time on Buller's camp, the ones on our right on us.
We could see the smoke and flash; then there was a soul-consuming interval
of 20 to 30 seconds when we would hear the report, and about five seconds
later the burst. Many in succession burst over and all around us. I picked
up pieces which fell within a few feet. It was a trying afternoon, and we
stood around wondering. We moved the horses back, and took cover under the
wagons. We were thankful when the sun went down, especially as for the
last hour of daylight they turned all their guns on us. The casualties
were few.
The next morning a heavy mist prevented the enemy from firing. The
division marched out at 7.30 A.M. The attack was made in three columns:
cavalry brigade on the left; Buller's troops in the centre, Hamilton's on
the right. The Canadian artillery were with Hamilton's division. The
approach to the hill was exposed everywhere except where some cover was
afforded by ridges. We marched out as support to the Gordons, the cavalry
and the Royal Horse Artillery going out to our right as a flank guard.
While we were waiting three 100-pound shells struck the top of the ridge
in succession about 50 to 75 yards in front of the battery line. We began
to feel rather shaky.
On looking over the field at this time one could not tell that anything
was occurring except for the long range guns replying to the fire from the
hill. The enemy had opened fire as soon as our advance was pushed out.
With a glass one could distinguish the infantry pushing up in lines, five
or six in succession, the men being some yards apart. Then came a long
pause, broken only by the big guns. At last we got the order to advance
just as the big guns of the enemy stopped their fire. We advanced about
four miles mostly up the slope, which is in all about 1500 feet high, over
a great deal of rough ground and over a number of spruits. The horses were
put to their utmost to draw the guns up the hills. As we advanced we could
see artillery crawling in from both flanks, all converging to the main
hill, while far away the infantry and cavalry were beginning to crown the
heights near us. Then the field guns and the pompoms began to play. As the
field guns came up to a broad plateau section after section came into
action, and we fired shrapnel and lyddite on the crests ahead and to the
left. Every now and then a rattle of Mausers and Metfords would tell us
that the infantry were at their work, but practically the battle was over.
From being an infantry attack as expected it was the gunners' day, and the
artillery seemed to do excellent work.
General Buller pushed up the hill as the guns were at work, and afterwards
General Hamilton; the one as grim as his pictures, the other looking very
happy. The wind blew through us cold like ice as we stood on the hill; as
the artillery ceased fire the mist dropped over us chilling us to the
bone. We were afraid we should have to spend the night on the hill, but a
welcome order came sending us back to camp, a distance of five miles by
the roads, as Buller would hold the hill, and our force must march south.
Our front was over eight miles wide and the objective 1500 feet higher
than our camp, and over six miles away. If the enemy had had the nerve to
stand, the position could scarcely have been taken; certainly not without
the loss of thousands.
For this campaign he received the Queen's Medal with three clasps.
VI. Children and Animals
Through all his life, and through all his letters, dogs and children
followed him as shadows follow men. To walk in the streets with him was a
slow procession. Every dog and every child one met must be spoken to, and
each made answer. Throughout the later letters the names Bonfire and
Bonneau occur continually. Bonfire was his horse, and Bonneau his dog.
This horse, an Irish hunter, was given to him by John L. Todd. It was
wounded twice, and now lives in honourable retirement at a secret place
which need not be disclosed to the army authorities. One officer who had
visited the hospital writes of seeing him going about the wards with
Bonneau and a small French child following after. In memory of his love
for animals and children the following extracts will serve:
You ask if the wee fellow has a name—Mike, mostly, as a term of
affection. He has found a cupboard in one ward in which oakum is stored,
and he loves to steal in there and "pick oakum", amusing himself as long
as is permitted. I hold that this indicates convict ancestry to which Mike
makes no defence.
The family is very well, even one-eyed Mike is able to go round the yard
in his dressing-gown, so to speak. He is a queer pathetic little beast and
Madame has him "hospitalized" on the bottom shelf of the sideboard in the
living room, whence he comes down (six inches to the floor) to greet me,
and then gravely hirples back, the hind legs looking very pathetic as he
hops in. But he is full of spirit and is doing very well.
As to the animals—"those poor voiceless creatures," say you. I wish
you could hear them. Bonneau and Mike are a perfect Dignity and Impudence;
and both vocal to a wonderful degree. Mike's face is exactly like the
terrier in the old picture, and he sits up and gives his paw just like
Bonneau, and I never saw him have any instruction; and as for voice, I
wish you could hear Bonfire's "whicker" to me in the stable or elsewhere.
It is all but talk. There is one ward door that he tries whenever we pass.
He turns his head around, looks into the door, and waits. The Sisters in
the ward have changed frequently, but all alike "fall for it", as they
say, and produce a biscuit or some such dainty which Bonfire takes with
much gravity and gentleness. Should I chide him for being too eager and
give him my hand saying, "Gentle now," he mumbles with his lips, and licks
with his tongue like a dog to show how gentle he can be when he tries.
Truly a great boy is that same. On this subject I am like a doting
grandmother, but forgive it.
I have a very deep affection for Bonfire, for we have been through so much
together, and some of it bad enough. All the hard spots to which one's
memory turns the old fellow has shared, though he says so little about it.
This love of animals was no vagrant mood. Fifteen years before in South
Africa he wrote in his diary under date of September 11th, 1900:
I wish I could introduce you to the dogs of the force. The genus dog here
is essentially sociable, and it is a great pleasure to have them about. I
think I have a personal acquaintance with them all. There are our pups—Dolly,
whom I always know by her one black and one white eyebrow; Grit and Tory,
two smaller gentlemen, about the size of a pound of butter—and
fighters; one small white gentleman who rides on a horse, on the blanket;
Kitty, the monkey, also rides the off lead of the forge wagon. There is a
black almond-eyed person belonging to the Royal Scots, who begins to twist
as far as I can see her, and comes up in long curves, extremely genially.
