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A MINSTREL IN FRANCE 
 
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Harry Lauder and His Son, Captain John Lauder 
 
A MINSTREL 
 IN FRANCE 
 
 BY 
 
 HARRY LAUDER 
 
 NEW YORK 
 HEARST'S INTERNATIONAL LIBRARY CO. 
 
 1918 
 
 w\. 
 
A 
 
 
 
 
 Copyright. 1918, by 
 Hearst's International Library Co., Inc. 
 
 All rights reserved, including the translation into foreign 
 languages, including the Scandinavian 
 
 APR 23 1918 
 
 4 0^'" 
 
 ©Cl.A497i:j2 
 
 yi-o I 
 
TO 
 
 The Memory of My Beloved Son 
 
 CAPTAIN JOHN LAUDER 
 
 First 8th, Argyle and Sutherland Highlanders rf 
 
 Killed in France, December 28, 1916 
 
 Oh, there's sometimes I am lonely 
 
 And I'm weary a' the day 
 
 To see the face and clasp the hand 
 
 Of him who is away. 
 
 The only one God gave me. 
 
 My one and only joy. 
 
 My life and love were centered on 
 
 My one and only boy. 
 
 I saw him in his infant days 
 
 Grow up from year to year. 
 
 That he would some day be a man 
 
 I never had a fear. 
 
 His mother watched his every step, 
 
 'Twas our united joy 
 
 To think that he might be one day 
 
 My one and only boy. 
 
 When war broke out he buckled on 
 His sword, and said, " Good-bye, 
 For I must do my duty, Dad; 
 Tell Mother not to cry, 
 Tell her that I'll come back again." 
 What happiness and joy! 
 But no, he died for Liberty, 
 My one and only boy. 
 
 The days are long, the nights are drear. 
 
 The anguish breaks my heart. 
 
 But oh! I'm proud my one and only 
 
 Laddie played his part. 
 
 For God knows best. His will be done. 
 
 His grace does me employ. 
 
 I do believe I'll meet again 
 
 My one and only boy. 
 
 Copyright 1918 by Harry Lauder. 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 CHAPTBR PAGE 
 
 I 1 
 
 II 11 
 
 III 25 
 
 IV 33 
 
 V 42 
 
 VI 52 
 
 VII 61 
 
 VIII 71 
 
 IX 80 
 
 X 91 
 
 XI 107 
 
 XII 118 
 
 XIII 131 
 
 XIV 146 
 
 XV 164 
 
 XVI 180 
 
 XVII 200 
 
 XVIII 217 
 
 XIX 236 
 
 XX 247 
 
 XXI . 261 
 
 XXII 274 
 
 XXIII 285 
 
 XXIV 293 
 
 XXV 304 
 
 XXVI 316 
 
 XXVII 323 
 
 XXVIII 330 
 
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS 
 
 Harry Lauder and His Son, Captain John Lauder 
 
 Frontispiece 
 
 FACINS 
 PAOR 
 
 * ' I did not stop at sending out my recruiting band. 
 
 I went out myself" 30 
 
 " 'Carry On!' were the last words of my boy, Cap- 
 tain John Lauder, to his men, but he would 
 mean them for me, too" 56 
 
 "Bang! Went Sixpence" 98 
 
 Harry Lauder preserves the bonnet of his son, 
 brought to him from where the lad fell. ' ' The 
 memory of his boy, it is almost his religion." 
 — A tatter of plaid of the Black Watch on a 
 wire of a German entanglement barely sug- 
 gests the hell the Scotch troops have gone 
 through 130 
 
 Captain John Lauder and Comrades Before the 
 
 Trenches in France 180 
 
 " 'Make us laugh again, Harry!' Though I re- 
 member my son and want to join the ranks, I 
 have obeyed" 232 
 
 Harry Lauder, "Laird of Dunoon" . . . 256 
 
A MINSTREL IN FRANCE 
 
CHAPTER I 
 
 YON days ! Yon palmy, peaceful days ! I go 
 back to them, and they are as a dream. I 
 go back to them again and again, and live 
 them over. Yon days of another age, the age of 
 peace, when no man dared even to dream of such 
 times as have come upon us. 
 
 It was in November of 1913, and I was setting 
 forth upon a great journey, that was to take me 
 to the other side of the world before I came back 
 again to my wee hoose amang the heather at 
 Dunoon. My wife was going with me, and my 
 brother-in-law, Tom Vallance, for they go every- 
 where with me. But my son John was coming 
 with us only to Glasgow, and then, when we set 
 out for Liverpool and the steamer that was to 
 bring us to America he was to go back to Cam- 
 bridge. He was near done there, the bonnie lad- 
 die. He had taken his degree as Bachelor of Arts, 
 and was to set out soon upon a trip around the 
 world. 
 
 Was that no a fine plan I had made for my son? 
 That great voyage he was to have, to see the 
 world and all its peoples! It was proud I was 
 that I could give it to him. He was — ^but it may 
 be I'll tell you more of John later in this book! 
 
A MINSTREL IN FRANCE 
 
 My pen runs awa' with me, and my tongue, too, 
 when I think of my boy John. 
 
 We came to the pier at Dunoon, and there she 
 lay, the little ferry steamer, the black smoke curl- 
 ing from her stack straight up to God. Ah, the 
 braw day it was ! There was a frosty sheen upon 
 the heather, and the Clyde was calm as glass. The 
 tops of the hills were coated with snow, and they 
 stood out against the horizon like great big sugar 
 loaves. 
 
 We were a' happy that day! There was a 
 crowd to see us off. They had come to bid me 
 farewell and godspeed, all my friends and my 
 relations, and I went among them, shaking them 
 by the hand and thinking of the long whiles before 
 I'd be seeing f em again. And then all my good- 
 bys were sai'^, and we went aboard, and my 
 voyage had bejun, 
 
 I looked back at the hills and the heather, and 
 I thought of all I was to do and see before I saw 
 those hills again. I was going half way round 
 the world and back again. I was going to won- 
 derful places to see wonderful things and curious 
 faces. But oftenest the thought came to me, as 
 I looked at my son, that him I would see again 
 before I saw the heather and the hills and all the 
 friends and the relations I was leaving behind 
 me. For on his trip around the world he was to 
 meet us in Australia ! It was easier to leave him, 
 easier to set out, knowing that, thinking of that! 
 
A MINSTREL IN FRANCE 
 
 Wonderful places I went to, surely. And won- 
 derful things I saw and heard. But the most 
 wonderful thing of all that I was to see or hear 
 upon that voyage I did not dream of nor foresee. 
 How was a mortal man to foresee ? How was he 
 to dream of it? 
 
 Could I guess that the very next time I set out 
 from Dunoon pier the peaceful Clyde would be 
 dotted with patrol boats, dashing hither and 
 thither! Could I guess that everywhere there 
 would be boys in khaki, and women weeping, and 
 
 that my boy, John ! Ah, but I'll not tell you 
 
 of that now. 
 
 Peaceful the Clyde had been, and peaceful was 
 the Mersey when we sailed from Liverpool for 
 New York. I look back on yon voyage — the last 
 I took that way in days of peace. Next time ! 
 Destroyers to guard us from the Hun and his sub- 
 marines, and to lay us a safe course through the 
 mines. And sailor boys, about their guns, watch- 
 ing, sweeping the sea every minute for the flash 
 of a sneaking pirate's periscope showing for a 
 second above a wave ! 
 
 But then! It was a quiet trip, with none but 
 the ups and doons of every Atlantic crossing — 
 more ups than doons, I'm telling you! 
 
 I was glad to be in America again, glad to see 
 once more the friends I 'd made. They turned out 
 to meet me and to greet me in New York, and as 
 I travelled across the continent to San Francisco 
 
A MINSTREL IN FRANCE 
 
 it was the same. Everywhere I had friends; 
 everywhere they came crowding to shake me by 
 the hand with a ^'How are you the day, 
 Harry?'' 
 
 It was a long trip, but it was a happy one. 
 How long ago it seems now, as I write, in this new 
 day of war! How far away are all the common, 
 kindly things that then I did not notice, and that 
 now I would give the world and a' to have back 
 again ! 
 
 Then, everywhere I went, they pressed their 
 dainties upon me whenever I sat down for a sup 
 and a bite. The board groaned with plenty. I 
 was in a rich country, a country where there was 
 enough for all, and to spare. And now, as I am 
 writing I am travelling again across America. 
 And there is not enough. When I sit down at 
 table there is a card of Herbert Hoover's, bidding 
 me be careful how I eat and what I choose. Ay, 
 but he has no need to warn me ! Well I know the 
 truth, and how America is helping to feed her 
 allies over there, and so must be sparing herself. 
 
 To think of it ! In yon far day the world was 
 all at peace. And now that great America, that 
 gave so little thought to armies and to cannon, is 
 fighting with my ain British against the Hun ! 
 
 It was in March of 1914 that we sailed from 
 San Francisco, on the tenth of the month. It was 
 a glorious day as we stood on the deck of the old 
 Pacific liner Sonoma. I was eager and glad to 
 
A MINSTREL IN FRANCE 
 
 be off. To be sure, America had been kinder to 
 me than ever, and I was loath, in a way, to be 
 leaving her and all the friends of mine she held 
 — old friends of years, and new ones made on that 
 trip. But I was coming back. And then there 
 was one great reason for my eagerness that few 
 folk knew — that my son John was coming to meet 
 me in Australia. I was missing him sore already. 
 
 They came aboard the old tubby liner to see us 
 off, friends by the score. They kept me busy 
 shaking hands. 
 
 "Good-by, Harry," they said. And "Good 
 luck, Harry," they cried. And just before the 
 bugles sounded all ashore I heard a few of them 
 crooning an old Scots song: 
 
 "Will ye no come back again?" 
 
 "Aye, I'll come back again!" I told them when 
 I heard them. 
 
