"He is perfectly magnificent," said Barry, "and, after all, he is right in his psychology. There is no possibility of training men to fight, without putting the 'aight into it!'"

CHAPTER XIV

A TOUCH OF WAR

The period of intensive training was drawing to a close. The finishing touches in the various departments that had come to be considered necessary in modern warfare had been given. With the "putting on the lacquer" the fighting spirit of the men had been sharpened to its keenest edge. They were all waiting impatiently for the order to "go up." The motives underlying that ardour of spirit varied with the temperament, disposition and education of the soldier. There were those who were eager to "go up" to prove themselves in that deadly struggle where their fellow Canadians had already won their right to stand as comrades in arms with the most famous fighting battalions of the British army. Others, again, there were in whose heart burned a deep passion to get into grips with those hellish fiends whose cruelties, practised upon defenceless women and children in that very district where they were camped, and upon wounded Canadians, had stirred Canada from Vancouver to Halifax with a desire for revenge.

But, with the great majority there was little of the desire either for military glory or for revenge. Their country had laid upon them a duty for the discharge of which they had been preparing themselves for many months, and that duty they were ready to perform. More than that, they were eager to get at it and get done with it, no matter at what cost.

With all this, too, there was an underlying curiosity as to what the thing would be like "up there." Far down below all their feelings there lay an unanswered interrogation which no man dared to put to his comrade, and which indeed few men put to themselves. That interrogation was: "How shall I stand up under the test?"

The camp was overrun with rumours from returning battalions of the appalling horrors of the front line. Ever since that fateful 22nd of April, 1915, that day of tragedy and of glory for the Canadian army, and for the Canadian people, the Ypres salient, the point of honour on the western front from Dixmude to Verdun, had been given into the keeping of the Canadian army. During those long and terrible months, in the face of a continued bombardment and of successive counter-attacks, with the line growing thinner, week by week, hacked up by woefully inadequate artillery, the Canadian army had held on with the grim tenacity of death itself. There was nothing that they could do but hold on. To push the salient deeper into the enemy lines would only emphasise the difficulty and danger of their position. The role assigned them was that of simply holding steady with what ultimate objective in view no one seemed to know.

Week by week, and month after month, the Canadian battalions had moved up into the salient, had done their "tours," building up their obliterated parapets, digging out their choked-up water-courses, revetting their crumbling trenches, and rebuilding their flimsy dugouts, and then returning to their reserve lines, always leaving behind them in hastily dug graves over the parados of their trenches, or in the little improvised cemeteries by Hooge, or Maple Copse or Hill 60, a few more of their comrades, and ever sending down the line their maimed and broken to be refitted for war or discharged again to civilian life. It was altogether a ghastly business, a kind of warfare calling for an endurance of the finest temper and a courage of the highest quality.

From this grim and endless test of endurance, the Canadians had discovered a form of relief known as a "trench raid," a special development of trench warfare which later came to be adopted by their comrades of the French and British armies. It was a form of sport, grim enough, deadly enough, greatly enjoyed by the Canadian soldiers; and the battalion which had successfully pulled off a trench raid always returned to its lines in a state of high exaltation. They had been able to give Fritz a little of what they had been receiving during these weary months.

While the battalion waited with ever-growing impatience for the order that would send them "up the line," a group of officers was gathered in the senior major's hut for the purpose of studying in detail some photographs, secured by our aircraft, of the enemy trenches immediately opposite their own sector of the front line. They had finished their study, and were engaged in the diverting and pleasant exercise of ragging each other. The particular subject of that discussion was their various sprinting abilities, and the comparative usefulness of various kinds of funk-holes as a protection against "J.J.s" (Jack Johnsons), "whizzbangs," or the uncertain and wobbling "minniewafers."

Seldom had Barry found occasion to call upon Major Bustead, with whom he had been unable to establish anything more than purely formal relations.

A message, however, from the orderly room to Lieutenant Cameron, which he undertook to deliver, brought him to the senior major's hut.

"Come in, padre," said the major, who of late had become more genial, "and tell us the best kind of a funk-hole for a 'minniewafer.'"

"The deepest and the closest for me, major, I should say," said Barry, "from what I have heard of those uncertain and wobbling beasts."

"I understand that chaplains do not accompany their battalions to the front line, but stay back at the casualty clearing stations," suggested the major. "Wise old birds, they are, too." The major had an unpleasant laugh.

"I suppose they go where they are ordered, sir," replied Barry, "but if you will excuse me, I have here a chit for Lieutenant Cameron, sir, which has just come in," and Barry handed Cameron his message.

"Will you allow me, sir?" said Cameron.

"Certainly, go on, read it," said the major.

Cameron read the message, and on his face there appeared a grave and anxious look.

