THE LAZARET
The lazaret in which I was put was called "M.G.K.," which is to say Machine Gun Company, and it was exactly like the other hospital huts. There were some empty beds, and the doctor seemed to have plenty of time to attend to us. For a few days, before my appetite began to make itself felt, I enjoyed the rest and quiet, and slept most of the time. But at the end of a week I began to get restless.
The Frenchman whose bed was next to mine fascinated me with his piercing black eyes, unnaturally bright and glittering. I knew the look in his eyes; I had seen it—after the battle—when the wounded were coming in, and looked at us as they were carried by on stretchers. Some had this look—some hadn't. Those who had it never came back.
And sometimes before the fighting, when the boys were writing home, the farewell letter that would not be mailed unless—"something happened"—I've seen that look in their faces, and I knew... just as they did... the letter would be mailed!
Emile, the Frenchman, had the look!
He was young, and had been strong and handsome, although his face was now thin and pinched and bloodless, like a slum child's; but he hung on to life pitifully. He hated to die—I knew that by the way he fought for breath, and raged when he knew for sure that it was going from him.
In the middle of his raging, he would lean over his bed and peer into my face, crying "L'Anglaise—l'Anglaise," with his black eyes snapping like dagger points. I often had to turn away and put my pillow over my eyes.
But one afternoon, in the middle of it, the great silence fell on him, and Emile's struggles were over.
Our days were all the same. Nobody came to see us; we had no books. There was a newspaper which was brought to us every two weeks, printed in English, but published in German, with all the German fine disregard for the truth. It said it was "printed for Americans in Europe." The name of it was "The Continental Times," but I never heard it called anything but "The Continental Liar." Still, it was print, and we read it; I remember some of the sentences. It spoke of an uneasy feeling in England "which the presence of turbaned Hindoos and Canadian cowboys has failed to dispel." Another one said, "The Turks are operating the Suez Canal in the interests of neutral shipping." "Fleet-footed Canadians" was an expression frequently used, and the insinuation was that the Canadians often owed their liberty to their speed.
But we managed to make good use of this paper. I got one of the attendants, Ivan, a good-natured, flat-footed Russian, to bring me a pair of scissors, and the boy in the cot next to mine had a stub of pencil, and between us we made a deck of cards out of the white spaces of the paper, and then we played solitaire, time about, on our quilts.
I got my first parcel about the end of May, from a Mrs. Andrews whose son I knew in Trail and who had entertained me while I was in London. I had sent a card to her as soon as I was taken. The box was like a visit from Santa Claus. I remember the "Digestive Biscuits," and how good they tasted after being for a month on the horrible diet of acorn coffee, black bread, and the soup which no word that is fit for publication could describe.
I also received a card from my sister, Mrs. Meredith, of Edmonton, about this time. I was listed "Missing" on April 29th, and she sent a card addressed to me with "Canadian Prisoner of War, Germany," on it, on the chance that I was a prisoner. We were allowed to write a card once a week and two letters a month; and we paid for these. My people in Canada heard from me on June 9th.
I cannot complain of the treatment I received in the lazaret. The doctor took a professional interest in me, and one day brought in two other doctors, and proudly exhibited how well I could move my arm. However, I still think if he had massaged my upper arm, it would be of more use to me now than it is.
Chloroform was not used in this hospital; at least I never saw any of it. One young Englishman, who had a bullet in his thigh, cried out in pain when the surgeon was probing for it. The German doctor sarcastically remarked, "Oh, I thought the English were brave."
To which the young fellow, lifting his tortured face, proudly answered, "The English are brave—and merciful—and they use chloroform for painful operations, and do this for the German prisoners, too."
But there was no chloroform used for him, though the operation was a horrible one.
There was another young English boy named Jellis, who came in after the fight of May 8th, who seemed to be in great pain the first few days. Then suddenly he became quiet, and we hoped his pain had lessened; but we soon found out he had lock-jaw, and in a few days he died.
From the pasteboard box in which my first parcel came, I made a checker-board, and my next-door neighbor and I had many a game.
In about three weeks I was allowed to go out in the afternoons, and I walked all I could in the narrow space, to try to get back all my strength, for one great hope sustained me—I would make a dash for liberty the first chance I got, and I knew that the better I felt, the better my chances would be. I still had my compass, and I guarded it carefully. Everything of this nature was supposed to be taken from us at the lazaret, but I managed, through the carelessness of the guard, to retain the compass.
The little corral in which we were allowed to walk had a barbed-wire fence around it—a good one, too, eight strands, and close together. One side of the corral was a high wall, and in the enclosure on the other side of the wall were the lung patients.
One afternoon I saw a young Canadian boy looking wistfully through the gate, and I went over and spoke to him. He was the only one who could speak English among the "lungers." The others were Russians, French, and Belgians. The boy was dying of loneliness as well as consumption. He came from Ontario, though I forget the name of the town.
"Do you think it will be over soon?" he asked me eagerly. "Gee, I'm sick of it—and wish I could get home. Last night I dreamed about going home. I walked right in on them—dirt and all—with this tattered old tunic—and a dirty face. Say, it didn't matter—my mother just grabbed me—and it was dinner-time—they were eating turkey—a great big gobbler, all brown—and steaming hot—and I sat down in my old place—it was ready for me—and just began on a leg of turkey..."
A spasm of coughing seized him, and he held to the bars of the gate until it passed.
Then he went on: "Gee, it was great—it was all so clear. I can't believe that I am not going! I think the war must be nearly over—"
Then the cough came again—that horrible, strangling cough—and I knew that it would be only in his dreams that he would ever see his home! For to him, at least, the war was nearly over, and the day of peace at hand.
Before I left the lazaret, the smart-Alec young German doctor who had made faces at the little bugler blew gaily in one day and breezed around our beds, making pert remarks to all of us. I knew him the minute he came in the door, and was ready for him when he passed my bed.
He stopped and looked at me, and made some insulting remark about my beard, which was, I suppose, quite a sight, after a month of uninterrupted growth. Then he began to make faces at me.
I raised myself on my elbow, and regarded him with the icy composure of an English butler. Scorn and contempt were in my glance, as much as I could put in; for I realized that it was hard for me to look dignified and imposing, in a hospital pajama suit of dirt-colored flannelette, with long wisps of amber-colored hair falling around my face, and a thick red beard long enough now to curl back like a drake's tail.
I knew I looked like a valentine, but my stony British stare did the trick in spite of all handicaps, and he turned abruptly and went out.
The first week of June, I was considered able to go back to the regular prison-camp. A German guard came for me, and I stepped out in my pajamas to the outer room where our uniforms were kept. There were many uniforms there—smelling of the disinfectants—with the owners' names on them, but mine was missing. The guard tried to make me take one which was far too short for me, but I refused. I knew I looked bad enough, without having elbow sleeves and short pants; and it began to look as if I should have to go to bed until some good-sized patient came in.
But my guard suddenly remembered something, and went into another hut, bringing back the uniform of "D. Smith, Vancouver." The name was written on the band of the trousers. D. Smith had died the day before, from lung trouble. The uniform had been disinfected, and hung in wrinkles. My face had the hospital pallor, and, with my long hair and beard, I know I looked "snaggy" like a potato that has been forgotten in a dark corner of the cellar.
When we came out of the lazaret, the few people we met on the road to the prison-camp broke into broad grins; some even turned and looked after us.