 "Good, Harry, good!" they cried back to me. 
 "It's a promise! We'll be waiting for you — 
 waiting to welcome you ! ' ' 
 
 And so we sailed from San Francisco and from 
 America, out through the Golden Gate, toward the 
 sunset. Here was beauty for me, who loved it — 
 a new beauty, such as I had not seen before. They 
 were quiet days, happy days, peaceful days. I 
 was tired after my long tour, and the days at sea 
 rested me, with good talk when I craved it, and 
 time to sleep, and no need to give thought to 
 trains, or to think, when I went to bed, that in 
 
6 A MINSTREL IN FRANCE 
 
 the night they'd rouse me from my sleep by 
 switching my car and giving me a bump. 
 
 We came first to Hawaii, and I fell in love with 
 the harbor of Honolulu as we sailed in. Here, at 
 last, I began to see the strange sights and hear the 
 strange sounds I had been looking forward to 
 ever since I left my wee hoose at Dunoon. Here 
 was something that was different from anything 
 that I had ever seen before. 
 
 We did not stay so long. On the way home I 
 was to stay over and give a performance in 
 Honolulu, but not now. Our time was given up 
 to sight seeing, and to meeting some of the folk 
 of the islands. They ken hospitality! We made 
 many new friends there, short as the time was. 
 And, man ! The lassies ! You want to cuddle the 
 first lassie you meet when you step ashore at 
 Honolulu. But you don't — if the wife is there! 
 
 It was only because I knew that we were to stop 
 longer on the way back that I was willing to leave 
 Honolulu at all. So we sailed on, toward Aus- 
 tralia. And now I knew that my boy was about 
 setting out on his great voyage around the world. 
 Day by day I would get out the map, and try to 
 prick the spot where he'd be. 
 
 And I'd think: ''Aye! When I'm here John '11 
 be there ! Will he be nearer to me than nowT' 
 
 Thinking of the braw laddie, setting out, so 
 proud and happy, made me think of my ain young 
 days. My father couldna' give me such a chance 
 
A MINSTREL IN FRANCE 
 
 as my boy was to have. I'd worked in the mines 
 before I was John's age. There 'd been no Cam- 
 bridge for me — no trip around the world as a part 
 of my education. And I thanked God that he was 
 letting me do so much for my boy. 
 
 Aye, and he deserved it, did John ! He 'd done 
 well at Cambridge; he had taken honors there. 
 And soon he was to go up to London to read for 
 the Bar. He was to be a barrister, in wig and 
 gown, my son, John! 
 
 It was of him, and of the meeting we were all 
 to have in Australia, that I thought, more than 
 anything else, in the long, long days upon the sea. 
 We sailed on from Honolulu until we came to 
 Paga-Paga. So it is spelled, but all the natives 
 call it Panga-Panga. 
 
 Here I saw more and yet more of the strange 
 and wonderful things I had thought upon so long 
 back, in Dunoon. Here I saw mankind, for the 
 first time, in a natural state. I saw men who wore 
 only the figleaf of old Father Adam, and a people 
 who lived from day to day, and whom the kindly 
 earth sustained. 
 
 They lived entirely from vegetables and from 
 clear crystal streams and upon marvelous fish 
 from the sea. Ah, how I longed to stay in Paga- 
 Paga and be a natural man. But I must go on. 
 Work called me back to civilization and sorrow- 
 fully I heeded its call and waved good-by to the 
 natural folk of Paga-Paga ! 
 
A MINSTREL IN FRANCE 
 
 It was before I came to Paga-Paga that I wrote 
 a little verse inspired by Honolulu. Perhaps, if 
 I had gone first to Paga-Paga — don't forget to 
 put in the n and call it Panga-Panga when you 
 say it to yourself! — I might have written it of 
 that happy island of the natural folk. But I did 
 not, so here is the verse : 
 
 I love you, Honolulu, Honolulu I love you! 
 
 You are the Queen of the Sea! 
 
 Your valleys and mountains 
 
 Your palais and fountains 
 
 Forever and ever will be dear to me! 
 
 I wedded a simple melody to those simple, heart- 
 felt lines, and since then I have sung the song in 
 pretty nearly every part of the world — and in 
 Honolulu itself. 
 
 Our journey was drawing to its end. We were 
 coming to a strange land indeed. And yet I knew 
 there were Scots folk there — where in the world 
 are there not? I thought they would be glad to 
 see me, but how could I be sure? It was a far, 
 far cry from Dunoon and the Clyde and the frost 
 upon the heather on the day I had set out. 
 
 We were to land at Sydney. I was a wee bit 
 impatient after we had made our landfall, while 
 the old Sonoma poked her way along. But she 
 would not be hurried by my impatience. And at 
 last we came to the Sydney Heads — the famous 
 Harbor Heads. If you have never seen it I do 
 
A MINSTREL IN FRANCE 
 
 not know how better to tell you of it than to say 
 that it makes me think of the entrance to a great 
 cave that has no roof. In we went — and were 
 within that great, nearly landlocked harbor. 
 
 And what goings on there were! The harbor 
 was full of craft, both great and sma '. And each 
 had all her bunting flying. Oh, they were braw 
 in the sunlight, with the gay colors and the bits 
 of flags, all fluttering and waving in the breeze! 
 
 And what a din there was, with the shrieking 
 of the whistle and the foghorns and the sirens and 
 the clamor of bells. It took my breath away, and 
 I wondered what was afoot. And on the shore 
 I could see that thousands of people waited, all 
 crowded together by the water side. There were 
 flags flying, too, from all the buildings. 
 
 *'It must be that the King is coming in on a 
 visit — and I never to have heard of it!" I thought. 
 
 And then they made me understand that it was 
 all for me ! 
 
 If there were tears in my eyes when they made 
 me believe that, will you blame me? There was 
 that great harbor, all alive with the welcome they 
 made for me. And on the shore, they told me, a 
 hundred thousand were waiting to greet me and 
 bid me: 
 
 *' Welcome, Harry!" 
 
 The tramways had stopped running until they 
 had done \vith their welcome to me. And all over 
 the city, as we drove to our hotel, they roared 
 
10 A MINSTREL IN FRANCE 
 
 their welcome, and there were flags along the 
 way. 
 
 That was the proudest day I had ever known. 
 But one thing made me wistful and wishful. I 
 wanted my boy to be there with us. I wished he 
 had seen how they had greeted his Dad. Nothing 
 pleased him more than an honor that came to me. 
 And here was an honor indeed — a reception the 
 like of which I had never seen. 
 
CHAPTER II 
 
 IT was on the twenty-ninth day of March, in 
 that year of 1914 that dawned in peace and 
 happiness and set in blood and death and 
 bitter sorrow, that we landed in Sydney. Soon 
 I went to work. Everywhere my audiences 
 showed me that that great and wonderful recep- 
 tion that had been given to me on the day we 
 landed had been only an earnest of what was to 
 come. They greeted me everywhere with cheers 
 and tears, and everywhere we made new friends, 
 and sometimes found old ones of whom we had 
 not heard for years. 
 
 And I was thinking all the time, now, of my 
 boy. He was on his way. He was on the Pacific. 
 He was coming to me, across the ocean, and I 
 could smile as I thought of how this thing and that 
 would strike him, and of the smile that would light 
 up his face now and the look of joy that would 
 come into his eyes at the sudden sighting of some 
 beautiful spot. Oh, aye — those were happy days 
 when each one brought my boy nearer to me. 
 
 One day, I mind, the newspapers were full of 
 the tale of a crime in an odd spot in Europe that 
 none of us had ever heard of before. You mind 
 the place? Serajevo! Aye — we all mind it now ! 
 
 11 
 
12 A MINSTREL IN FRANCE 
 
 But then we read, and wondered how that out- 
 landish name might be pronounced. A foreigner 
 was murdered — what if he was a prince, the Arch- 
 duke of Austria? Need we fash ourselves about 
 him? 
 
 And so we read, and were sorry, a little, for 
 the puir lady who sat beside the Archduke and 
 was killed with him. And then we forgot it. All 
 Australia did. There was no more in the news- 
 papers. And my son John was coming — coming. 
 Each day he was so many hundred miles nearer 
 to me. And at last he came. We were in Mel- 
 bourne then, it was near to the end of July. 
 
 We had much to talk about — son, and his 
 mother and I. It was long months since we had 
 seen him, and we had seen and done so much. 
 The time flew by. Maybe we did not read the 
 papers so carefully as we might have done. They 
 tell me, they have told me, since then, that in 
 Europe and even in America, there was some 
 warning after Austria moved on Serbia. But I 
 believe that down there in Australia they did not 
 dream of danger ; that they were far from under- 
 standing the meaning of the news the papers did 
 print. They were so far away! 
 
 And then, you ken, it came upon us like a clap 
 of thunder. One night it began. There was war 
 in Europe — real war. Germany had attacked 
 France and Russia. She was moving troops 
 through Belgium. And every Briton knew what 
 
A MINSTREL IN FRANCE 
 
 that must mean. Would Britain be drawn in I 
 There was the question that was on every man's 
 tongue. 
 
 ''What do you think, son?" I asked John. 
 
 "I think we'll go in," he said. ''And if we do, 
 you know, Dad — they'll send for me to come home 
 at once. I'm on leave from the summer training 
 camp now to make this trip." 
 
 My boy, two years before, had joined the Ter- 
 ritorial army. He was a second lieutenant in a 
 Territorial battalion of the Argyle and Suther- 
 land Highlanders. It was much as if he had been 
 an officer in a National Guard regiment in the 
 United States. The territorial army was not 
 bound to serve abroad — but who could doubt that 
 it would, and gladly. As it did — to a man, to a 
 man. 
 
 But it was a shock to me when John said that. 
 I had not thought that war, even if it came, could 
 come home to us so close — and so soon. 
 
 Yet so it was. The next day was the fourth of 
 August — my birthday. And it was that day that 
 Britain declared war upon Germany. We sat at 
 lunch in the hotel at Melbourne when the news- 
 boys began to cry the extras. And we were still 
 at lunch when the hall porter came in from 
 outside. 
 
 "Lef tenant Lauder!" he called, over and over. 
 John beckoned to him, and he handed my laddie 
 a cablegram. 
 
14. A MINSTREL IN FRANCE 
 
 Just two words there were, that had come sing- 
 ing along the wires half way around the world. 
 
 "Mobilize. Eeturn." 
 
