"Oh, I wouldn't worry about that," said the M. O., to whom the habit of profanity was a very venial sin. "You ought to be mighty glad that your presence does act as a kind of moral prophylactic. And it does, I assure you. I confess that since I have come to be associated with you, I am conscious of a very real, and at times, distressing limitation of my vocabulary. I may not be more virtuous, but certainly I am more respectable."

This sentiment, however, brought little comfort to the chaplain.

"I am not a policeman," he protested, "and I am not going to play policeman to these men. I notice them shut up when I come around, but I know quite well that they turn themselves loose when I pass on, and that they feel much more comfortable. I am not and will not be their policeman."

"What then would you be?" inquired the M. O.

Barry pondered this question for some time.

"To tell the truth," he said, at length, "I confess, I don't quite know. I wish I did, doc, on my soul. One thing I do know, the men are no better here in their morals than they were at home."

"Better? They are worse, by Jove!" exclaimed the M. O. "Look at the daily crime-sheet! Look at that daily orderly room parade. It's something fierce, and it's getting worse."

"The wet canteen?" inquired Barry, who had lost prestige with some in the battalion by reason of the strenuous fight he had made against its introduction since coming to England. Not that the men cared so much for their liquor, but they resented the idea that they were denied privileges enjoyed by other battalions.

"The wet canteen?" echoed the doctor. "No, you know I opposed, as you did, the introduction of the wet canteen, although not upon the same grounds. I regard it as a perfect nuisance in camp. It is the centre of every disorder, it is subversive of discipline; it materially increases my sick parade. But it is not the wet canteen that is chiefly responsible for the growing crime-sheet and orderly room parade. It is those damned--I don't apologise--"

"Please don't. Say it again!" exclaimed Barry fervently.

"Those damned pubs," continued the M. O., "stuck at every crossroads in this country. They're the cause of ninety per cent. of the drunkenness in our army, and more than that, I want to give you another bit of information that came out at our M. O. conference this week, namely that these pubs account for ninety per cent. of our tent hospital cases."

"Ninety per cent., doctor? That's surely high."

"I would have said so, but I am giving you the unanimous verdict of the twenty-six medical officers at the conference. Cut out the damned beer--and you know I take my share of it--cut out the beer and ninety per cent. of the venereal disease goes. With me it is not a question of morality but of efficiency." Here the M. O. sprang from his chair and began to pace the hut. "This is the one thing in this army business that makes me wild. We come over here to fight--these boys are willing to fight--and by gad they will fight! They go out for a walk, they have a few beers together, their inhibitory powers are paralysed, opportunity comes their way, and they wake up a little later diseased. God in heaven! I love this dear old England, and I would die for her if need be, but may God Almighty damn her public houses, and all the infernal and vicious customs which they nourish."

"Thank you, doctor, go right on," said Barry. "I was at the tent hospital this week for the first time. Ever since, I have been wanting to say what you have said just now. But what did your M. O. conference do about it?"

"What could we do? The Home Office blocks the way. Well, I've got that off my stomach, and I feel better," added the M. O., with a slight laugh.

"But, doc, I want to say this," said Barry. "I don't believe that the percentage of men who go in for this sort of thing is large. I've been making inquiries from our chaplains and they all agree that we have a mighty fine and clean body of men in our Canadian army."

"Right you are! Of course, it is only a small percentage, a very small percentage--a much smaller percentage than in our civilian population at home. But small as it is, it is just that much too many. Hell and blazes! These men are soldiers. They have left their homes, and their folks, to fight. Their people--their people are the best in our land.

There's that young Pentland. A finer young chap never threw a leg over a broncho. He's in that tent hospital to-night. I know his mother. Three sons she has given. Oh, damn it all," the doctor's voice broke at this point. "I can't speak quietly. Their mothers have given them up, to death, if need be, but not to this rotten, damnable disease. Look here, Pilot!" The doctor pointed a shaking and accusing finger at Barry. "You have often spoken against this thing, but next time you break loose, give them merry hell over it. You can't make it too hot."

Long Barry sat silent overborne by the fury of the doctor's passionate indictment.

"Cheer up, old chap!" said the doctor, when his wrath had somewhat subsided. "We'll lick the Kaiser and beat the devil yet."

"But, doctor, what can I do?" implored Barry. "That's part of my job, surely. Part of the job of the chaplain service, I mean. Oh, that is the ghastly tragedy of this work of mine. Somehow I can't get at it. These evils exist. I can speak against them and make enemies, but the things go on just as before."

"Don't you believe it, Pilot, not quite as before. Behold how you have already checked my profanity. Even the old man has pretty much cut it out at mess. You don't know where they would have been but for you.