A small shaggy chap who belongs to the Royal Irish stands upon his hind
legs and spars with his front feet—and lots of others—every
one of them "a soldier and a man". The Royal Scots have a monkey, Jenny,
who goes around always trailing a sack in her hand, into which she creeps
if necessary to obtain shelter.
The other day old Jack, my horse, was bitten by his next neighbor; he
turned SLOWLY, eyed his opponent, shifted his rope so that he had a little
more room, turned very deliberately, and planted both heels in the
offender's stomach. He will not be run upon.
From a time still further back comes a note in a like strain. In 1898 he
was house physician in a children's hospital at Mt. Airy, Maryland, when
he wrote:
A kitten has taken up with a poor cripple dying of muscular atrophy who
cannot move. It stays with him all the time, and sleeps most of the day in
his straw hat. To-night I saw the kitten curled up under the bed-clothes.
It seems as if it were a gift of Providence that the little creature
should attach itself to the child who needs it most.
Of another child:
The day she died she called for me all day, deposed the nurse who was
sitting by her, and asked me to remain with her. She had to be held up on
account of lack of breath; and I had a tiring hour of it before she died,
but it seemed to make her happier and was no great sacrifice. Her friends
arrived twenty minutes too late. It seems hard that Death will not wait
the poor fraction of an hour, but so it is.
And here are some letters to his nephews and nieces which reveal his
attitude both to children and to animals.
From Bonfire to Sergt.-Major Jack Kilgour
August 6th, 1916.
Did you ever have a sore hock? I have one now, and Cruickshank puts
bandages on my leg. He also washed my white socks for me. I am glad you
got my picture. My master is well, and the girls tell me I am looking
well, too. The ones I like best give me biscuits and sugar, and sometimes
flowers. One of them did not want to give me some mignonette the other day
because she said it would make me sick. It did not make me sick. Another
one sends me bags of carrots. If you don't know how to eat carrots, tops
and all, you had better learn, but I suppose you are just a boy, and do
not know how good oats are.
BONFIRE His * Mark.
* Here and later, this mark is that of a horse-shoe. A. L., 1995.
From Bonfire to Sergt.-Major Jack Kilgour
October 1st, 1916.
Dear Jack,
Did you ever eat blackberries? My master and I pick them every day on the
hedges. I like twenty at a time. My leg is better but I have a lump on my
tummy. I went to see my doctor to-day, and he says it is nothing at all. I
have another horse staying in my stable now; he is black, and about half
my size. He does not keep me awake at night. Yours truly,
BONFIRE His * Mark.
From Bonfire to Margaret Kilgour, Civilian
November 5th, 1916.
Dear Margaret:
This is Guy Fox Day! I spell it that way because fox-hunting was my
occupation a long time ago before the war. How are Sergt.-Major Jack and
Corporal David? Ask Jack if he ever bites through his rope at night, and
gets into the oat-box. And as for the Corporal, "I bet you" I can jump as
far as he can. I hear David has lost his red coat. I still have my grey
one, but it is pretty dirty now, for I have not had a new one for a long
time. I got my hair cut a few weeks ago and am to have new boots next
week. Bonneau and Follette send their love. Yours truly,
BONFIRE His * Mark.
In Flanders, April 3rd, 1915.
My dear Margaret:
There is a little girl in this house whose name is Clothilde. She is ten
years old, and calls me "Monsieur le Major". How would you like it if
twenty or thirty soldiers came along and lived in your house and put their
horses in the shed or the stable? There are not many little boys and girls
left in this part of the country, but occasionally one meets them on the
roads with baskets of eggs or loaves of bread. Most of them have no homes,
for their houses have been burnt by the Germans; but they do not cry over
it. It is dangerous for them, for a shell might hit them at any time—and
it would not be an eggshell, either.
Bonfire is very well. Mother sent him some packets of sugar, and if ever
you saw a big horse excited about a little parcel, it was Bonfire. He can
have only two lumps in any one day, for there is not much of it. Twice he
has had gingerbread and he is very fond of that. It is rather funny for a
soldier-horse, is it not? But soldier horses have a pretty hard time of
it, sometimes, so we do not grudge them a little luxury. Bonfire's friends
are King, and Prince, and Saxonia,—all nice big boys. If they go
away and leave him, he whinnies till he catches sight of them again, and
then he is quite happy. How is the 15th Street Brigade getting on? Tell
Mother I recommend Jack for promotion to corporal if he has been good.
David will have to be a gunner for awhile yet, for everybody cannot be
promoted. Give my love to Katharine, and Jack, and David.
Your affectionate uncle Jack.
Bonfire, and Bonneau, and little Mike, are all well. Mike is about four
months old and has lost an eye and had a leg broken, but he is a very good
little boy all the same. He is very fond of Bonfire, and Bonneau, and me.
I go to the stable and whistle, and Bonneau and Mike come running out
squealing with joy, to go for a little walk with me. When Mike comes to
steps, he puts his feet on the lowest steps and turns and looks at me and
I lift him up. He is a dear ugly little chap.
The dogs are often to be seen sprawled on the floor of my tent. I like to
have them there for they are very home-like beasts. They never seem French
to me. Bonneau can "donner la patte" in good style nowadays, and he
sometimes curls up inside the rabbit hutch, and the rabbits seem to like
him.
I wish you could see the hundreds of rabbits there are here on the
sand-dunes; there are also many larks and jackdaws. (These are different
from your brother Jack, although they have black faces.) There are herons,
curlews, and even ducks; and the other day I saw four young weasels in a
heap, jumping over each other from side to side as they ran.