 John's eyes were bright. They were shining. 
 He was looking at us, but he was not seeing us. 
 Those eyes of his were seeing distant things. My 
 heart was sore within me, but I was proud and 
 happy that it was such a son I had to give my 
 country. 
 
 "What do you think, Dad!" he asked me, when 
 I had read the order. 
 
 I think I was gruff because I dared not let him 
 see how I felt. His mother was very pale. 
 
 "This is no time for thinking, son," I said. 
 "It is the time for action. You know your duty." 
 
 He rose from the table, quickly. 
 
 "I'm off!" he said. 
 
 "Where?" I asked him. 
 
 "To the ticket office to see about changing my 
 berth. There's a steamer this week — maybe I 
 can still find room aboard her." 
 
 He was not long gone. He and his chum went 
 down together and he came back smiling tri- 
 umphantly. 
 
 "It's all right. Dad," he told me. "I go to 
 Adelaide by train and get the steamer there. I'll 
 have time to see you and mother off — yiour 
 steamer goes two hours before my train." 
 
 We were going to New Zealand, And my boy 
 was going home to fight for his country. They 
 
A MINSTREL IN FRANCE 15 
 
 would call me too old, I knew — I was forty-four 
 the day Britain declared war. 
 
 What a turmoil there was about us! So fast 
 were things moving that there seemed no time for 
 thought. John's mother and I could not realize 
 the full meaning of all that was happening. But 
 we knew that John was snatched away from us 
 just after he had come, and it was hard — it was 
 cruelly hard. 
 
 But such thoughts were drowned in the great, 
 surging excitement that was all about us. In 
 Melbourne, and I believe it must have been much 
 the same elsewhere in Australia, folks didn't 
 know what they were to do, how they were to take 
 this war that had come so suddenly upon them. 
 And rumors and questions flew in all directions. 
 
 Suppose the Germans came to Australia? Was 
 there a chance of that? They had islands, naval 
 bases, not so far away. They were Australia's 
 neighbors. What of the German navy? Was it 
 out? Were there scattered ships, here and there, 
 that might swoop down upon Australia's shores 
 and bring death and destruction with them? 
 
 But even before we sailed, next day, I could see 
 that order was coming out of that chaos. Every- 
 where recruiting offices were opening, and men 
 were flocking to them. No one dreamed, really, 
 of a long war — though John laughed, sadly, when 
 someone said it would be over in four months. 
 But these Australians took no chances; they 
 
16 A MINSTREL IN FRANCE 
 
 would offer themselves first, and let it be decided 
 later whether they were needed. 
 
 So we sailed away. And when I took John's 
 hand, and kissed him good-by, I saw him for the 
 last time in his civilian clothes. 
 
 "Well, son," I said, "you're going home to be a 
 soldier, a fighting soldier. You will soon be com- 
 manding men. Kemember that you can never ask 
 a man to do something you would no dare to do 
 yourself!" 
 
 And, oh, the braw look in the eyes of the bonnie 
 laddie as he tilted his chin up to me ! 
 
 * ' I will remember. Dad ! " he said. 
 
 And so long as a bit of the dock was in sight 
 we could see him waving to us. We were not to 
 see him again until the next January, at Bedford, 
 in England, where he was training the raw men 
 of his company. 
 
 Those were the first days of war. The British 
 navy was on guard. From every quarter the 
 whimpering wireless brought news of this Ger- 
 man warship and that. They were scattered far 
 and wide, over the Seven Seas, you ken, when the 
 war broke out. There was no time for them to 
 make a home port. They had their choice, most 
 of them, between being interned in some neutral 
 port and setting out to do as much mischief as 
 they could to British commerce before they were 
 caught. Caught they were sure to be. They must 
 have known it. And some there were to brave the 
 
A MINSTREL IN FRANCE 17 
 
 issue and match themselves against England's 
 great naval power. 
 
 Perhaps they knew that few ports would long 
 be neutral ! Maybe they knew of the abominable 
 war the Hun was to wage. But I think it was not 
 such men as those who chose to take their one 
 chance in a thousand who were sent out, later, in 
 their submarines, to send women and babies to 
 their deaths with their torpedoes ! 
 
 Be that as it may, we sailed away from Mel- 
 bourne. But it was in Sydney Harbor that we 
 anchored next — not in Wellington, as we, on the 
 ship, all thought it would be ! And the reason was 
 that the navy, getting word that the German 
 cruiser Emden was loose and raiding, had ordered 
 our captain to hug the shore, and to put in at 
 Sydney until he was told it was safe to proceed. 
 
 We were not much delayed, and came to Well- 
 ington safely. New Zealand was all ablaze with 
 the war spirit. There was no hesitation there. 
 The New Zealand troops were mobilizing when 
 we arrived, and every recruiting office was be- 
 sieged with men. Splendid laddies they were, 
 who looked as if they Avould give a great account 
 of themselves. As they did — as they did. Their 
 deeds at Gallipoli speak for them and will forever 
 speak for them — the men of Australia and New 
 Zealand. 
 
 There the word Anzac was made — ^made from 
 the first letters of these words: Australian New 
 
18 A MINSTREL IN FRANCE 
 
 Zealand Army Corps. It is a word that will 
 never die. 
 
 Even in the midst of war they had time to give 
 me a welcome that warmed my heart. And there 
 were pipers with them, too, skirling a tune as I 
 stepped ashore. There were tears in my eyes 
 again, as there had been at Sydney. Every laddie 
 in uniform made me think of my own boy, well 
 off, by now, on his way home to Britain and the 
 duty that had called him. 
 
 They were gathering, all over the Empire, those 
 of British blood. They were answering the call 
 old Britain had sent across the seven seas to the 
 far corners of the earth. Even as the Scottish 
 clans gathered of old the greater British clans 
 were gathering now. It was a great thing to see 
 that in the beginning ; it has comforted me many a 
 time since, in a black hour, when news was bad 
 and the Hun was thundering at the line that was 
 so thinly held in France. 
 
 Here were free peoples, not held, not bound, 
 free to choose their way. Britain could not make 
 their sons come to her aid. If they came they 
 must come freely, joyously, knowing that it was a 
 right cause, a holy cause, a good cause, that called 
 them. I think of the way they came — of the way 
 I saw them rising to the summons, in New Zea- 
 land, in Australia, later in Canada. Aye, and I 
 saw more — I saw Americans slipping across the 
 border, putting on Britain's khaki there in 
 
A MINSTREL IN FRANCE 19 
 
 Canada, because they knew that it was the fight 
 of humanity, of freedom, that they were entering. 
 And that, too, gave me comfort later in dark 
 times, for it made me know that when the right 
 time came America would take her place beside 
 old Britain and brave France. 
 
 New Zealand is a bonnie land. It made me 
 think, sometimes, of the Hielands of Scotland. A 
 bonnie land, and braw are its people. They made 
 me happy there, and they made much of me. 
 
 At Christchurch they did a strange thing. They 
 were selling off, at auction, a Union Jack — the 
 flag of Britain. Such a thing had never been done 
 before, or thought of. But here was a reason and 
 a good one. Money was needed for the laddies 
 who were going — needed for all sorts of things. 
 To buy them small comforts, and tobacco, and 
 such things as the government might not be sup- 
 plying them. And so they asked me to be their 
 auctioneer. 
 
 I played a fine trick upon them there in Christ- 
 church. But I was not ashamed of myself, and 
 I think they have forgi'en me — those good bodies 
 at Christchurch! 
 
 Here was the way of it. I w^as auctioneer, you 
 ken — but that was not enough to keep me from 
 bidding myself. And so I worked them up and 
 on — and then I bid in the flag for myself for a 
 hundred pounds — five hundred dollars of Ameri- 
 can money. 
 
20 A MINSTREL IN FRANCE 
 
 I had my doots about how they'd be taking it 
 to have a stranger carry their flag away. And so 
 I bided a wee. I stayed that night in Christ- 
 church, and was to stay longer. I could wait. 
 Above yon town of Christchurch stretch the 
 Merino Hills. On them graze sheep by the thou- 
 sand — and it is from those sheep that the true 
 Merino wool comes. And in the gutters of Christ- 
 church there flows, all day long, a stream of water 
 as clear and pure as ever you might hope to see. 
 And it should be so, for it is from artesian wells 
 that it is pumped. 
 
 Aweel, I bided that night and by next day they 
 were murmuring in the town, and their murmurs 
 came to me. They thought it wasna richt for a 
 Scotsman to be carrying off their flag — though 
 he'd bought it and paid for it. And so at last 
 they came to me, and wanted to be buying back 
 the flag. And I was agreeable. 
 
 "X Aye— I'll sell it back to ye!" I told them. 
 "But at a price, ye ken — at a price! Pay 
 me twice what I paid for it and it shall be 
 yours ! ' ' 
 
 There was a Scots bargain for you ! They must 
 have thought me mean and grasping that day. 
 But out they went. They worked for the money. 
 It was but just a month after war had been de- 
 clared, and money was still scarce and shy of 
 peeping out and showing itself. But, bit by bit, 
 they got the siller. A shilling at a time they 
 
A MINSTREL IN FRANCE 21 
 
 raised, by subscription. But they got it all, and 
 brought it to me, smiling the while. 
 
 "Here, Harry — here's your money!" they said. 
 *'Now give us back our flag!" 
 
 Back to them I gave it — and with it the money 
 they had brought, to be added to the fund for the 
 soldier boys. And so that one flag brought three 
 hundred pounds sterling to the soldiers. I wonder 
 did those folk at Christchurch think I would keep 
 the money and make a profit on that flag? 
 
 Had it been another time I'd have stayed in 
 New Zealand gladly a long time. It was a friendly 
 place, and it gave us many a new friend. But 
 home was calling me. There was more than the 
 homebound tour that had been planned and laid 
 out for me. I did not know how soon my boy 
 might be going to France. And his mother and 
 I wanted to see him again before he went, and 
 to be as near him as might be. 
 
 So I was glad as well as sorry to sail away from 
 New Zealand's friendly shores, to the strains of 
 pipers softly skirling: 
 
 ''Will ye no come back again?" 
 