Cheer up! Our wings may not be visible but, on the other hand, there are no signs of horns and hoofs."

"Doctor, one thing I'll do," cried Barry, with a sudden inspiration "We've a meeting of the chaplains' corps to-morrow. I'll give them your speech."

"Expurgated edition, I hope," said the M. O.

"No, I'll put in every damn I can remember, and, if need be, a few more."

"Lord, I'd like to be there, old boy!" said the doctor, fervently.

Barry was as good as his word. At the meeting of the chaplains'

corps, the time was mainly taken up in routine business, dealing with arrangements for religious services at the various camps within the area.

At the close of the meeting, however, one of the chaplains rose and announced that he had a matter to bring to the attention of the corps--a matter of the highest importance, which demanded their immediate and serious attention, and which they dared not any longer ignore. It was the matter of venereal disease in our Canadian army.

His statistics and illustrative incidents gripped hard the hearts of the men present. He closed with a demand that steps be taken that day to deal with the situation. The Canadian people had entrusted them with the care of their boys' souls. "Their souls," he cried. "I say our first duty is to their bodies. I am not saying the percentage is large. It is not as large as in the civilian population at home. But why any? We must care for these men's bodies. They fight with their bodies."

His last sentence struck Barry to the heart. It recalled his own sermon, spoken in Edmonton to his father's battalion. Immediately he was on his feet, and without preface or apology, reproduced as far as he was able the M. O.'s speech of the previous night, and that without expurgation.

There was but little discussion. There was but one opinion. It was resolved to call a joint meeting of the chaplains and medical officers to decide upon a course of action.

As Barry was leaving the meeting, the senior chaplain, an old Anglican clergyman, with a saintly face and a smile that set one's tenderest emotions astir, came to him, and putting his hand affectionately upon his shoulder, said:

"And how is your work going, my dear fellow?"

It was to Barry as if his father's hand were upon his shoulder, and before he was aware he was pouring out the miserable story of his own sad failure as a chaplain.

"Poor boy! Poor boy!" the old gentleman kept saying. "I know how you feel. Just so, just so!"

When Barry had finished relieving his heart of the burden that had so long lain upon it, the old gentleman took him by the hand and said:

"My dear fellow, remember they are far from home. These boys need their mothers. They sorely need their mothers! And, my boy, they need God. And they need you. Good-bye!"

Barry came away with a warm feeling in his heart, and in it a new purpose and resolve. No longer would he be a policeman to his men. He would try to forget their faults, and to remember only how sorely they needed their mothers and their God, and that they needed him, too.

He found the camp thrilling with great news, glorious news. The day so long awaited had come. The battalion was under orders for France. At that very moment there was an officers' meeting in the orderly room.

As Barry entered the room, the O. C. was closing his speech.

Barry was immediately conscious of a new tone, a new spirit, in the colonel's words. He spoke with a new sense of responsibility, and what more than anything else arrested Barry's attention, with a new sense of brotherhood toward his officers.

"In closing what I have to say, gentlemen, let me make a confession.

I am not satisfied with the battalion, nor with my officers. I am not satisfied with myself. I remember being indignant at the report sent in by the inspecting officer concerning this battalion. I thought he was unfair and unduly severe. I believe I said so. Gentlemen, I was wrong.

Since that time I have seen work in some regiments of the Imperial Service, and especially, I have seen the work on the front line. I think I know now what discipline means. Discipline, gentlemen, is the thing that saves an army from disaster. Some things we must cut out absolutely. Whatever unfits for service must go. I saw a soldier, a Canadian soldier, shot at the front for being intoxicated. I pray God, I may never see the like again. At this point, I wish to express my appreciation of the work of our chaplain, who I am glad to see has just come in. He has stood for the right thing among us, and has materially helped in the discipline and efficiency of this battalion. Gentlemen, you have your orders. Let there be no failure. Obedience is demanded, not excuses. Gentlemen, carry on!"

Barry hurried away to his hut. The words of his colonel had lifted him out of his despair. He had not then so desperately failed. His colonel had found something in him to approve. And France was before him! There was still a chance for service. The boys would need him there.

CHAPTER X

FRANCE

"France, sunny France!" The tone carried concentrated bitterness and disgust. "One cursed fraud after another in this war."

"Cheer up!" said Barry. "There's worse to come--perhaps better. This rain is beastly, but the clouds will pass, and the sun will shine again, for in spite of the rain this IS 'sunny France.' There's a little homily for you," said Barry, "and for myself as well, for I assure you this combination of mal de mer and sleet makes one feel rotten."