The hospital was finely located on a slope running down to the sea. It looked south over the Straits of Dover, where we saw the destroyers and transports crossing and recrossing continually, with usually a "Silver Queen" or two floating overhead on the watch, their sides glittering in the sunshine. On a clear day we could faintly discern the cliffs of France where great deeds were being done, and whither, some impatiently awaited day, it would be our good luck to go, if only the war lasted long enough!
I quickly learned my duties in the hospital and liked them. We had an Officers' hospital, also large surgical, venereal, and medical divisions, usually full. There was work for me in great plenty and variety. Apart from the regular parade services there were communion services and informal evening meetings at convenient times and places. Nearly every day I walked through all the wards and as it seemed opportune would sit down by a bedside to chat, write a letter, or get directions for my errands. How varied these requests were! One wants me to look after his mail which he thinks is being held up somewhere; some ask for a New Testament or a recent book; this one has a roll of films to be developed; another wants me to find if a certain battalion has arrived safely from Canada and where it is stationed for his brother is in it; another asks me to buy two Xmas cards, "real nice ones," one for his Mother and one for his "next-best-girl." This one wants a money-order cashed; a homesick fellow wonders if I could possibly get him one of his home-town papers; another gives me his watch to be mended, or would like some good stationery, or a fountain pen. In every case I promise to do everything I can and all that the law allows.
Then there are those, always some, who are passing through the Valley of the Shadow who want to hear again about Jesus and His Love and Power. Nothing else will do. Also there are men, not many, who are downhearted, sad, or bitter. You wonder indeed how certain of the poor fellows can smile at all. Ask them how they are and they would say through clenched teeth and pain-drawn lips, "All right." What plan did I follow in dealing with these numerous needs? I had no plan, except to place all my resources of body, mind and heart freely at their disposal. You would have done just the same, you couldn't help yourself. They repaid me a thousand-fold with welcomes and friendship, intimate confidences, and marvellous stories of their experiences.
Apropos of the variety of a chaplain's opportunities to serve, here's a story that was current around the wards. It was told to me as a good joke on the padre. A wounded Australian soldier had been taken to one of the big Imperial hospitals in the north. None of his own chaplains were near and so a fine old English padre took upon himself to visit him. For days the chaplain's best efforts to get on friendly footing failed. One evening, however, after a very satisfying dinner at the Mess the clergyman felt he would make a special try, and with his Bible in hand went into the ward and sat down by the bedside. "Now, my boy," he said, "I am going to read you a few verses of Scripture, and I hope they will impress you." The soldier shammed sleep and said nothing, seeming as unresponsive as ever. After a verse or two, however, he opened his eyes and sighed deeply. The chaplain stopped reading and looked at him in pleased surprise. He smiled and said, "Go on Sir, it is good." Thus encouraged he read on through the whole chapter, hearing many deep-drawn sighs of satisfaction from the bed. When he was finished the soldier assured him the reading had done him a world of good, it had been just what he needed to make things look brighter, and he asked the chaplain to draw his chair up as close as he could and do him the favor of reading it again. This was getting on with a vengeance, and the padre was highly pleased with himself. When he ended and was warmly thanked he was curious to know what there was in the chapter that had benefited the soldier, and so asked him. "Well Sir," said the Tommy, "You're a good sort, and I'll be honest with you. It wasn't what you read that did me good, but all the same you've made a hit with me. They've kept me on the 'water-wagon' ever since I came to this hospital, and, Sir, your breath has been just like a taste of heaven to me." Collapse of the padre!
My first attempt to tell Klondike stories in public overseas was in an entertainment given by the Sergeants' Mess at which I had been asked to be the speaker. That day I had married one of our convalescent patients named Pte. Trainer to a Devonshire girl. My thoughts were running in matrimonial channels and so I decided to narrate some incidents connected with two or three of my Klondike weddings.