 We sailed for Sydney on the Minnehaha, a fast 
 boat. We were glad of her speed a day or so out, 
 for there was smoke on the horizon that gave 
 some anxious hours to our officers. Some thought 
 the German raider Emden was under that smoke. 
 And it would not have been surprising had a 
 raider turned up in our path. For just before we 
 
22 A MINSTREL IN FRANCE 
 
 sailed it had been discovered that the man in 
 charge of the principal wireless station in New 
 Zealand was a German, and he had been interned. 
 Had he sent word to German warships of the 
 plans and movements of British ships? No one 
 could prove it, so he was only interned. 
 
 Back we went to Sydney. A great change had 
 come since our departure. The war ruled all deed 
 and thought. Australia was bound now to do her 
 part. No less faithfully and splendidly than New 
 Zealand was she engaged upon the enterprise the 
 Hun had thrust upon the world. Everyone was 
 eager for news, but it was woefully scarce. Those 
 were the black, early days, when the German rush 
 upon Paris was being stayed, after the disasters 
 of the first fortnight of the war, at the Marne. 
 
 Everywhere, though there was no lack of de- 
 termination to see the war through to a finish, no 
 matter how remote that might be, the feeling was 
 that this war was too huge, too vast, to last long. 
 Exhaustion would end it. War upon the modern 
 scale could not last. So they said — in Septem- 
 ber, 1914! So many of us believed — and this is 
 the spring of the fourth year of the war, and the 
 end is not yet, is not in sight, I fear. 
 
 Sydney turned out, almost as magnificently as 
 when I had first landed upon Australian soil, to 
 bid me farewell. And we embarked again upon 
 that same old Sonoma that had brought us to 
 Australia. Again I saw Paga-Paga and the 
 
A MINSTREL IN FRANCE gS 
 
 natural folk, who had no need to toil nor spin to 
 live upon the fat of the land and be arrayed in 
 the garments that were always up to the minute 
 in style. 
 
 Again I saw Honolulu, and, this time, stayed 
 longer, and gave a performance. But, though we 
 were there longer, it was not long enough to make 
 me yield to that temptation to cuddle one of the 
 brown lassies! Aweel, I was not so young as I 
 had been, and Mrs. Lauder — you ken that she was 
 travelling with me ? 
 
 In the harbor of Honolulu there was a German 
 gunboat, the Geier, that had run there for shelter 
 not long since, and had still left a day or two, 
 under the orders from Washington, to decide 
 whether she would let herself be interned or not. 
 And outside, beyond the three mile limit that 
 marked the end of American territorial waters, 
 were two good reasons to make the German think 
 well of being interned. They were two cruisers, 
 squat and ugly and vicious in their gray war 
 paint, that watched the entrance to the harbor as 
 you have seen a cat watching a rat hole. 
 
 It was not Britain's white ensign that they flew, 
 those cruisers. It was the red sun flag of Japan, 
 one of Britain's allies against the Hun. They had 
 their vigil in vain, did those two cruisers. It was 
 valor's better part, discretion, that the German 
 captain chose. Aweel, you could no blame him I 
 He and his ship would have been blown out of the 
 
24 A MINSTREL IN FRANCE 
 
 water so soon as she poked her nose beyond 
 American waters, had he chosen to go out and 
 fight. 
 
 I was glad indeed when we came in sight of the 
 Golden Gate once more, and when we were safe 
 ashore in San Francisco. It had been a nerve- 
 racking voyage in many ways. My wife and I 
 were torn with anxiety about our boy. And there 
 were German raiders loose; one or two had, so 
 far, eluded the cordon the British fleet had flung 
 about the world. One night, soon after we left 
 Honolulu, we were stopped. We thought it was a 
 British cruiser that stopped us, but she would 
 only ask questions — answering those we asked 
 was not for her ! 
 
 But we were ashore at last. There remained 
 only the trip across the United States to New 
 York and the voyage across the Atlantic home. 
 
CHAPTER III 
 
 NOW indeed we began to get real news of the 
 war. We heard of how that little British 
 army had flung itself into the maw of the 
 Hun. I came to know something of the glories of 
 the retreat from Mons, and of how French and 
 British had turned together at the Marne and had 
 saved Paris. But, alas, I heard too of how many 
 brave men had died — had been sacrificed, many 
 and many a man of them, to the failure of Britain 
 to prepare. 
 
 That was past and done. What had been wrong 
 was being mended now. Better, indeed — ah, a 
 thousand times better! — had Britain given heed 
 to Lord Roberts, when he preached the gospel of 
 readiness and prayed his countrymen to prepare 
 for the war that he in his wisdom had foreseen. 
 But it was easier now to look into the future. 
 
 I could see, as all the world was beginning to 
 see, that this war was not like other wars. Lord 
 Kitchener had said that Britain must make ready 
 for a three year war, and I, for one, believed him 
 when others scoffed, and said he was talking so 
 to make the recruits for his armies come faster- 
 to the colors. I could see that this war might last 
 
 25 
 
26 A MINSTREL IN FRANCE 
 
 for years. And it was then, back in 1914, in the 
 first winter of the war, that I began to warn my 
 friends in America that they might well expect 
 the Hnn to drag them into the war before its end. 
 And I made up my mind that I must beg Ameri- 
 cans who would listen to me to prepare. 
 
 So, all the way across the continent, I spoke, in 
 every town we visited, on that subject of prepar- 
 edness. I had seen Britain, living in just such a 
 blissful anticipation of eternal peace as America 
 then dreamed of. I had heard, for years, every 
 attempt that was made to induce Britain to in- 
 crease her army met with the one, unvarying 
 reply. 
 
 **We have our fleet!" That was the answer 
 that was made. And, be it remembered, that at 
 sea, Britain was prepared! ''We have our fleet. 
 We need no army. If there is a Continental war, 
 we may not be drawn in at all. Even if we are, 
 they can't reach us. The fleet is between us and 
 invasion." 
 
 ''But," said the advocates of preparedness, 
 "we might have to send an expeditionary force. 
 If France were attacked, we should have to help 
 her on land as well as at sea. And we have sent 
 armies to the continent before." 
 
 "Yes," the other would reply. "We have an 
 expeditionary force. We can send more than a 
 hundred thousand men across the channel at short 
 notice — the shortest. And we can train more men 
 
A MINSTREL IN FRANCE 27 
 
 here, at home, in case of need. The fleet makes 
 that possible." 
 
 Aye, the fleet made that possible. The world 
 may well thank God for the British fleet. I do 
 not know, and I do not like to think, what might 
 have come about save for the British fleet. But 
 I do know what came to that expeditionary force 
 that we sent across the channel quickly, to the 
 help of our sore stricken ally, France. How many 
 of that old British army still survive? 
 
 They gave themselves utterly. They were the 
 pick and the flower of our trained manhood. 
 They should have trained the millions who were 
 to rise at Kitchener's call. But they could not be 
 held back. They are gone. Others have risen up 
 to take their places — ten for one — a hundred for 
 one! But had they been ready at the start! 
 The bonnie laddies who would be living now, in- 
 stead of lying in an unmarked grave in France or 
 Flanders! The women whose eyes would never 
 have been reddened by their weeping as they 
 mourned a son or a brother or a husband! 
 
 So I was thinking as I set out to talk to my 
 American friends and beg them to prepare — pre- 
 pare! I did not want to see this country share 
 the experience of Britain. If she needs must be 
 drawn into the war — and so I believed, pro- 
 foundly, from the time when I first learned the 
 true measure of the Hun — I hoped that she might 
 be ready when she drew her mighty sword. 
 
28 A MINSTREL IN FRANCE 
 
 They thought I was mad, at first, many of those 
 to whom I talked. They were so far away from 
 the war. And already the propaganda of the Ger- 
 mans was at work. Aye, they thought I was rav- 
 ing when I told them I'd stake my word on it. 
 America would never be able to stay out until the 
 end. They listened to me. They were willing to 
 do that. But they listened, doubtingly. I think 
 I convinced few of ought save that I believed 
 myself what I was saying. 
 
 I could tell them, do you ken, that I'd thought, 
 at first, as they did! Why, over yon, in Aus- 
 tralia, when I'd first heard that the Germans were 
 attacking France, I was sorry, for France is a 
 bonnie land. But the idea that Britain might go 
 in I, even then, had laughed at. And then Britain 
 had gone in ! My own boy had gone to the war. 
 For all I knew I might be reading of him, any day, 
 when I read of a charge or a fight over there in 
 France ! Anything was possible — aye, probable ! 
 
 I have never called myself a prophet. But 
 then, I think, I had something of a prophet's vi- 
 sion. And all the time I was struggling with my 
 growing belief that this was to be a long war, and 
 a merciless war. I did not want to believe some 
 of the things I knew I must believe. But every 
 day came news that made conviction sink in 
 deeper and yet deeper. 
 
 It was not a happy trip, that one across the 
 United States. Our friends did all they could to 
 
A MINSTREL IN FRANCE 29 
 
 make it so, but we were consumed by too many 
 anxieties and cares. How different was it from 
 my journey westward — only nine months earlier ! 
 The world had changed forever in those nine 
 months. 
 
 Everjrwhere I spoke for preparedness. I ad- 
 dressed the Rotary Clubs, and great audiences 
 turned out to listen to me. I am a Eotarian 
 myself, and I am proud indeed that I may so pro- 
 claim myself. It is a great organization. Those 
 who came to hear me were cordial, nearly always. 
 But once or twice I met hostility, veiled but not 
 to be mistaken. And it was easy to trace it to 
 its source. Germans, who loved the country they 
 had left behind them to come to a New World that 
 offered them a better home and a richer life than 
 they could ever have aspired to at home, were 
 often at the bottom of the opposition to Avhat I 
 had to say. 
 
 They did not want America to prepare, lest her 
 weight be flung into the scale against Germany. 
 And there were those who hated Britain. Some 
 of these remembered old wars and grudges that 
 sensible folk had forgotten long since; others, it 
 may be, had other motives. But there was little 
 real opposition to what I had to say. It was 
 more a good natured scoffing, and a feeling that 
 I was cracked a wee bit, perhaps, about the war. 
 