Sir Bertrand Dawson has a lovely little spaniel, Sue, quite black, who
goes around with him. I am quite a favourite, and one day Sir Bertrand
said to me, "She has brought you a present," and here she was waiting
earnestly for me to remove from her mouth a small stone. It is usually a
simple gift, I notice, and does not embarrass by its value.
Bonfire is very sleek and trim, and we journey much. If I sit down in his
reach I wish you could see how deftly he can pick off my cap and swing it
high out of my reach. He also carries my crop; his games are simple, but
he does not readily tire of them.
I lost poor old Windy. He was the regimental dog of the 1st Batt.
Lincolns, and came to this vale of Avalon to be healed of his second
wound. He spent a year at Gallipoli and was "over the top" twice with his
battalion. He came to us with his papers like any other patient, and did
very well for a while, but took suddenly worse. He had all that care and
love could suggest and enough morphine to keep the pain down; but he was
very pathetic, and I had resolved that it would be true friendship to help
him over when he "went west". He is buried in our woods like any other
good soldier, and yesterday I noticed that some one has laid a little
wreath of ivy on his grave. He was an old dog evidently, but we are all
sore-hearted at losing him. His kit is kept should his master return,—only
his collar with his honourable marks, for his wardrobe was of necessity
simple. So another sad chapter ends.
September 29th, 1915.
Bonneau gravely accompanies me round the wards and waits for me, sitting
up in a most dignified way. He comes into my tent and sits there very
gravely while I dress. Two days ago a Sister brought out some biscuits for
Bonfire, and not understanding the rules of the game, which are bit and
bit about for Bonfire and Bonneau, gave all to Bonfire, so that poor
Bonneau sat below and caught the crumbs that fell. I can see that Bonfire
makes a great hit with the Sisters because he licks their hands just like
a dog, and no crumb is too small to be gone after.
April, 1917.
I was glad to get back; Bonfire and Bonneau greeted me very
enthusiastically. I had a long long story from the dog, delivered with
uplifted muzzle. They tell me he sat gravely on the roads a great deal
during my absence, and all his accustomed haunts missed him. He is back on
rounds faithfully.
VII. The Old Land and the New
If one were engaged upon a formal work of biography rather than a mere
essay in character, it would be just and proper to investigate the family
sources from which the individual member is sprung; but I must content
myself within the bounds which I have set, and leave the larger task to a
more laborious hand. The essence of history lies in the character of the
persons concerned, rather than in the feats which they performed. A man
neither lives to himself nor in himself. He is indissolubly bound up with
his stock, and can only explain himself in terms common to his family; but
in doing so he transcends the limits of history, and passes into the
realms of philosophy and religion.
The life of a Canadian is bound up with the history of his parish, of his
town, of his province, of his country, and even with the history of that
country in which his family had its birth. The life of John McCrae takes
us back to Scotland. In Canada there has been much writing of history of a
certain kind. It deals with events rather than with the subtler matter of
people, and has been written mainly for purposes of advertising. If the
French made a heroic stand against the Iroquois, the sacred spot is now
furnished with an hotel from which a free 'bus runs to a station upon the
line of an excellent railway. Maisonneuve fought his great fight upon a
place from which a vicious mayor cut the trees which once sheltered the
soldier, to make way for a fountain upon which would be raised
"historical" figures in concrete stone.
The history of Canada is the history of its people, not of its railways,
hotels, and factories. The material exists in written or printed form in
the little archives of many a family. Such a chronicle is in possession of
the Eckford family which now by descent on the female side bears the
honoured names of Gow, and McCrae. John Eckford had two daughters, in the
words of old Jamie Young, "the most lovingest girls he ever knew." The
younger, Janet Simpson, was taken to wife by David McCrae, 21st January,
1870, and on November 30th, 1872, became the mother of John. To her he
wrote all these letters, glowing with filial devotion, which I am
privileged to use so freely.
There is in the family a tradition of the single name for the males. It
was therefore proper that the elder born should be called Thomas, more
learned in medicine, more assiduous in practice, and more weighty in
intellect even than the otherwise more highly gifted John. He too is
professor of medicine, and co-author of a profound work with his master
and relative by marriage—Sir William Osler. Also, he wore the King's
uniform and served in the present war.
This John Eckford, accompanied by his two daughters, the mother being
dead, his sister, her husband who bore the name of Chisholm, and their
numerous children emigrated to Canada, May 28th, 1851, in the ship
'Clutha' which sailed from the Broomielaw bound for Quebec. The consort,
'Wolfville', upon which they had originally taken passage, arrived in
Quebec before them, and lay in the stream, flying the yellow flag of
quarantine. Cholera had broken out.﹃Be still, and see the salvation of
the Lord,﹄were the words of the family morning prayers.
In the 'Clutha' also came as passengers James and Mary Gow; their cousin,
one Duncan Monach; Mrs. Hanning, who was a sister of Thomas Carlyle; and
her two daughters. On the voyage they escaped the usual hardships, and
their fare appears to us in these days to have been abundant. The weekly
ration was three quarts of water, two ounces of tea, one half pound of
sugar, one half pound molasses, three pounds of bread, one pound of flour,
two pounds of rice, and five pounds of oatmeal.
The reason for this migration is succinctly stated by the head of the
house.﹃I know how hard it was for my mother to start me, and I wanted
land for my children and a better opportunity for them.﹄And yet his
parents in their time appear to have "started" him pretty well, although
his father was obliged to confess,﹃I never had more of this world's goods
than to bring up my family by the labour of my hands honestly, but it is
more than my Master owned, who had not where to lay His head.﹄They
allowed him that very best means of education, a calmness of the senses,
as he herded sheep on the Cheviot Hills. They put him to the University in
Edinburgh, as a preparation for the ministry, and supplied him with ample
oatmeal, peasemeal bannocks, and milk. In that great school of divinity he
learned the Hebrew, Greek, and Latin; he studied Italian, and French under
Surenne, him of blessed memory even unto this day.
