Some Notes ...

Autumn 1915

... by Malcolm Savage Treacher, Sergt., H.A.C.

A Visiting Day Dialogue
"You're looking ever so much better than I though you would."
"I'm glad you think so Marthy. I'm feeling fit enough. It's only my arm."
"Does it hurt very much?"
"Only when it's dressed. Bobbie's grown a big chap, hasn't he? Come to your daddy, Bobbie!"
"Bo! Bo!"
"He doesn't know you. He was only six months old when you went. ... Kiss your daddy, Bobbie."
"Ha, ha, ha! He's kissed your locket, Marthy. He thinks that's daddy."
"So it is. It's your photograph, anyhow. I've wondered sometimes whether that's all he would see of his daddy."
"But it wasn't, was it, Marthy?"
"No, thank God."

Why Did You Join?
To this one gets so many different answers around the hospital. And this more especially amongst the Australians. They are notoriously crafty in concealing their true feelings.
"Oh," says one, "I came in for the 'fun' of the thing. All the boys joined. I followed suit."
"I wanted to be a 'six-bob-a-day-tourist,' " says another. "Plenty of sport and a trip round the world in the bargain."
Yet few of these fine fellows would open their hearts and explain the real and underlying reason - that the Motherland was in danger; that England should never feel she called vainly to her sons Overseas. Patriotism, pure and simple, this noble response of theirs.

Why did you join? Was it the cry of the distressed Belgians? Was it the thought of a crushed and beaten France? Probably. Or was it the thought of our cathedral cities and smiling villages suffering a like fate to that of Belgium; of our women-folk falling victim to the barbarians? Aye, that is the genuine reply in everybody's heart, springing readily to the lips.
Why did I join? I ask myself. A selfish enough reason, doubtless. Were my thoughts of England? I believe they were. Did I feel my own personal obligation as a Briton towards leaving France in the lurch? Yes; didn't everybody else? Did I think of my wife? By the Lord Harry I did, emphatically. And didn't you all think of your own best-beloved before you joined? After all this is the war of our own hearths and fireplaces. The pride and glory, the whole magnificent panoply of war, had their day years ago. Did any of you feel eloquent in the mud and dirt out yonder?

Visitor's Day
Isn't it splendid to see some rough old fellow kiss his son? Probably they haven't seen each other for a year. Sitting up in bed, smiling bravely, the son is putting on a good face. And the mother; a stout old dame in her Sunday best of satin. What of her? She can't trust herself to speak. Tears are rolling down her wrinkled face. God bless my soul! It sets the blood racing through your veins to see her. Among these good folk there is no question of concealing one's emotions. They hate, they love, with all their being. For a long time, I say, the old mother doesn't speak. She cannot. It's as much as she can do to choke her sobs.
"Mother's been peeling onions," suggests Mars.
The tension is snapped. Mother smiles. She dries her tears. She laughs. They all laugh uproariously. Thereupon you would never think three people could be so happy. but then, I say, there is no fine art of deportment among such folk. And neither should there be, don't you agree?