 I was not sorry to see New York again. We 
 stayed there but one day, and then sailed for home 
 
30 A MINSTREL IN FRANCE 
 
 on the Cunarder Orduna — which has since been 
 sunk, like many another good ship, by the Hun 
 submarines. 
 
 But those were the days just before the Hun 
 began his career of real frightfulness upon the 
 sea — and under it. Even the Hun came gradually 
 to the height of his powers in this war. It was 
 not until some weeks later that he startled the 
 world by proclaiming that every ship that dared 
 to cross a certain zone of the sea would be sunk 
 without warning. 
 
 When we sailed upon the old Orduna we had 
 anxieties, to be sure. The danger of striking a 
 mine was never absent, once we neared the British 
 coasts. There was always the chance, we knew, 
 that some German raider might have slipped 
 through the cordon in the North Sea. But the 
 terrors that were to follow the crime of the 
 Lusitania still lay in the future. They were 
 among the things no man could foresee. 
 
 The Orduna brought us safe to the Mersey and 
 we landed at Liverpool. Even had there been no 
 thought of danger to the ship, that voyage would 
 have been a hard one for us to endure. We never 
 ceased thinking of John, longing for him and news 
 of him. It was near Christmas, but we had small 
 hope that we should be able to see him on that 
 day. 
 
 All through the voyage we were shut away from 
 all news. The wireless is silenced in time of war, 
 
A MINSTREL IN FRANCE 31 
 
 save for such work as the govenunent allows. 
 There is none of the free sending, from shore to 
 ship, and ship to ship, of all the news of the world, 
 such as one grows to welcome in time of peace. 
 And so, from New York until we neared the Brit- 
 ish coast, we brooded, all of us. How fared it 
 with Britain in the war? Had the Hun launched 
 some new and terrible attack? 
 
 But two days out from home we saw a sight 
 to make us glad and end our brooding for a space. 
 
 ''Eh, Harry — come and look yon!" someone 
 called to me. It was early in the morning, and 
 there was a mist about us. 
 
 I went to the rail and looked in the direction 
 I was told. And there, rising suddenly out of the 
 mist, shattering it, I saw great, gray ships — war- 
 ships — British battleships and cruisers. There 
 they were, some of the great ships that are the 
 steel wall around Britain that holds her safe. My 
 heart leaped with joy and pride at the sight of 
 them, those great, gray guardians of the British 
 shores, bulwarks of steel that fend all foemen 
 from the rugged coast and the fair land that lies 
 behind it. 
 
 Now we were safe, ourselves ! Who would not 
 trust the British navy, after the great deeds it has 
 done in this war? For there, mind you, is the one 
 force that has never failed. The British navy has 
 done what it set out to do. It has kept command 
 of the seas. The submarines? The tin fish? 
 
S2 A MINSTREL IN FRANCE 
 
 They do not command the sea ! Have they kept 
 Canada's men, and America's, from reaching 
 France? 
 
 When we landed my first inquiry was for my 
 son John. He was well, and he was still in Eng- 
 land, in training at Bedford with his regiment, the 
 Argyle and Sutherland Highlanders. But it was 
 as we had feared. Our Christmas must be kept 
 apart. And so the day before Christmas found 
 us back in our wee hoose on the Clyde, at Dunoon. 
 But we thought of little else but the laddie who 
 was making ready to fight for us, and of the day, 
 that was coming soon, when we should see him. 
 
CHAPTER IV; 
 
 IT was a fitting place to train men for war, Bed- 
 ford, where John was with his regiment, and 
 where his mother and I went to see him so 
 soon as we could after Christmas. It is in the Brit- 
 ish midlands, but before the factory towns begin. 
 It is a pleasant, smiling country, farming country, 
 mostly, with good roads, and fields that gave the 
 boys chances to learn the work of digging trenches 
 — aye, and living in them afterward. 
 
 Bedford is one of the great school towns of 
 England. Low, rolling hills lie about it ; the river 
 Ouse, a wee, quiet stream, runs through it. 
 Schooling must be in the air of Bedford ! Three 
 great schools for boys are there, and two for 
 girls. And Liberty is in the air of Bedford, too, 
 I think! John Bunyan was born two miles from 
 Bedford, and his old house still stands in Elstow, 
 a little village of old houses and great oaks. And 
 it was in Bedford Jail that Bunyan was impris- 
 oned because he would fight for the freedom of 
 his own soul. 
 
 John was waiting to greet us, and he looked 
 great. He had two stars now where he had one 
 before — ^he had been promoted to first lieutenant. 
 There were curious changes in the laddie I re- 
 
 33 
 
34 A MINSTREL IN FRANCE 
 
 membered. He was bigger, I thought, and he 
 looked older, and graver. But that I could not 
 wonder at. He had a great responsibility. The 
 lives of other men had been entrusted to him, and 
 John was not the man to take a responsibility like 
 that lightly. 
 
 I saw him the first day I was at Bedford, lead- 
 ing some of his men in a practice charge. Big, 
 braw laddies they were — all in their kilts. He ran 
 ahead of them, smiling as he saw me watching 
 them, but turning back to cheer them on if he 
 thought they were not fast enough. I could see 
 as I watched him that he had caught the habit of 
 command. He was going to be a good officer. It 
 was a proud thought for me, and again I was re- 
 joiced that it was such a son that I was able to 
 offer to my country. 
 
 They were kept busy at that training camp. 
 Men were needed sore in France. Recruits were 
 going over every day. What the retreat from 
 Mons and the Battle of the Marne had left of that 
 first heroic expeditionary force the first battle of 
 Ypres had come close to wiping out. In the 
 Ypres salient our men out there were hanging on 
 like grim death. There was no time to spare at 
 Bedford, where men were being made ready as 
 quickly as might be to take their turn in the 
 trenches. 
 
 But there was a little time when John and I 
 could talk. 
 
A MINSTREL IN FRANCE 35 
 
 ^'Wliat do you need most, son!" I asked 
 him. 
 
 ''Men!" he cried. "Men, Dad, men! They're 
 coming in quickly. Oh, Britain has answered 
 nobly to the call. But they're not coming in 
 fast enough. We must have more men — more 
 men!" 
 
 I had thought, when I asked my question, of 
 something John might be needing for himself, or 
 for his men, mayhap. But when he answered me 
 so I said nothing. I only began to think. I 
 wanted to go myself. But I knew they would not 
 have me — yet awhile, at any rate. And still I felt 
 that I must do something. I could not rest idle 
 while all around me men were giving themselves 
 and all they had and were. 
 
 Everywhere I heard the same cry that John had 
 raised : 
 
 **Men! Give us men!'* 
 
 It came from Lord Kitchener. It came from 
 the men in command in France and Belgium — 
 that little strip of Belgium the Hun had not been 
 able to conquer. It came from every broken, 
 maimed man who came back home to Britain to 
 be patched up that he might go out again. There 
 were scores of thousands of men in Britain who 
 needed only the last quick shove to send them 
 across the line of enlistment. And after I had 
 thought a while I hit upon a plan. 
 
 "What stirs a man's fighting spirit quicker or 
 
36 A MINSTREL IN FRANCE 
 
 better than the right sort of music!" I asked 
 myself. " And what sort of music does it best 
 of alll" 
 
 There can be only one answer to that last ques- 
 tion! And so I organized my recruiting band, 
 that was to be famous all over Britain before so 
 very long. I gathered fourteen of the best pipers 
 and drummers I could find in all Scotland. I 
 equipped them, gave them the Highland uniform, 
 and sent them out, to travel over Britain skirling 
 and drumming the wail of war through the 
 length and breadth of the land. They were to go 
 everywhere, carrying the shrieking of the pipes 
 into the highways and the byways, and so they 
 did. And I paid the bills. 
 
 That was the first of many recruiting bands 
 that toured Britain. Because it was the first, and 
 because of the way the pipers skirled out the old 
 hill melodies and songs of Scotland, enormous 
 crowds followed my band. And it led them 
 straight to the recruiting stations. There was a 
 swing and a sway about those old tunes that the 
 young fellows couldn't resist. 
 
 The pipers would begin to skirl and the drums 
 to beat in a square, maybe, or near the railway 
 station. And every time the skirling of the pipes 
 would bring the crowd. Then the pipers would 
 march, when the crowd was big enough, and lead 
 the way always to the recruiting place. And once 
 they were there the young fellows who weren't 
 
A MINSTREL IN FRANCE S7 
 
 '■ ' quite ready to decide ' ' and the others who were 
 just plain slackers, willing to let better men die 
 for them, found it mighty hard to keep from going 
 on the wee rest of the way that the pipers had left 
 them to make alone ! 
 
 It was wonderful work my band did, and when 
 the returns came to me I felt like the Pied Piper ! 
 Yes I did, indeed ! 
 
 I did not travel with my band. That would 
 have been a waste of effort. There was work for 
 both of us to do, separately. I was booked for a 
 tour of Britain, and everywhere I went I spoke, 
 and urged the young men to enlist. I made as 
 many speeches as I could, in every town and city 
 that I visited, and I made special trips to many. 
 I thought, and there were those who agreed 
 with me, that I could, it might be, reach 
 audiences another speaker, better trained than 
 I, no doubt, in this sort of work, would not 
 touch. 
 
 So there was I, without official standing, going 
 about, urging every man who could to don khaki. 
 I talked Avherever and whenever I could get an 
 audience together, and I began then the habit of 
 making speeches in the theatres, after my per- 
 formance, that I have not yet given up. I talked 
 thus to the young men. 
 
 **If you don't do your duty now," I told them, 
 **you may live to be old men. But even if you 
 do, you will regret it ! Yours will be a sorrowful 
 
38 A MINSTREL IN FRANCE 
 
 old age. In the years to come, mayhap, there'll 
 be a wee grandchild nestling on your knee that'll 
 circle its little arms about your neck and look into 
 your wrinkled face, and ask you : 
 
 ** 'How old are you, Grandpa? You're a very 
 old man.' 
 
 ''How will you answer that bairn's question!" 
 So I asked the young men. And then I an- 
 swered for them: "I don't know how old I 
 am, but I am so old that I can remember the great 
 war." 
 