John Eckford in 1839 married Margaret Christie, and he went far afield for
a wife, namely from Newbiggin in Forfar, where for fourteen years he had
his one and only charge, to Strathmiglo in Fife. The marriage was fruitful
and a happy one, although there is a hint in the record of some religious
difference upon which one would like to dwell if the subject were not too
esoteric for this generation. The minister showed a certain indulgence,
and so long as his wife lived he never employed the paraphrases in the
solemn worship of the sanctuary. She was a woman of provident mind.
Shortly after they were married he made the discovery that she had
prepared the grave clothes for him as well as for herself. Too soon, after
only eight years, it was her fate to be shrouded in them. After her death—probably
because of her death—John Eckford emigrated to Canada.
To one who knows the early days in Canada there is nothing new in the
story of this family. They landed in Montreal July 11th, 1851, forty-four
days out from Glasgow. They proceeded by steamer to Hamilton, the fare
being about a dollar for each passenger. The next stage was to Guelph;
then on to Durham, and finally they came to the end of their journeying
near Walkerton in Bruce County in the primeval forest, from which they cut
out a home for themselves and for their children.
It was "the winter of the deep snow". One transcription from the record
will disclose the scene:
At length a grave was dug on a knoll in the bush
at the foot of a great maple with a young snow-laden hemlock at the side.
The father and the eldest brother carried the box
along the shovelled path. The mother close behind was followed
by the two families. The snow was falling heavily. At the grave
John Eckford read a psalm, and prayed, "that they might be enabled
to believe, the mercy of the Lord is from everlasting to everlasting
unto them that fear Him."
John McCrae himself was an indefatigable church-goer. There is a note in
childish characters written from Edinburgh in his thirteenth year,﹃On
Sabbath went to service four times.﹄There the statement stands in all its
austerity. A letter from a chaplain is extant in which a certain mild
wonder is expressed at the regularity in attendance of an officer of field
rank. To his sure taste in poetry the hymns were a sore trial.﹃Only forty
minutes are allowed for the service,﹄he said, "and it is sad to see them
'snappit up' by these poor bald four-line things."
On Easter Sunday, 1915, he wrote:﹃We had a church parade this morning,
the first since we arrived in France. Truly, if the dead rise not, we are
of all men the most miserable.﹄On the funeral service of a friend he
remarks:﹃'Forasmuch as it hath pleased Almighty God,'—what a
summary of the whole thing that is!﹄On many occasions he officiated in
the absence of the chaplains who in those days would have as many as six
services a day. In civil life in Montreal he went to church in the
evening, and sat under the Reverend James Barclay of St. Pauls, now
designated by some at least as St. Andrews.
VIII. The Civil Years
It will be observed in this long relation of John McCrae that little
mention has yet been made of what after all was his main concern in life.
For twenty years he studied and practised medicine. To the end he was an
assiduous student and a very profound practitioner. He was a student, not
of medicine alone, but of all subjects ancillary to the science, and to
the task he came with a mind braced by a sound and generous education. Any
education of real value a man must have received before he has attained to
the age of seven years. Indeed he may be left impervious to its influence
at seven weeks. John McCrae's education began well. It began in the time
of his two grandfathers at least, was continued by his father and mother
before he came upon this world's scene, and by them was left deep founded
for him to build upon.
Noble natures have a repugnance from work. Manual labour is servitude. A
day of idleness is a holy day. For those whose means do not permit to live
in idleness the school is the only refuge; but they must prove their
quality. This is the goal which drives many Scotch boys to the University,
scorning delights and willing to live long, mind-laborious days.
John McCrae's father felt bound "to give the boy a chance," but the boy
must pass the test. The test in such cases is the Shorter Catechism, that
compendium of all intellectual argument. How the faithful aspirant for the
school acquires this body of written knowledge at a time when he has not
yet learned the use of letters is a secret not to be lightly disclosed. It
may indeed be that already his education is complete. Upon the little book
is always printed the table of multiples, so that the obvious truth which
is comprised in the statement, "two by two makes four", is imputed to the
contents which are within the cover. In studying the table the catechism
is learned surreptitiously, and therefore without self-consciousness.
So, in this well ordered family with its atmosphere of obedience, we may
see the boy, like a youthful Socrates going about with a copy of the book
in his hand, enquiring of those, who could already read, not alone what
were the answers to the questions but the very questions themselves to
which an answer was demanded.
This learning, however, was only a minor part of life, since upon a farm
life is very wide and very deep. In due time the school was accomplished,
and there was a master in the school—let his name be recorded—William
Tytler, who had a feeling for English writing and a desire to extend that
feeling to others.
In due time also the question of a University arose. There was a man in
Canada named Dawson—Sir William Dawson. I have written of him in
another place. He had the idea that a university had something to do with
the formation of character, and that in the formation of character
religion had a part. He was principal of McGill. I am not saying that all
boys who entered that University were religious boys when they went in, or
even religious men when they came out; but religious fathers had a general
desire to place their boys under Sir William Dawson's care.
Those were the days of a queer, and now forgotten, controversy over what
was called "Science and Religion". Of that also I have written in another
place. It was left to Sir William Dawson to deliver the last word in
defence of a cause that was already lost. His book came under the eye of
David McCrae, as most books of the time did, and he was troubled in his
heart. His boys were at the University of Toronto. It was too late; but he
eased his mind by writing a letter. To this letter John replies under date
20th December, 1890:﹃You say that after reading Dawson's book you almost
regretted that we had not gone to McGill. That, I consider, would have
been rather a calamity, about as much so as going to Queen's.﹄We are not
always wiser than our fathers were, and in the end he came to McGill after
all.