"It's from the casualty clearing station, sir. One of our chaps from Edmonton is there dangerously wounded, and wants to see me. I'd like to go, sir, if I might."

"Oh, certainly. I'll make it all right with the O. C. Get a horse from the transport. Which casualty clearing station is it?"

Cameron looked at his message.

"Menin Mill, sir."

"Menin Mill! By gad, I thought it was Brandthoek, but Menin Mill, good Lord, that's a different proposition. That's way beyond Ypres, you know.

Right up on the line. You can't take a horse there. Do you think you ought to go up at all?"

"I think I should like to go, sir," replied Cameron. "I know the chap well. Went to school and college with him."

"Then," said the major, "you had better hurry up and attach yourself to one of the transports going in. You will barely be in time."

"Thank you, sir," said Cameron, and left the room.

Barry went out with him. "Who is it, Cameron?" he said. "Do I know him?"

"I don't know, sir, whether you do or not. It's young McPherson of Edmonton, an awfully decent chap, and my very best friend."

"May I go up with you, Duncan? I know Colonel Tait and Captain Gregg, who are at the Mill, I understand."

"I would be awfully glad if you would, but I hardly liked to ask you. It hasn't the reputation of being a very healthy place, I hear."

"All right, Cameron. I'm going up," said Barry.

Upon enquiry they found that they were too late for the transports, and again the question arose as to whether, in view of the major's order, they should make the attempt by themselves.

"It was not really an order, I think, sir," said Cameron. "It was more in the way of a suggestion. I think I'll go. The note said, 'dangerously wounded,' and he sent for me."

"All right," said Barry, "we'll go on, and we'll almost certainly pick up some one who will be able to direct us to the Mill."

Their road, which took them to Vlammertinghe, led through level fields, lying waste and desolate with rank, overgrowing weeds. As they approached that historic village, they saw on every hand the cruel marks of war. On either side of the road were roofless and shattered cottages, grown around with nettles and briars. Among these ruins, as they found on a later day, were the old garden flowers, pansies and daisies, bravely trying to hold their own. Among the rank weeds was to be seen the half-hidden debris of broken farm gear. Here and there stood the ruins of what had been a thrifty homestead, with its stone-flagged courtyard, around which clustered its stables. Now nettles and briars grew around the broken walls and shattered, staring windows. At rare intervals, a great house appeared, with pretentious gateway, and grass-grown drive winding up between stately and mutilated trees. Over the whole countryside hung a melancholy and weird desolation, cottages, homesteads, fields, the very trees crying aloud to high heaven for pity and vengeance.

At Vlammertinghe, itself, the church tower still stood whole, but the church itself was wrecked, as were most of the village shops and dwellings. In the village was to be seen no living thing except some soldiers, who in the broken cellars were making their bivouacs. The village stood deserted of its inhabitants, ever since the terrific onslaught of the Huns, on the 22nd of April, 1915, which had driven them forth from their homes, a panic-stricken, terror-hunted crowd of old men, women and little babes, while over them broke, with a continuous and appalling roar, a pitiless rain of shells.

At the cross-roads stood a mounted officer, directing the traffic, which here tended to congestion. As they entered the village, the sentry halted them to enquire as to their bona fides. Having satisfied him, they enquired their way to the Menin Mill.

"Menin!" The rising inflection of the sentry's voice expressed a mild surprise. "The old Mill! Are you going there?"

"Yes," said Barry, answering his inflection. "Why not?"

"Well, sir, you know, it's rather a bad road. Warm bit of country up there, but--" He shrugged his shoulders in quite a French manner as if to say it was no business of his. "If you are going to Menin, you keep this road straight through past Wipers past the Cloth Hall, out by the Menin Gate. A hot place, that, sir. Then straight on, taking the right incline for about a mile and a half. You will see a big cemetery on your left. The Mill stands near a big school on your right. But why not drop into the dressing station, here, sir, right here in this old mill, which stands at the cross-roads? You may catch an ambulance going straight up to the Mill."

"Thank you very much," said Barry. "We'll do that very thing."

"Good luck, sir," said the sentry, saluting.

They found an ambulance about to start, and asked for a lift.

"All right, sir," said the driver, "but you'd better step in and ask the officer."

They passed into a large and high-vaulted stone building, which in peace days had been a mill. The old-fashioned, massive machinery was still standing intact. Obtaining permission from the officer, they took their places beside the driver of the ambulance, and were soon on their way.

It was already growing dark, but, although the surface of the stone pave was frequently broken with shell-holes, the ambulance, dodging round the holes, rushed without pause along at a high rate of speed.

"You don't use your lights?" asked Barry.

"No, not lately, sir," said the driver. "That's the newest order," he added in a tone of disgust.