 *'And then" — I told them, the young men who 
 were wavering — "and then will come the ques- 
 tion that you will always have to dread — when 
 you have won through to the old age that may be 
 yours in safety if you shirk now ! For the bairn 
 wiU ask you, straightaway: 'Did you fight in the 
 great war, Grandpa ? "What did you do ? ' 
 
 "God help the man," I told them, "who cannot 
 hand it down as a heritage to his children and 
 his children's children that he fought in the great 
 war!" 
 
 I must have impressed many a brave lad who 
 wanted only a bit of resolution to make him do his 
 duty. They tell me that I and my band together 
 influenced more than twelve thousand men to join 
 the colors ; they give me credit for that many, in 
 one way and another. I am proud of that. But 
 I am prouder still of the way the boys who en- 
 listed upon my urging feel. Never a one has up- 
 
A MINSTREL IN FRANCE 39 
 
 braided me ; never a one has told me he was sorry 
 he had heard me and been led to go. 
 
 It is far otherwise. The laddies who went be- 
 cause of me called me their godfather, many of 
 them ! Many 's the letter I have had from them ; 
 many the one who has greeted me, as I was pass- 
 ing through a hospital, or, long afterward, when 
 I made my first tour in France, behind the front 
 line trenches. Many letters, did I say? I have 
 had hundreds — thousands! And not so much as 
 a word of regret in any one of them. 
 
 It was not only in Britain that I influenced 
 enlistments. I preached the cause of the Empire 
 in Canada, later. And here is a bit of verse that 
 a Canadian sergeant sent to me. He dedicated it 
 to me, indeed, and I am proud and glad that he 
 did. 
 
 ''ONE OF THE BOYS WHO WENT" 
 
 Say, here now, Mate, 
 Don't you figure it's great 
 
 To think when this war is all over; 
 When we're through with this mud, 
 And spilling o' blood, 
 
 And we're shipped back again to old Dover. 
 When they've paid us our tin, 
 And we've blown the lot in, 
 
 And our last penny is spent ; 
 ,We'll still have a thought — 
 If it's all that we've got — 
 
 I'm one of the boys who went! 
 
40 A MINSTREL IN FRANCE 
 
 And perhaps later on 
 
 ^hen your wild days are gone, 
 
 You'll be settling down for life. 
 You've a girl in your eye 
 Xou'll ask bye and bye 
 
 To share up with you as your wife. 
 When a few years have flown, 
 And you've kids of your own, 
 
 And you're feeling quite snug and content; 
 It'll make your heart glad 
 When they boast of their dad 
 
 As one of the boys who went ! 
 
 There was much work for me to do beside my 
 share in the campaign to increase enlistments. 
 Every day now the wards of the hospitals were 
 filling up. Men suffering from frightful wounds 
 came back to be mended and made as near whole 
 as might be. And among them there was work 
 for me, if ever the world held work for any man. 
 
 I did not wait to begin my work in the hospitals. 
 Every^vhere I went, where there were wounded 
 men, I sang for those who were strong enough to 
 be allowed to listen, and told them stories, and did 
 all I could to cheer them up. It was heartrend- 
 ing work, oftentimes. There were dour sights, 
 dreadful sights in those hospitals. There were 
 wounds the memory of which robbed me of sleep. 
 There were men doomed to blindness for the rest 
 of their lives. 
 
 But over all there was a spirit that never lagged 
 
A MINSTREL IN FRANCE 41 
 
 or faltered, and that strengthened me when I 
 thought some sight was more than I could bear. 
 It was the spirit of the British soldier, triumphant 
 over suffering and cruel disfigurement, with his 
 inevitable answer to any question as to how he 
 was getting on. I never heard that answer varied 
 when a man could speak at all. Always it was 
 the same. Two words were enough. 
 ''AH right!" 
 
CHAPTER V 
 
 AS I went about the country now, working 
 hard to recruit men, to induce people to 
 subscribe to the war loan, doing all the 
 things in which I saw a chance to make myself 
 useful, there was now an ever present thought. 
 When would John go out? He must go soon. I 
 knew that, so did his mother. We had learned 
 that he would not be sent without a chance to bid 
 us good-by. There we were better off than many 
 a father and mother in the early days of the war. 
 Many's the mother who learned first that her lad 
 had gone to France when they told her he was 
 dead. And many's the lassie who learned in the 
 same way that her lover would never come home 
 to be her husband. 
 
 But by now Britain was settled down to war. It 
 was as if war were the natural state of things, 
 and everything was adjusted to war and those 
 who must fight it. And many things were ordered 
 better and more mercifully than they had been at 
 first. 
 
 It was in April that word came to us. We 
 might see John again, his mother and I, if we 
 hurried to Bedford. And so we did. For once 
 I heeded no other call. It was a sad journey, but 
 
 42 
 
A MINSTREL IN FRANCE 43 
 
 I was proud and glad as well as sorry. John must 
 do his share. There was no reason why my son 
 should take fewer risks than another man's. That 
 was something all Britain was learning in those 
 days. We were one people. We must fight as 
 one; one for all — all for one. 
 
 John was sober when he met us. Sober, aye! 
 But what a light there was in his eyes ! He was 
 eager to be at the Huns. Tales of their doings 
 were coming back to us now, faster and faster. 
 They were tales to shock me. But they were tales, 
 too, to whet the courage and sharpen the steel of 
 every man who could fight and meant to go. 
 
 It was John's turn to go. So it was he felt. 
 And so it was his mother and I bid him farewell, 
 there at Bedford. We did not know whether we 
 would ever see him again, the bonnie laddie ! We 
 had to bid him good-by, lest it be our last chance. 
 For in Britain we knew, by then, what were the 
 chances they took, those boys of ours who went 
 out. 
 
 ''Good-by, son — good luck!" 
 
 ' ' Good-by, Dad. See you when I get leave ! ' ' 
 
 That was all. We were not allowed to know 
 more than that he was ordered to France. 
 Whereabouts in the long trench line he would be 
 sent we were not told. "Somewhere in France." 
 That phrase, that had been dinned so often into 
 our ears, had a meaning for us now. 
 
 And now, indeed, our days and nights were 
 
44? A MINSTREL IN FRANCE 
 
 anxious ones. The war was in our house as it 
 had never been before. I could think of nothing 
 but my boy. And yet, all the time I had to go on. 
 I had to carry on, as John was always bidding 
 his men do. I had to appear daily before my 
 audiences, and laugh and sing, that I might make 
 them laugh, and so be better able to do their part. 
 
 They had made me understand, my friends, by 
 that time, that it was really right for me to carry 
 on with my own work. I had not thought so at 
 first. I had felt that it was wrong for me to be 
 singing at such a time. But they showed me that 
 I was influencing thousands to do their duty, in 
 one way or another, and that I was helping to 
 keep up the spirit of Britain, too. 
 
 "Never forget the part that plays, Harry," my 
 friends told me. "That's the thing the Hun can't 
 understand. He thought the British would be 
 poor fighters because they went into action mth 
 a laugh. But that's the thing that makes them 
 invincible. You 've your part to do in keeping up 
 that spirit." 
 
 So I went on but it was with a heavy heart, 
 oftentimes. John's letters were not what made 
 my heart heavy. There was good cheer in every- 
 one of them. He told us as much as the censor's 
 rules would let him of the front, and of conditions 
 as he found them. They were still bad — cruelly 
 bad. But there was no word of complaint from 
 John. 
 
A MINSTREL IN FRANCE 45 
 
 The Germans still had the best of us in guns in 
 those days, although we were beginning to catch 
 up with them. And they knew more about making 
 themselves comfortable in the trenches than did 
 our boys. No wonder ! They spent years of plan- 
 ning and making ready for this war. And it has 
 not taken us so long, all things considered, to 
 catch up with them. 
 
 John's letters were cheery and they came regu- 
 larly, too, for a time. But I suppose it was be- 
 cause they left out so much, because there was so 
 great a part of my boy's life that was hidden from 
 me, that I found myself thinking more and more 
 of John as a wee bairn and as a lad growing up. 
 
 He was a real boy. He had the real boy 's spirit 
 of fun and mischief. There was a story I had 
 often told of him that came to my mind now. We 
 were living in Glasgow. One drizzly day, Mrs. 
 Lauder kept John in the house, and he spent the 
 time standing at the parlor window looking down 
 on the street, apparently innocently interested in 
 the passing traffic. 
 
 In Glasgow it is the custom for the coal dealers 
 to go along the streets with their lorries, crying 
 their wares, much after the manner of a vegetable 
 peddler in America. If a housewife wants any 
 coal, she goes to the window when she hears the 
 hail of the coal man, and holds up a finger, or two 
 fingers, according to the number of sacks of coal 
 she wants. 
 
46 A MINSTREL IN FRANCE 
 
 To Mrs. Lauder's surprise, and finally to her 
 great vexation, coal men came tramping up our 
 stairs every few minutes all afternoon, each one 
 staggering under the weight of a hundredweight 
 sack of coal. She had ordered no coal and she 
 wanted no coal, but still the coal men came — a 
 veritable pest of them. 
 
 They kept coming, too, until she discovered that 
 little John was the author of their grimy pil- 
 grimages to our door. He was signalling every 
 passing lorrie from the window in the Glasgow 
 coal code ! 
 
 I watched him from that window another day 
 when he was quarreling with a number of play- 
 mates in the street below. The quarrel finally 
 ended in a fight. John was giving one lad a pretty 
 good pegging, when the others decided that the 
 battle was too much his way, and jumped on him. 
 
 John promptly executed a strategic retreat. 
 He retreated with considerable speed, too. I saw 
 him running ; I heard the patter of his feet on our 
 stairs, and a banging at our door. I opened it and 
 admitted a flushed, disheveled little warrior, and 
 I heard the other boys shouting up the stairs what 
 they would do to him. 
 
 By the time I got the door closed, and got back 
 to our little parlor, John was standing at the 
 window, giving a marvelous pantomime for the 
 benefit of his enemies in the street. He was put- 
 ting his small, clenched fist now to his nose, and 
 
A MINSTREL IN FRANCE 47 
 
 now to his jaw, to indicate to the youngsters what 
 he was going to do to them later on. 
 
