Frederick Bell - The First Canadians in France

"Was that a message from the colonel?" he inquired anxiously.

"It was," the major replied.

One might have heard the proverbial pin drop – the strain was so intense. Would he never go on? Were we to hear nothing further?

Fraser ventured again: "What does he say?"

The senior major got up and left the tent without a word.

Even after all these months it pains me to record the bitter disappointment of that moment. All men have their peculiarities – Some are afflicted more than others. We may forgive, but we cannot always forget. And yet he had his good points, too; he wasn't quite all bad. Perhaps Fraser's question was injudicious; perhaps he hadn't been deferential enough to his senior officer. At any rate it was two days later when we first heard the news. The adjutant, who had been taken into the major's confidence, whispered the message to us:

"The colonel is at Boulogne, and orders will be sent us in a few days to join him. I have been told not to tell you, but I must relieve your anxiety. Keep it secret!"

How we loved him for his thoughtfulness! The tension was broken. We were once more happy and content.

Three days later the order came to move. We were to entrain at midnight, and all day long we were busy packing. By nine everything was ready. The motor lorries were loaded, and we started our march toward the train. It was a pitch-black night and rain swept the streets in chilling torrents.

One of the horses of our team had a chafed back and could not be harnessed, so that my horse was selected to take his place. The wagon was piled high with the kit-bags of the men, and from this elevation one of the orderlies held the halter of the sick horse, which followed behind. We started down the steep hill from the camp, horses and men alike slipping upon the wet and greasy cobblestones.

Suddenly a slight explosion startled the led horse. He reared upon his hind legs, jerked the halter from the hand of the orderly and bolted down the hill into the darkness. Who would dare follow him? To ride down that incline at any rate faster than a walk was sheer recklessness. Surely no horse or man who attempted to do so would return alive. But Huxford, putting spurs to his horse, plunged down the hill at breakneck speed, a shower of sparks flying out on either side as the horse's steel shoes struck the stones.

"Good God!" cried Barker; "he'll never come back – he's a dead man!"

"Why didn't he let the horse go?" cried the senior major anxiously. "Now we've lost two horses and a man. He doesn't know the city or where we are going, and even if he gets through alive, he'll never find us again."

"How could he expect to overtake a run-away horse in a strange city on a night like this? It's madness!" exclaimed the adjutant.

"He was a fine lad," said the quartermaster sadly, as though Huxford were already dead. "Seems such a pity to lose him. I didn't think he had the courage to do it."

But war shatters preconceived ideas. No one can tell which men are brave until the crisis comes. Those who seem strongest fail; those who seem weakest succeed.

A gloom had been cast over us all. We despaired of seeing Huxford again – except perhaps to find his mangled body somewhere at the foot of that long hill. When we reached the bottom he wasn't there, and we went on despondently for a mile or more, knowing the hopelessness of trying to find him; when suddenly, as we turned a corner, he appeared, still on horseback and leading the runaway. A cheer from the boys greeted him.

"Well done, Huxford!" cried the senior major. "We never expected to see you again!"

"I couldn't let him go, sir, 'cause th' colonel giv' th' horses into my charge, an' he had to be caught."

May we all fulfil our duty as faithfully as this lad!

The queer little French train, with its cars marked eight chevaux – forty hommes (8 horses – 40 men) was waiting at the station when we arrived. The transport officer had told the senior major not to leave until he had received his papers, but to get the men and horses aboard.

Shortly before midnight all were entrained. The equipment and horses were loaded, but there was no sign of either engine or conductor. We unrolled our sleeping-bags, placed them upon the seats in the compartment coach and fell asleep. At four a.m. we were awakened by an angry discussion taking place on the train platform. One voice was French, evidently that of the train conductor; the other was unmistakably that of the senior major. He was talking very loudly:

"I tell you, you can't move this train one inch until I get my papers."

The reply was in French:

" Comprend pas, monsieur! " Evidently he was about to signal the engineer to start.

"Stop! I command you to stop!" shouted the major again.

The Frenchman understood the action, if he failed to understand the words. " Il faut partir tout de suite, monsieur ," he replied with respectful firmness, and then, placing the bugle to his lips, he blew a signal to the engineer and the train started.

The major sprang from the platform just in time to catch his coach. He had not received the papers, and had had an unintelligible wordy duel in which he had been vanquished. He was boiling with rage.

"If I had my way," he stormed, "there would be only one language in the world!"

We were off once more. We had but a faint idea of where we were going, but we were on our way.

When we awoke the sun was high in the heavens, and through the train windows we could see the steep banks of the Seine as we wound along that picturesque river toward Rouen. From time to time we passed small villages, the red tile of their roofs contrasting prettily with the snow-white of the walls. Some houses were decorated with bright blue or green, and as they swept by the window in kaleidoscopic array, the scene was one of manifold variety.

The French love a dash of colour; it is manifest everywhere – in their clothes, their houses and their military uniforms. In the larger cities where civilisation is over-developed, and humanity is more effete, the bright colours have given place to pale and delicate shades – an indication of that transformation of life which we call art. But in these little country villages, a thousand years or more behind the times, Dame Nature still holds sway, and the primary colours riot in their rugged strength. Centuries from now these rural hamlets, grown to greater size, losing their primitive audacity, will fade as well; and looking back will marvel at the boldness of their youth.

Every quarter-mile along the track a lone sentinel, in sky-blue coat and scarlet cap, guarded our path. With fixed baionette he stood hour by hour, watchful and keen. He had a little thatched sentry-box into which he might retire when it rained, and through the small round windows watch on either side.

As we pulled into the railway station at Rouen, we could see resourceful "Tommy" cooking his breakfast on a little charcoal stove. "Tommy" is always at home, no matter where we find him – whether it be on the battlefields of France or Belgium, or on the rock-bound shores of Gallipoli.

Our men descended from their coaches, lugged out their bags of bread, their cheese and jam and "bully-beef." The sergeant-cook meted out each share, and they soon were at their morning meal.

A few hours later Reggy and I were seated at luncheon in the Hotel de la Poste . The salle a manger was filled with English, French and Belgian officers, and their wives or friends, and to the casual observer the place was as gay as in times of peace. But in spite of the bright colours of the uniforms, in spite of the "chic" Parisian hats and pretty faces of the ladies, one felt over all an atmosphere subdued and serious.