A Surgeon in Arms

by R. J. Manion

I sat one evening smoking a cigar with a Canadian Colonel who was much incensed at the fact that he had served at Gallipoli where he caught an infectious diarrhea of which he nearly died, while in the meantime his other officers who served no better than he were decorated and promoted.

"Manion," he said to me in an angry voice, "I was promised that if I went to the Mediterranean I would get promotion and any decoration they could get for me, and the only d—— thing I got was dysentery, and I wouldn't have got that if my superior officers had had the giving of it."

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A rather good story with a touch of dry humor provoked by a desire for justice is that of the lonesome soldier. One of our Tommies sent an advertisement to an English daily in which he hinted, rather than said, that he was a duty-loving Briton, honorably doing his bit, and being without friends in the world he would welcome a correspondence with some English girl. He implied that, as the diet was rough, a few comforts would not go amiss, signing his advertisement, "H.H., a lonesome soldier." He was rewarded by a mail large enough for Horatio Bottomley, accompanied by so many parcels that our mail department had to add another man to its staff to handle his portion. Instead of imitating the generosity of these English girls, and sharing his ill-gotten gains with his companions, he chose the selfish part, keeping most of the good things for himself, giving away only what he had no possible use for. And what was still worse, he started a correspondence with each of the priceless young things who had offered him their goods and their friendship. Had this been a fair and square correspondence it might have had nothing to condemn it. But though uneducated, he was sly enough to suit his letters to their recipients. To one he implied the possibility of a strong attachment; to another he was more reserved, speaking only of friendship; while to a third he would send a warm, date-making epistle, hinting at cozy hotels; all according to what he thought their letters to him showed him of their characters.

This went on for some time, the lonesome soldier writing many letters daily, all franked by a kindly government, and all to be censored by a group of H.Q. officers. The friendships he had worked up were getting more friendly, the intrigues deeper, and the passions warmer, when Major E—— decided that in fairness to the young women and in justice to the wily Tommy he would put an end to this planning and plotting. So, in censoring the letters Major E—— saw that the warm, passionate letter to "My Beloved Maisie" was, by mistake, of course, put into the envelope of "Dear Miss Jones;" Miss Jones' letter put into that of "Darling Kiddo," and the latter's into "My Own Emmey's," and so on. The result was a rapid cessation of the letters and parcels to the lonesome soldier, and the straightening out of what otherwise might have been an interminable tangle. To the really lonesome soldier—and there are such—all consideration is due, but to such a one as this may justice arrive swiftly, as it did to him.

Potash is a North American Indian. He was chief of his tribe, is very intelligent, well educated, and the best sharpshooter in his battalion. His intelligence is proven by the fact that he has never indulged in alcoholic drink, nor has he in any other manner allowed his close association with us whites of Canada to deprave him. In other words, he is a living refutation of the remark that the only good Indian is a dead Indian. If it were not for the copper tinge to his skin, one would take him for what he is,—a well-informed, educated North American. He is very proud of the fact that Sir Wilfrid Laurier, when Premier of Canada, presented to him and his bride at their wedding a silver tea set.

Being the only Indian in his battalion he is treated with a good deal of consideration by all. Colonel Blank stood chatting to him one day, the center of a group of officers.

"You are an Indian, Potash. Tell me why it is that alcohol has such a bad effect upon Indians in general."

"You know, Sir," seriously replied Potash, "that alcohol acts principally on the tissues of the brain. And so, the Indians having more brains than the whites, alcohol has a greater effect on them." The colonel and Potash joined in the general laugh.

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