 Those, and a hundred other little incidents, 
 were as fresh in my memory as if they had only 
 occurred yesterday. His mother and I recalled 
 them over and over again. From the day John 
 was born, it seems to me the only things that 
 really interested me were the things in which he 
 was concerned. I used to tuck him in his crib at 
 night. The affairs of his babyhood were far more 
 important to me than my own personal affairs. 
 
 I watched him grow and develop with enormous 
 pride, and he took great pride in me. That to me 
 was far sweeter than praise from crowned heads. 
 Soon he was my constant companion. He was my 
 business confidant. More — he was my most inti- 
 mate friend. 
 
 There were no secrets between us. I think that 
 John and I talked of things that few fathers and 
 sons have the courage to discuss. He never feared 
 to ask my advice on any subject, and I never 
 feared to give it to him. 
 
 I wish you could have known my son as he was 
 to me. I wish all fathers could know their sons 
 as I knew John. He was the most brilliant con- 
 versationalist I have ever known. He was my 
 ideal musician. 
 
 He took up music only as an accomplishment, 
 however. He did not want to be a performer, 
 although he had amazing natural talent in that 
 
48 A MINSTREL IN FRANCE 
 
 direction. Music was bom in him. He could 
 transpose a melody in any key. You could whistle 
 an air for him, and he could turn it into a little 
 opera at once. 
 
 However, he was anxious to make for himself 
 in some other line of endeavor, and while he was 
 often my piano accompanist, he never had any 
 intention of going on the stage. 
 
 When he was fifteen years old, I was com- 
 manded to appear before King Edward, who was 
 a guest at Rufford Abbey, the seat of Lord and 
 Lady Sayville, situated in a district called the 
 Dukeries, and I took John as my accompanist. 
 
 I gave my usual performance, and while I was 
 making my changes, John played the piano. At 
 the close. King Edward sent for me, and thanked 
 me. It was a proud moment for me, but a prouder 
 moment came when the King spoke of John's 
 playing, and thanked him for his part in the enter- 
 tainment. 
 
 There were curious contradictions, it often 
 seemed to me, in John. His uncle, Tom Vallance, 
 was in his day, one of the very greatest football 
 players in Scotland. But John never greatly 
 liked the game. He thought it was too rough. He 
 thought any game was a poor game in which 
 players were likely to be hurt. And yet — he had 
 been eager for the rough game of war! The 
 roughest game of all ! 
 
 Ah, but that was not a game to him! He was 
 
A MINSTREL IN FRANCE 49 
 
 not one of those who went to war with a light 
 heart, as they might have entered upon a football 
 match. All honor to those who went into the war 
 60 — they played a great part and a noble part! 
 But there were more who went to war as my boy 
 did — taking it upon themselves as a duty and a 
 solemn obligation. They had no illusions. They 
 did not love war. No ! John hated war, and the 
 black ugly horrors of it. But there were things 
 he hated more than he hated war. And one 
 was a peace won through submission to in- 
 justice. 
 
 Have I told you how my boy looked? He was 
 slender, but he was strong and wiry. He was 
 about five feet five inches tall ; he topped his Dad 
 by a handspan. And he was the neatest boy you 
 might ever have hoped to see. Aye — but he did 
 not inherit that from me ! Indeed, he used to re- 
 proach me, oftentimes, for being careless about 
 my clothes. My collar would be loose, perhaps, or 
 my waistcoat would not fit just so. He 'd not like 
 that, and he would tell me so ! 
 
 When he did that I would tell him of times when 
 he was a wee boy, and would come in from play 
 with a dirty face; how his mother would order 
 him to wash, and how he would painstakingly mop 
 off just enough of his features to leave a dark ring 
 abaft his cheeks, and above his eyes, and below 
 his chin. 
 
 **You wash your face, but never let on to your 
 
60 A MINSTREL IN FRANCE 
 
 neck," I would tell him when he was a wee laddie. 
 
 He had a habit then of parting and brushing 
 about an inch of his hair, leaving the rest all 
 topsy-turvy. My recollection of that boyhood 
 habit served me as a defense in later years when 
 he would call my attention to my own disordered 
 hair. 
 
 I linger long, and I linger lovingly over these 
 small details, because they are part of my daily 
 thoughts. Every day some little incident comes 
 up to remind me of my boy. A battered old 
 hamper, in which I carry my different character 
 make-ups, stands in my dressing room. It was 
 John's favorite seat. Every time I look at it I 
 have a vision of a tiny wide-eyed boy perched on 
 the lid, watching me make ready for the stage. 
 A lump rises, unbidden, in my throat. 
 
 In all his life, I never had to admonish my son 
 once. Not once. He was the most considerate lad 
 I have ever known. He was always thinking of 
 others. He was always doing for others. 
 
 It was with such thoughts as these that John's 
 mother and I filled in the time between his letters. 
 They came as if by a schedule. "We knew what 
 post should bring one. And once or twice a letter 
 was a post late and our hearts were in our throats 
 with fear. And then came a day when there 
 should have been a letter, and none came. The 
 whole day passed. I tried to comfort John's 
 mother! I tried to believe myself that it was no 
 
A MINSTREL IN FRANCE 51 
 
 more than a mischance of the post. But it was 
 not that. 
 
 We could do nought but wait. Ah, but the folks 
 at home in Britain know all too well those sinister 
 breaks in the chains of letters from the front! 
 Such a break may mean nothing or anything. 
 
 For us, news came quickly. But it was not a 
 letter from John that came to us. It was a tele- 
 gram from the war office and it told us no more 
 than that our boy was wounded and in hospital. 
 
CHAPTER VI 
 
 WOUNDED and in hospital!'' 
 That might have meant anything. And 
 for a whole week that was all we knew. 
 To hope for word more definite until — and unless 
 — John himself could send us a message, appeared 
 to be hopeless. Every effort we made ended in 
 failure. And, indeed, at such a time, private in- 
 quiries could not well be made. The messages 
 that had to do with the war and with the business 
 of the armies had to be dealt with first. 
 
 But at last, after a week in which his mother 
 and I almost went mad with anxiety, there came 
 a note from our laddie himself. He told us not 
 to fret — that all that ailed him was that his nose 
 w^as split and his wrist bashed up a bit! His 
 mother looked at me and I at her. It seemed bad 
 enough to us ! But he made light of his wounds 
 — aye, and he was right ! When I thought of men 
 I'd seen in hospitals — men with wounds so fright- 
 ful that they may not be told of — I rejoiced that 
 John had fared so well. 
 
 And I hoped, too, that his wounds would bring 
 him home to us — to Blighty, as the Tommies were 
 
 52 
 
A MINSTREL IN FRANCE 68 
 
 beginning to call Britain. But his wounds were 
 not serious enough for that and so soon as they 
 were healed, he went back to the trenches. 
 
 * * Don 't worry about me, ' ' he wrote to us. ' ' Lots 
 of fellows out here have been wounded five and 
 six times, and don't think anything of it. I'll 
 be all right so long as I don't get knocked 
 out." 
 
 He didn't tell us then that it was the bursting 
 of a shell that gave him his first wounded stripe. 
 But he wrote to us regularly again, and there 
 were scarcely any days in which a letter did not 
 come either to me or to his mother. When one 
 of those breaks did come it was doubly hard to 
 bear now. 
 
 For now we knew what it was to dread the sight 
 of a telegraph messenger. Few homes in Britain 
 there are that do not share that knowledge now. 
 It is by telegraph, from the war office, that bad 
 news comes first. And so, with the memory of 
 that first telegram that we had had, matters were 
 even worse, somehow, than they had been before. 
 For me the days and nights dragged by as if they 
 would never pass. 
 
 There was more news in John's letters now. 
 "We took some comfort from that. I remember 
 one in which he told his mother how good a bed 
 he had finally made for himself the night before. 
 For some reason he was without quarters — either 
 a billet or a dug-out. He had to skirmish around, 
 
54> A MINSTREL IN FRANCE 
 
 for he did not care to sleep simply in Flanders 
 mud. But at last he found two handfuls of straw, 
 and with them made his couch. 
 
 ''I got a good two hours' sleep," he wrote to 
 his mother. ''And I was perfectly comfortable. 
 I can tell you one thing, too, Mother. If I ever 
 get home after this experience, there'll be one in 
 the house who'll never grumble! This business 
 puts the grumbling out of your head. This is 
 where the men are. This is where every man 
 ought to be. ' ' 
 
 In another letter he told us that nine of his men 
 had been killed. 
 
 ''We buried them last night," he wrote, "just 
 as the sun went down. It was the first funeral I 
 have ever attended. It was most impressive. We 
 carried the boys to one huge grave. The padre 
 said a prayer, and we lowered the boys into the 
 ground, and we all sang a little hymn: 'Peace, 
 Perfect Peace ! ' Then I called my men to atten- 
 tion again, and we marched straight back into the 
 trenches, each of us, I dare say, wondering who 
 would be the next." 
 
 John was promoted for the second time in 
 Flanders, He was a captain, having got his step 
 on the field of battle. Promotion came swiftly in 
 those days to those who proved themselves worthy. 
 And all of the few reports that came to us of 
 John showed us that he was a good officer. His 
 men liked him, and trusted him, and would follow 
 
A MINSTREL IN FRANCE 55 
 
 him anywhere. And little more than that can be 
 said of any officer. 
 
 While Captain John Lauder was playing his 
 part across the Channel, I was still trying to do 
 what I could at home. My band still travelled up 
 and down, the length and width of the United 
 Kingdom, skirling and drumming and drawing 
 men by the score to the recruiting office. 
 
 There was no more talk now of a short war. 
 We knew what we were in for now. 
 
 But there was no thought or talk of anything 
 save victory. Let the war go on as long as it 
 must — it could end only in one way. We had been 
 forced into the fight — but we were in, and we were 
 in to stay. John, writing from France, was no 
 more determined than those at home. 
 