For good or ill, John McCrae entered the University of Toronto in 1888,
with a scholarship for "general proficiency". He joined the Faculty of
Arts, took the honours course in natural sciences, and graduated from the
department of biology in 1894, his course having been interrupted by two
severe illnesses. From natural science, it was an easy step to medicine,
in which he was encouraged by Ramsay Wright, A. B. Macallum, A. McPhedran,
and I. H. Cameron. In 1898 he graduated again, with a gold medal, and a
scholarship in physiology and pathology. The previous summer he had spent
at the Garrett Children's Hospital in Mt. Airy, Maryland.
Upon graduating he entered the Toronto General Hospital as resident house
officer; in 1899 he occupied a similar post at Johns Hopkins. Then he came
to McGill University as fellow in pathology and pathologist to the
Montreal General Hospital. In time he was appointed physician to the
Alexandra Hospital for infectious diseases; later assistant physician to
the Royal Victoria Hospital, and lecturer in medicine in the University.
By examination he became a member of the Royal College of Physicians,
London. In 1914 he was elected a member of the Association of American
Physicians. These are distinctions won by few in the profession.
In spite, or rather by reason, of his various attainments John McCrae
never developed, or degenerated, into the type of the pure scientist. For
the laboratory he had neither the mind nor the hands. He never peered at
partial truths so closely as to mistake them for the whole truth;
therefore, he was unfitted for that purely scientific career which was
developed to so high a pitch of perfection in that nation which is now no
longer mentioned amongst men. He wrote much, and often, upon medical
problems. The papers bearing his name amount to thirty-three items in the
catalogues. They testify to his industry rather than to invention and
discovery, but they have made his name known in every text-book of
medicine.
Apart from his verse, and letters, and diaries, and contributions to
journals and books of medicine, with an occasional address to students or
to societies, John McCrae left few writings, and in these there is nothing
remarkable by reason of thought or expression. He could not write prose.
Fine as was his ear for verse he could not produce that finer rhythm of
prose, which comes from the fall of proper words in proper sequence. He
never learned that if a writer of prose takes care of the sound the sense
will take care of itself. He did not scrutinize words to discover their
first and fresh meaning. He wrote in phrases, and used words at
second-hand as the journalists do. Bullets "rained"; guns "swept"; shells
"hailed"; events "transpired", and yet his appreciation of style in others
was perfect, and he was an insatiable reader of the best books. His
letters are strewn with names of authors whose worth time has proved. To
specify them would merely be to write the catalogue of a good library.
The thirteen years with which this century opened were the period in which
John McCrae established himself in civil life in Montreal and in the
profession of medicine. Of this period he has left a chronicle which is at
once too long and too short.
All lives are equally interesting if only we are in possession of all the
facts. Places like Oxford and Cambridge have been made interesting because
the people who live in them are in the habit of writing, and always write
about each other. Family letters have little interest even for the family
itself, if they consist merely of a recital of the trivial events of the
day. They are prized for the unusual and for the sentiment they contain.
Diaries also are dull unless they deal with selected incidents; and
selection is the essence of every art. Few events have any interest in
themselves, but any event can be made interesting by the pictorial or
literary art.
When he writes to his mother, that, as he was coming out of the college,
an Irish setter pressed a cold nose against his hand, that is interesting
because it is unusual. If he tells us that a professor took him by the
arm, there is no interest in that to her or to any one else. For that
reason the ample letters and diaries which cover these years need not
detain us long. There is in them little selection, little art—too
much professor and too little dog.
It is, of course, the business of the essayist to select; but in the
present case there is little to choose. He tells of invitations to dinner,
accepted, evaded, or refused; but he does not always tell who were there,
what he thought of them, or what they had to eat. Dinner at the Adami's,—supper
at Ruttan's,—a night with Owen,—tea at the Reford's,—theatre
with the Hickson's,—a reception at the Angus's,—or a dance at
the Allan's,—these events would all be quite meaningless without an
exposition of the social life of Montreal, which is too large a matter to
undertake, alluring as the task would be. Even then, one would be giving
one's own impressions and not his.
Wherever he lived he was a social figure. When he sat at table the dinner
was never dull. The entertainment he offered was not missed by the dullest
intelligence. His contribution was merely "stories", and these stories in
endless succession were told in a spirit of frank fun. They were not
illustrative, admonitory, or hortatory. They were just amusing, and always
fresh. This gift he acquired from his mother, who had that rare charm of
mimicry without mockery, and caricature without malice. In all his own
letters there is not an unkind comment or tinge of ill-nature, although in
places, especially in later years, there is bitter indignation against
those Canadian patriots who were patriots merely for their bellies' sake.
Taken together his letters and diaries are a revelation of the heroic
struggle by which a man gains a footing in a strange place in that most
particular of all professions, a struggle comprehended by those alone who
have made the trial of it. And yet the method is simple. It is all
disclosed in his words,﹃I have never refused any work that was given me
to do.﹄These records are merely a chronicle of work. Outdoor clinics,
laboratory tasks, post-mortems, demonstrating, teaching, lecturing,
attendance upon the sick in wards and homes, meetings, conventions,
papers, addresses, editing, reviewing,—the very remembrance of such
a career is enough to appall the stoutest heart.
But John McCrae was never appalled. He went about his work gaily, never
busy, never idle. Each minute was pressed into the service, and every hour
was made to count. In the first eight months of practice he claims to have
made ninety dollars. It is many years before we hear him complain of the
drudgery of sending out accounts, and sighing for the services of a
bookkeeper. This is the only complaint that appears in his letters.
