This was sufficient encouragement for the 43rd to go on with and so the rope was got and vaulting pole and standards with other appurtenances of a day of sports. And the preparations went bravely on. So also went on the Syllabus which for Dominion Day showed, Company Drill, Instruction Classes, Lectures, Physical for the forenoon, Bayonet fighting and Route marching for the afternoon.
"All right, let her go," and so the fields and plains, the lanes and roads are filled with Canadian soldiers celebrating their Dominion Day, drilling, bayonet fighting, route marching, while overhead soars thrumming the watchful airship, Britain's eye. For Britain has a business on hand. Just yonder stretches the misty sea where unsleeping lie Britain's men of war. Beyond the sea bleeding Belgium has bloodsoaked ground crying to Heaven long waiting but soon at length to hear. And France fiercely, proudly proving her right to live an independent nation. And Germany. Germany! the last word in intellectual power, in industrial achievement, in scientific research, aye and in infamous brutality! Germany, the might modern Hun, the highly scienced barbarian of this twentieth Century, more bloody than Attila, more ruthless than his savage hordes. Germany doomed to destruction because freedom is man's inalienable birthright, man's undying passion. Germany! fated to execration by future generations for that she ahs crucified the Son of God afresh and put Him to an open shame. Germany! for the balking of whose insolent and futile ambition, and for the crushing of whose archaic military madness we Canadians are tramping on this Dominion Day these English fields and these sweet English lanes 5,000 miles from our Western Canada which dear land we can not ever see again if this monstrous threatening cloud be not removed forever from our sky. For this it is that 100,000 Canadian citizens have left their homes with 500,000 eager more to follow if needed, other sons of the Empire knit in one firm resolve that once more Freedom shall be saved for the race as by their sires in other days.
But the Tattoo is on—the ground chosen is the little plateau within the lines of the 43rd just below the Officer's tents, flanked on one side by a sloping grassy hill on the other by a row of ancient trees shading a little hidden brook that gurgles softly to itself all day long. On the sloping hill the soldiers of the various battalions lie stretched at ease in khaki colored kilts and trews, caps and bonnets, except the men of the 43rd who wear the dark blue Glengarry. In the center of the plateau a platform invites attention and on each side facing it rows of chairs for officers and their friends, among the latter some officers' wives, happy creatures and happy officers to have them so near and not 5,000 miles away.
The Commandant has been called away on a sad business, a soldier's funeral, hence the Junior Major of the 43rd as chairman of that important and delicately organized Committee of the Bandmasters and Pipe Majors of the various battalions is in charge of the program. Major Grassie is equal to the occasion, quiet, ready resourceful. With him associated is Major Watts, Adjutant of the 9th, as Musical Director; in peaceful times organist and choir master of a Presbyterian congregation in Edmonton far away.
Bang! Bang! Bang!
Bang! Bang! Bang!
The drums in the distance begin to throb and from the eastern side of the plain march in the band of the 9th playing their regimental march, "Garry Owen," none the less. From the west the band of the 11th, then that of the 12th, finally (for the 43rd Band is away on leave, worse luck) the splendid Band of the 49th, each playing its own Regimental march which is taken up by the bands already in position. Next comes the massed buglers of all the regiments, their thrilling soaring notes rising above the hills, and take their stand beside the bands already in place. Then a pause, when from round the hill shoulder rise wild and weird sounds. The music of the evening, to Scottish hearts and ears, has begun. It is the fine pipe band of the 42nd Royal Highlanders from Montreal, khaki clad, kilts and bonnets, and blowing proudly and defiantly their "Wha saw the Forty-twa." Again a pause and from the other side of the hill gay with tartan and blue bonnets, their great blooming drones gorgeous with flowing streamers and silver mountings, in march the 43rd Camerons. "Man, would Alex Macdonald be proud of his pipes to-day," says a Winnipeg Highlander for these same pipes are Alex's gift to the 43rd, and harkening to these great booming drones I agree.
Ah these pipes! These Highland pipes! Truly as one of them said, "Pipers are no just like other people!" Blowing their "Pilrock of Donald Dhu" they swing into line, mighty and magnificent. Last comes the brave little pipe band of the 49th. This battalion has one Scotch company from Edmonton, which insisted on bringing its pipe band along. Why not? "The Blue Bonnets" is their tune and finely they ring it out. Now they are all in place, Bands, Bugle and Pipes. The massed Bands strike up our National Song, and all the soldiers spring to their feet and sing "Oh, Canada." A little high but our hearts were in it. And so the program goes on. Single bands and massed bands with solos from French Horns, Trombones and Cornets, varied delightfully with the Highland Fling by Pipe Major Johnson of the 42nd, and the Sword Dance by Piper Reid of the 43rd followed by an encore, the "Shean Rheubs" which I defy any mere Sassenach to pronounce or to dance, at least as Piper Heid of the twinkling feet danced it that night. For he did it "in the style of Willie Maclennan," as a piper said, "the best of his day and they have not matched him yet." The massed pipe bands play "The 79th's Farewell at Gibraltar." Forty-one pipers and every man blowing his best. "Aye man, it is grand hearing you," said a man from the north. Colonel Moore of the 9th, on a minute's warning, makes a fine speech instinct with patriotic sentiment and calls for three cheers for Canada. He got three and a tiger and "a tiger's pup." Major Grassie in another speech neat and to the point thanks those who had helped to celebrate our Dominion Day and once more calls for cheers and gets them. Then the "First Post" warns us that we are soldiers and under orders. The massed bands play "Nearer My God to Thee." Full and tender the long drawn notes of the great hymn rise and fall on the evening air, the soldiers joining reverently. The Chaplain of the 43rd congratulates the Commandment upon the happy suggestion of a Tattoo, the Chairman upon his very successful program and all the Company upon a very happy celebration of our national holiday—then a word about our Day and all it stands for, a word about our Empire, our Country, our Kiddies at home, another word of thanks to the Committee for the closing hymn so eminently appropriate to their present circumstances and then God bless our King, God bless our Empire, God bless our Great Cause and God bless our dear Canada. Good night.
The "Last Post" sounds. Its piercing call falls sharp and startling upon the silent night. Long after we say "Good night" that last long-drawn note high and clear with its poignant pathos lingers in our hearts. The Dominion Day celebration is over.
[signed]Ralph Connor
Simple as Day