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Nearly sixty miles into the hills back of Dawson a new run of gold had been discovered on the Dominion Creek flats, a district that looked so unpromising to prospectors that it had been so far left untouched. Some claims had been staked on it but no prospecting done. Ole Tweet, a Norwegian, had taken over one of these claims as all he could get out of a bad debt. He sank a hole on his ground and found first-class pay. The inevitable stampede followed and soon cabins, windlasses, and dumps commenced to show in all directions. Tweet's cabin was the first to be built and so many stampeders had to be sheltered, that he turned temporarily from his mining, got out logs, and built a good roadhouse. It was a profitable business, for he ran a clean place where you could get plenty to eat and a comfortable bunk, and it became the popular resort of the miners. He hired a cook, an unmarried woman of middle-age, whom he had met in Dawson. She was a good woman in a country where women of the right kind were scarce, so she soon had many admirers. Of all the suitors for her hand there were two whom she favored, one a Scottish Canadian, whose first name was Archie, and the other Ole Tweet. As time went on she became worried because of her continued inability to decide which of these two men she would marry. Both were equally pleasing to her and they were both worthy fellows. She spoke to her heart and no clear answer came back. Yet she knew she could not rightly keep them in suspense any longer.
Sitting one summer day by her open window, wishing for something to help her to come to a final decision, it chanced a little bird alighted on the sill, looked up at her and said, "tweet, tweet!" The bird's chirp settled it. Her difficulty was solved and she accepted Ole Tweet. That was his real name, not "fixed" for the story. I married them in that same roadhouse on Dominion.
It is said, but I cannot vouch for the truth of this, that Archie was missing for a day or two after the engagement was announced, until someone found him in his cabin with a number of little birds he had caught and caged, trying to teach them to say, "Airchie, Airchie." But it was too late!
One of my friends, (call him Jones if you like), a miner on Hunker Creek, had been having such heavy clean-ups one Spring that he determined to write to his sweetheart in Tacoma announcing his intention of coming out before the freeze-up that fall to marry her. Sensible woman that she was, she wrote back to tell him not to come. She would come North instead, he could meet her in Dawson and so save the expense of his trip out and back. She had her way, and I was asked to tie the knot at the Third Avenue Hotel in Dawson. I shall not attempt details of the affair, only to say that I never came so nearly disgracing myself at any sacred ceremony as on this occasion. The little room was crowded with guests, standing around the walls, sitting on chairs, on one another's knees and on the floor, closing in around the little six-foot space in the centre reserved for the wedding party. The room grew very warm and close. I knew Jones was nervous for he had privately and very earnestly pleaded with me to "make it short." He and his best man had been standing in front of me for full ten minutes expecting the bride and her attendant momentarily. Ten minutes is a long time for a man to wait in such circumstances and we were all on pins and needles. By the time the door opened to admit the bride the atmosphere had become electrical, and when in entering, her dress caught in the doorway and something ripped, there were little outbursts of choked-back laughter, and I could see poor Jones fidgetting more than ever. I hardly dared look at his anxious face for it took me all my time to keep my voice at a proper reverential pitch. As I went on I heard, whenever I paused, a low, persistent, irritating noise that seemed in the room and yet was hard to place. I thought it must be either the humming of the wind through a window crack, or the distant buzz of a gasoline-saw making fuel for Dawson's homes. I located it at last. It was the subdued chattering of the bridegroom's teeth, as if he had a severe chill! It is an absolute fact. It almost floored me for a moment and I thought I could not go on. I paused to regain my composure. The silence made the noise more distinct and explosive gurgles of laughter here and there told me that others had noticed it. The perspiration ran down my face in streams. There was nothing for it but to struggle on, and in an abnormally sad voice I continued without pause, until I came to the question asked of the groom, where I had to stop for his reply. If Jones had stammered his answer I could not have held in any longer, but would have burst into nervous laughter. I am thankful to say he said "I will" with never a tremor, and I was able to finish without disgracing "the cloth."