There were at the time in Montreal two rival schools, and are yet two
rival hospitals. But John McCrae was of no party. He was the friend of all
men, and the confidant of many. He sought nothing for himself and by
seeking not he found what he most desired. His mind was single and his
intention pure; his acts unsullied by selfish thought; his aim was true
because it was steady and high. His aid was never sought for any cause
that was unworthy, and those humorous eyes could see through the bones to
the marrow of a scheme. In spite of his singular innocence, or rather by
reason of it, he was the last man in the world to be imposed upon.
In all this devastating labour he never neglected the assembling of
himself together with those who write and those who paint. Indeed, he had
himself some small skill in line and colour. His hands were the hands of
an artist—too fine and small for a body that weighted 180 pounds,
and measured more than five feet eleven inches in height. There was in
Montreal an institution known as "The Pen and Pencil Club". No one now
living remembers a time when it did not exist. It was a peculiar club. It
contained no member who should not be in it; and no one was left out who
should be in. The number was about a dozen. For twenty years the club met
in Dyonnet's studio, and afterwards, as the result of some convulsion, in
K. R. Macpherson's. A ceremonial supper was eaten once a year, at which
one dressed the salad, one made the coffee, and Harris sang a song. Here
all pictures were first shown, and writings read—if they were not
too long. If they were, there was in an adjoining room a tin chest, which
in these austere days one remembers with refreshment. When John McCrae was
offered membership he "grabbed at it", and the place was a home for the
spirit wearied by the week's work. There Brymner and the other artists
would discourse upon writings, and Burgess and the other writers would
discourse upon pictures.
It is only with the greatest of resolution, fortified by lack of time and
space, that I have kept myself to the main lines of his career, and
refrained from following him into by-paths and secret, pleasant places;
but I shall not be denied just one indulgence. In the great days when Lord
Grey was Governor-General he formed a party to visit Prince Edward Island.
The route was a circuitous one. It began at Ottawa; it extended to
Winnipeg, down the Nelson River to York Factory, across Hudson Bay, down
the Strait, by Belle Isle and Newfoundland, and across the Gulf of St.
Lawrence to a place called Orwell. Lord Grey in the matter of company had
the reputation of doing himself well. John McCrae was of the party. It
also included John Macnaughton, L. S. Amery, Lord Percy, Lord
Lanesborough, and one or two others. The ship had called at North Sydney
where Lady Grey and the Lady Evelyn joined.
Through the place in a deep ravine runs an innocent stream which broadens
out into still pools, dark under the alders. There was a rod—a very
beautiful rod in two pieces. It excited his suspicion. It was put into his
hand, the first stranger hand that ever held it; and the first cast showed
that it was a worthy hand. The sea-trout were running that afternoon.
Thirty years before, in that memorable visit to Scotland, he had been
taken aside by "an old friend of his grandfather's". It was there he
learned "to love the trooties". The love and the art never left him. It
was at this same Orwell his brother first heard the world called to arms
on that early August morning in 1914.
In those civil years there were, of course, diversions: visits to the
United States and meetings with notable men—Welch, Futcher, Hurd,
White, Howard, Barker: voyages to Europe with a detailed itinerary upon
the record; walks and rides upon the mountain; excursion in winter to the
woods, and in summer to the lakes; and one visit to the Packards in Maine,
with the sea enthusiastically described. Upon those woodland excursions
and upon many other adventures his companion is often referred to as
"Billy T.", who can be no other than Lieut.-Col. W. G. Turner, "M.C."
Much is left out of the diary that we would wish to have recorded. There
is tantalizing mention of "conversations" with Shepherd—with Roddick—with
Chipman—with Armstrong—with Gardner—with Martin—with
Moyse. Occasionally there is a note of description: "James Mavor is a
kindly genius with much knowledge"; "Tait McKenzie presided ideally" at a
Shakespeare dinner;﹃Stephen Leacock does not keep all the good things for
his publisher.﹄Those who know the life in Montreal may well for
themselves supply the details.
IX. Dead in His Prime
John McCrae left the front after the second battle of Ypres, and never
returned. On June 1st, 1915, he was posted to No. 3 General Hospital at
Boulogne, a most efficient unit organized by McGill University and
commanded by that fine soldier Colonel H. S. Birkett, C.B. He was placed
in charge of medicine, with the rank of Lieut.-Colonel as from April 17th,
1915, and there he remained until his death.
At first he did not relish the change. His heart was with the guns. He had
transferred from the artillery to the medical service as recently as the
previous autumn, and embarked a few days afterwards at Quebec, on the 29th
of September, arriving at Davenport, October 20th, 1914. Although he was
attached as Medical Officer to the 1st Brigade of Artillery, he could not
forget that he was no longer a gunner, and in those tumultuous days he was
often to be found in the observation post rather than in his dressing
station. He had inherited something of the old army superciliousness
towards a "non-combatant" service, being unaware that in this war the
battle casualties in the medical corps were to be higher than in any other
arm of the service. From South Africa he wrote exactly fifteen years
before:﹃I am glad that I am not 'a medical' out here. No 'R.A.M.C.' or
any other 'M.C.' for me. There is a big breach, and the medicals are on
the far side of it.﹄On August 7th, 1915, he writes from his hospital
post, "I expect to wish often that I had stuck by the artillery." But he
had no choice.
Of this period of his service there is little written record. He merely
did his work, and did it well, as he always did what his mind found to do.
