August 3rd. Two Canadian A.M.C. orderlies were grousing that they hadn't left God's Own Country to sit twiddling their thumbs in Boulogne. "We volunteered for active service," says one. "Can't you picture it years hence," says the second. "Your children around you asking, like the little boy in the picture, 'And what did you do in the great war, Daddy?' 'Scrubbed floors, my son!'"
They did not grouse in vain. Two days later they were drafted to Gallipoli, where no doubt they will see all the active service their brave young souls demand—and a good deal more, perhaps. They must be magnificent fighters, these Colonials, whose regime allows of their initiative having full scope.
August 12th. Yesterday the mail boat came in accompanied by two destroyers.
"Royalty is coming," clamoured the French. "Royalty is expected," echoed the men. And, having received an intimation three days back that Royalty was expected, we awaited developments in our best workaday frocks.
Presentation at their Majesties' Court is a simple matter compared with the excitement of receiving a Princess in France. I do not wish to infer that the Princess was anything but her charming Royal self!
It was the long retinue that preceded and succeeded her, the curiosity of our French friends as to who was coming (curiosity that we in the know were not permitted to satisfy), the air of breathless expectancy, that made the visit and inspection a thing to be remembered. And in due course, the usual formalities being over, the presentations effected, our handiwork admired, we were left with the King's cheering message to rejoice the hearts of those of us who are already beginning to feel so tired and war worn.
"His Majesty sent an especial message to you workers in France, and desired me to tell you he considers the fine work you are carrying on so efficiently, of importance second only to that of the men in the trenches."
It was certainly a sufficient encouragement to "carry on."