His health was failing. He suffered from the cold. A year before his death
he writes on January 25th, 1917:
The cruel cold is still holding. Everyone is suffering, and the men in the
wards in bed cannot keep warm. I know of nothing so absolutely pitiless as
weather. Let one wish; let one pray; do what one will; still the same
clear sky and no sign,—you know the cold brand of sunshine. For my
own part I do not think I have ever been more uncomfortable. Everything is
so cold that it hurts to pick it up. To go to bed is a nightmare and to
get up a worse one. I have heard of cold weather in Europe, and how the
poor suffer,—now I know!
All his life he was a victim of asthma. The first definite attack was in
the autumn of 1894, and the following winter it recurred with persistence.
For the next five years his letters abound in references to the malady.
After coming to Montreal it subsided; but he always felt that the enemy
was around the corner. He had frequent periods in bed; but he enjoyed the
relief from work and the occasion they afforded for rest and reading.
In January, 1918, minutes begin to appear upon his official file which
were of great interest to him, and to us. Colonel Birkett had relinquished
command of the unit to resume his duties as Dean of the Medical Faculty of
McGill University. He was succeeded by that veteran soldier, Colonel J. M.
Elder, C.M.G. At the same time the command of No. 1 General Hospital fell
vacant. Lieut.-Colonel McCrae was required for that post; but a higher
honour was in store, namely the place of Consultant to the British Armies
in the Field. All these events, and the final great event, are best
recorded in the austere official correspondence which I am permitted to
extract from the files:
From D.M.S. Canadian Contingents. (Major-General C. L. Foster, C.B.).
To O.C. No. 3 General Hospital, B.E.F., 13th December, 1917:
There is a probability of the command of No. 1 General Hospital
becoming vacant. It is requested, please, that you obtain
from Lieut.-Col. J. McCrae his wishes in the matter. If he is available,
and willing to take over this command, it is proposed to offer it to him.
O.C. No. 3 General Hospital, B.E.F., To D.M.S. Canadian Contingents,
28th December, 1917: Lieut.-Colonel McCrae desires me to say that,
while he naturally looks forward to succeeding to the command
of this unit, he is quite willing to comply with your desire,
and will take command of No. 1 General Hospital at any time you may wish.
D.G.M.S. British Armies in France. To D.M.S. Canadian Contingents,
January 2nd, 1918: It is proposed to appoint Lieut.-Colonel J. McCrae,
now serving with No. 3 Canadian General Hospital, Consulting Physician
to the British Armies in France. Notification of this appointment,
when made, will be sent to you in due course.
D.M.S. Canadian Contingents. To O.C. No. 3 General Hospital, B.E.F.,
January 5th, 1918: Since receiving your letter I have information
from G.H.Q. that they will appoint a Consultant Physician
to the British Armies in the Field, and have indicated their desire
for Lieut.-Colonel McCrae for this duty. This is a much higher honour
than commanding a General Hospital, and I hope he will take the post,
as this is a position I have long wished should be filled
by a C.A.M.C. officer.
D.M.S. Canadian Contingents. To D.G.M.S., G.H.Q., 2nd Echelon,
January 15th, 1918: I fully concur in this appointment, and consider
this officer will prove his ability as an able Consulting Physician.
Telegram: D.G.M.S., G.H.Q., 2nd Echelon. To D.M.S. Canadian Contingents,
January 18th, 1918: Any objection to Lieut.-Col. J. McCrae
being appointed Consulting Physician to British Armies in France.
If appointed, temporary rank of Colonel recommended.
Telegram: O.C. No. 3 General Hospital, B.E.F. To D.M.S.
Canadian Contingents, January 27th, 1918: Lieut.-Col. John McCrae
seriously ill with pneumonia at No. 14 General Hospital.
Telegram: O.C. No. 14 General Hospital. To O.C. No. 3 General Hospital,
B.E.F., January 28th, 1918: Lieut.-Col. John McCrae died this morning.
This was the end. For him the war was finished and all the glory of the
world had passed.
Henceforth we are concerned not with the letters he wrote, but with the
letters which were written about him. They came from all quarters,
literally in hundreds, all inspired by pure sympathy, but some tinged with
a curiosity which it is hoped this writing will do something to assuage.
Let us first confine ourselves to the facts. They are all contained in a
letter which Colonel Elder wrote to myself in common with other friends.
On Wednesday, January 23rd, he was as usual in the morning; but in the
afternoon Colonel Elder found him asleep in his chair in the mess room.﹃I
have a slight headache,﹄he said. He went to his quarters. In the evening
he was worse, but had no increase of temperature, no acceleration of pulse
or respiration. At this moment the order arrived for him to proceed
forthwith as Consulting Physician of the First Army. Colonel Elder writes,
"I read the order to him, and told him I should announce the contents at
mess. He was very much pleased over the appointment. We discussed the
matter at some length, and I took his advice upon measures for carrying on
the medical work of the unit."
Next morning he was sleeping soundly, but later on he professed to be much
better. He had no fever, no cough, no pain. In the afternoon he sent for
Colonel Elder, and announced that he had pneumonia. There were no signs in
the chest; but the microscope revealed certain organisms which rather
confirmed the diagnosis. The temperature was rising. Sir Bertrand Dawson
was sent for. He came by evening from Wimereux, but he could discover no
physical signs. In the night the temperature continued to rise, and he
complained of headache. He was restless until the morning, "when he fell
into a calm, untroubled sleep."
Next morning, being Friday, he was removed by ambulance to No. 14 General
Hospital at Wimereux. In the evening news came that he was better; by the
morning the report was good, a lowered temperature and normal pulse. In
the afternoon the condition grew worse; there were signs of cerebral
irritation with a rapid, irregular pulse; his mind was quickly clouded.
Early on Sunday morning the temperature dropped, and the heart grew weak;
there was an intense sleepiness. During the day the sleep increased to
coma, and all knew the end was near.
His friends had gathered. The choicest of the profession was there, but
they were helpless. He remained unconscious, and died at half past one on
Monday morning. The cause of death was double pneumonia with massive
cerebral infection. Colonel Elder's letter concludes:﹃We packed his
effects in a large box, everything that we thought should go to his
people, and Gow took it with him to England to-day.﹄Walter Gow was his
cousin, a son of that Gow who sailed with the Eckfords from Glasgow in the
'Clutha'. At the time he was Deputy Minister in London of the Overseas
Military Forces of Canada. He had been sent for but arrived too late;—all
was so sudden.
The funeral was held on Tuesday afternoon, January 29th, at the cemetery
in Wimereux. The burial was made with full military pomp. From the
Canadian Corps came Lieut.-General Sir Arthur Currie, the General Officer
Commanding; Major-General E. W. B. Morrison, and Brigadier-General W. O.
H. Dodds, of the Artillery. Sir A. T. Sloggett, the Director-General of
Medical Services, and his Staff were waiting at the grave. All Commanding
Officers at the Base, and all Deputy Directors were there. There was also
a deputation from the Harvard Unit headed by Harvey Cushing.
Bonfire went first, led by two grooms, and decked in the regulation white
ribbon, not the least pathetic figure in the sad procession. A hundred
nursing Sisters in caps and veils stood in line, and then proceeded in
ambulances to the cemetery, where they lined up again. Seventy-five of the
personnel from the Hospital acted as escort, and six Sergeants bore the
coffin from the gates to the grave. The firing party was in its place.
Then followed the chief mourners, Colonel Elder and Sir Bertrand Dawson;
and in their due order, the rank and file of No. 3 with their officers;
the rank and file of No. 14 with their officers; all officers from the
Base, with Major-General Wilberforce and the Deputy Directors to complete.
It was a springtime day, and those who have passed all those winters in
France and in Flanders will know how lovely the springtime may be. So we
may leave him, "on this sunny slope, facing the sunset and the sea." These
are the words used by one of the nurses in a letter to a friend,—those
women from whom no heart is hid. She also adds: "The nurses lamented that
he became unconscious so quickly they could not tell him how much they
cared. To the funeral all came as we did, because we loved him so."
At first there was the hush of grief and the silence of sudden shock. Then
there was an outbreak of eulogy, of appraisement, and sorrow. No attempt
shall be made to reproduce it here; but one or two voices may be recorded
in so far as in disjointed words they speak for all. Stephen Leacock, for
those who write, tells of his high vitality and splendid vigour—his
career of honour and marked distinction—his life filled with
honourable endeavour and instinct with the sense of duty—a sane and
equable temperament—whatever he did, filled with sure purpose and
swift conviction.
Dr. A. D. Blackader, acting Dean of the Medical Faculty of McGill
University, himself speaking from out of the shadow, thus appraises his
worth:﹃As a teacher, trusted and beloved; as a colleague, sincere and
cordial; as a physician, faithful, cheerful, kind. An unkind word he never
uttered.﹄Oskar Klotz, himself a student, testifies that the relationship
was essentially one of master and pupil. From the head of his first
department at McGill, Professor, now Colonel, Adami, comes the weighty
phrase, that he was sound in diagnosis; as a teacher inspiring; that few
could rise to his high level of service.
There is yet a deeper aspect of this character with which we are
concerned; but I shrink from making the exposition, fearing lest with my
heavy literary tread I might destroy more than I should discover. When one
stands by the holy place wherein dwells a dead friend's soul—the
word would slip out at last—it becomes him to take off the shoes
from off his feet. But fortunately the dilemma does not arise. The task
has already been performed by one who by God has been endowed with the
religious sense, and by nature enriched with the gift of expression; one
who in his high calling has long been acquainted with the grief of others,
and is now himself a man of sorrow, having seen with understanding eyes,
These great days range like tides,
And leave our dead on every shore.
On February 14th, 1918, a Memorial Service was held in the Royal Victoria
College. Principal Sir William Peterson presided. John Macnaughton gave
the address in his own lovely and inimitable words, to commemorate one
whom he lamented, "so young and strong, in the prime of life, in the full
ripeness of his fine powers, his season of fruit and flower bearing. He
never lost the simple faith of his childhood. He was so sure about the
main things, the vast things, the indispensable things, of which all
formulated faiths are but a more or less stammering expression, that he
was content with the rough embodiment in which his ancestors had laboured
to bring those great realities to bear as beneficent and propulsive forces
upon their own and their children's minds and consciences. His instinctive
faith sufficed him."
To his own students John McCrae once quoted the legend from a picture, to
him "the most suggestive picture in the world": What I spent I had: what I
saved I lost: what I gave I have;—and he added: "It will be in your
power every day to store up for yourselves treasures that will come back
to you in the consciousness of duty well done, of kind acts performed,
things that having given away freely you yet possess. It has often seemed
to me that when in the Judgement those surprised faces look up and say,
Lord, when saw we Thee an' hungered and fed Thee; or thirsty and gave Thee
drink; a stranger, and took Thee in; naked and clothed Thee; and there
meets them that warrant-royal of all charity, Inasmuch as ye did it unto
one of the least of these, ye have done it unto Me, there will be amongst
those awed ones many a practitioner of medicine."
And finally I shall conclude this task to which I have set a worn but
willing hand, by using again the words which once I used before: Beyond
all consideration of his intellectual attainments John McCrae was the well
beloved of his friends. He will be missed in his place; and wherever his
companions assemble there will be for them a new poignancy in the Miltonic
phrase,
But O the heavy change, now thou art gone,
Now thou art gone, and never must return!
London,
11th November, 1918.
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