 It was not very long before there came again 
 a break in John's letters. We were used to the 
 days — far apart — that brought no word. Not 
 until the second day and the third day passed 
 without a word, did Mrs. Lauder and I confess 
 our terrors and our anxiety to ourselves and one 
 another. This time our suspense was compara- 
 tively short-lived. Word came that John was in 
 hospital again — at the Duke of Westminster's 
 hospital at Le Toquet, in France. This time he 
 was not wounded; he was suffering from dysen- 
 tery, fever and — a nervous breakdown. That 
 was what staggered his mother and me. A nerv- 
 ous breakdown ! We could not reconcile the John 
 
56 A MINSTREL IN FRANCE 
 
 we knew with the idea that the words conveyed to 
 us. He had been high strung, to be sure, and sen- 
 sitive. But never had he been the sort of boy of 
 whom to expect a breakdown so severe as this 
 must be if they had sent him to the hospital. 
 
 We could only wait to hear from him, however. 
 And it was several weeks before he was strong 
 enough to be able to write to us. There was no 
 hint of discouragement in what he wrote then. 
 On the contrary, he kept on trying to reassure us, 
 and if he ever grew downhearted, he made it his 
 business to see that we did not suspect it. Here 
 is one of his letters — like most of them it was not 
 about himself. 
 
 "I had a sad experience yesterday,'' he wrote 
 to me. '^It was the first day I was able to be out 
 of bed, and I went over to a piano in a cor- 
 ner against the wall, sat down, and began 
 playing very softly, more to myself than any- 
 thing else. 
 
 * ' One of the nurses came to me, and said a Cap- 
 tain Webster, of the Gordon Highlanders, who 
 lay on a bed in the same ward, wanted to speak 
 to me. She said he had asked who was playing, 
 and she had told him Captain Lauder — Harry 
 Lauder's son. *0h,' he said, *I know Harry 
 Lauder very well. Ask Captain Lauder to come 
 here?' 
 
 * ' This man had gone through ten operations in 
 less than a week. I thought perhaps my playing 
 
" ' Carry On ! ' were the last words of my boy, Captain 
 
 John Lauder, to his men, but he would mean 
 
 them for me, too." 
 
A MINSTREL IN FRANCE 57 
 
 had disturbed Mm, but when I went to his bed- 
 side, he grasped my hand, pressed it with what 
 little strength he had left, and thanked me. He 
 asked me if I could play a hymn. He said he 
 would like to hear 'Lead, Kindly Light.' 
 
 "So I went back to the piano and played it as 
 softly and as gently as I could. It was his last 
 request. He died an hour later. I was very glad 
 I was able to soothe his last moments a little. I 
 am very glad now I learned the hymn at Sunday 
 School as a boy." 
 
 Soon after we received that letter there came 
 what we could not but think great news. John 
 was ordered home ! He was invalided, to be sure, 
 and I warned his mother that she must be pre- 
 pared for a shock when she saw him. But no mat- 
 ter how ill he was, we would have our lad with us 
 for a space. And for that much British fathers 
 and mothers had learned to be grateful. 
 
 I had warned John's mother, but it was I who 
 was shocked when I saw him first on the day he 
 came back to our wee hoose at Dunoon. His 
 cheeks were sunken, his eyes very bright, as a 
 man's are who has a fever. He was weak and 
 thin, and there was no blood in his cheeks. It was 
 a sight to wring one's heart to see the laddie so 
 brought down — ^him who had looked so braw and 
 strong the last time we had seen him. 
 
 That had been when he was setting out for the 
 j^ars, you ken ! And now he was back, sae thin and 
 
58 A MINSTREL IN FRANCE 
 
 weak and pitiful as I had not seen him since he 
 had been a bairn in his mother's arms. 
 
 Aweel, it was for us, his mother and I, and all 
 the folks at home, to mend him, and make him 
 strong again. So he told us, for he had but one 
 thing on his mind — to get back to his men. 
 
 ''They'll be needing me, out there," he said. 
 ''They're needing men. I must go back so soon 
 as I can. Every man is needed there." 
 
 "You'll be needing your strength back before 
 you can be going back, son," I told him. "If you 
 fash and fret it will take you but so much the 
 longer to get back." 
 
 He knew that. But he knew things I could not 
 know, because I had not seen them. He had seen 
 things that he saw over and over again when he 
 tried to sleep. His nerves were shattered utterly. 
 It grieved me sore not to spend all my time with 
 him but he would not hear of it. He drove me 
 back to my work. 
 
 "You must work on. Dad, like every other 
 Briton," he said. "Think of the part you're 
 playing. Why you're more use than any of us 
 out there — you're worth a brigade!" 
 
 So I left him on the Clyde, and went on about 
 my work. But I went back to Dunoon as often as 
 I could, as I got a day or a night to make the 
 journey. At first there was small change of prog- 
 ress. John would come downstairs about the 
 middle of the day, moving slowly and painfully. 
 
A MINSTREL IN FRANCE 59 
 
 And lie was listless ; there was no life in him ; no 
 resiliency or spring. 
 
 ''How did you rest, son?" I would ask him. 
 
 He always smiled when he answered. 
 
 "Oh, fairly well," he'd tell me. "I fought 
 three or four battles though, before I dropped off 
 to sleep." 
 
 He had come to the right place to be cured, 
 though, and his mother was the nurse he needed. 
 It was quiet in the hills of the Clyde, and there 
 was rest and healing in the heather about Dunoon. 
 Soon his sleep became better and less troubled by 
 dreams. He could eat more, too, and they saw to 
 it, at home, that he ate all they could stuff into 
 him. 
 
 So it was a surprisingly short time, considering 
 how bad he had looked when he first came back 
 to Dunoon, before he was in good health and 
 spirits again. There was a bonnie, wee lassie 
 who was to become Mrs. John Lauder ere so 
 long — she helped our boy, too, to get back his 
 strength. 
 
 Soon he was ordered from home. For a time 
 he had only light duties with the Home Reserve. 
 Then he went to school. T laughed when he told 
 me he had been ordered to school, but he didna 
 crack a smile. 
 
 "You needn't be laughing," he said. "It's a 
 bombing school I'm going to now-a-days. If 
 you're away from the front for a few weeks, you 
 
60 A MINSTREL IN FRANCE 
 
 find everything changed when you get back. 
 Bombing is going to be important." 
 
 John did so well in the bombing school that he 
 was made an instructor and assigned, for a while, 
 to teach others. But he was impatient to be back 
 with his own men, and they were clamoring for 
 him. And so, on September 16, 1916, his mother 
 and I bade him good-by again, and he went back 
 to France and the men his heart was wrapped 
 up in. 
 
 ''Yon's where the men are, Dad!" he said to 
 me, just before he started. 
 
CHAPTER Vn 
 
 JOHN'S mother, his sweetheart and I all saw 
 him off at Glasgow. The fear was in all our 
 hearts, and I think it must have been in all 
 our eyes, as well — the fear that every father and 
 mother and sweetheart in Britain shared with us 
 in these days whenever they saw a boy off for 
 France and the trenches. Was it for the last 
 time? Were we seeing him now so strong and 
 hale and hearty, only to have to go the rest of our 
 lives with no more than a memory of him to keep 1 
 Aweel, we could not be telling that ! We could 
 only hope and pray! And we had learned again 
 to pray, long since. I have wondered, often, and 
 Mrs. Lauder has wondered with me, what the 
 fathers and mothers of Britain would do in these 
 black days without prayer to guide them and sus- 
 tain them. So we could but stand there, keeping 
 back our tears and our fears, and hoping for the 
 best. One thing was sure; we might not let the 
 laddie see how close we were to greeting. It was 
 for us to be so brave as God would let us be. It 
 was hard for him. He was no boy, you ken, going 
 blindly and gayly to a great adventure; he had 
 need of the finest courage and devotion a man 
 could muster that day. 
 
 61 
 
62 A MINSTREL IN FRANCE 
 
 For he knew fully now what it was that he 
 was going back to. He knew the hell the Huns 
 had made of war, which had been bad enough, in 
 all conscience, before they did their part to make 
 it worse. And he was high strung. He could live 
 over, and I make no doubt he did, in those days 
 after he had his orders to go back, every grim and 
 dreadful thing that was waiting for him out there. 
 He had been through it all, and he was going 
 back. He had come out of the valley of the 
 shadow, and now he was to ride down into it 
 again. 
 
 And it was with a smile he left us! I shall 
 never forget that. His thought was all for us 
 whom he was leaving behind. His care was for 
 us, lest we should worry too greatly and think 
 too much of him. 
 
 "I'll be all right," he told us. ''You're not to 
 fret about me, any of you. A man does take his 
 chances out there — but they're the chances every 
 man must take these days, if he's a man at all. 
 I'd rather be taking them than be safe at 
 home." 
 
 We did our best to match the laddie's spirit 
 and be worthy of him. But it was cruelly hard. 
 We had lost him and found him again, and now 
 he was being taken from us for the second time. 
 It was harder, much harder, to see him go this 
 second time than it had been at first, and it had 
 been hard enough then- and bad enough. But 
 
A MINSTREL IN FRANCE 63 
 
 there was nothing else for it. So much we knew. 
 It was a thing ordered and inevitable. 
 
 And it was not many days before we had 
 slipped back into the way things had been before 
 John was invalided home. It is a strange thing 
 about life, the way that one can become used to 
 things. So it was with us. Strange things, ter- 
 rible things, outrageous things, that, in time of 
 peace, we would never have dared so much as to 
 think possible, came to be the matters of every 
 day for us. It was so with John. We came to 
 think of it as natural that he should be away from 
 us, and in peril of his life every minute of every 
 hour. It was not easier for us. Indeed, it was 
 harder than it had been before, just as it had 
 been harder for us to say good-by the second 
 time. But we thought less often of the strange- 
 ness of it. We were really growing used to the 
 war, and it was less the monstrous, strange thing 
 than it had been in our daily lives. War had 
 become our daily life and portion in Britain. 
 All who were not slackers were doing their part 
 — every one. Man and woman and child were in 
 it, making sacrifices. Those happy days of peace 
 lay far behind us, and we had lost our touch with 
 them and our memory of them was growing dim. 
 We were all in it. We had all to suffer alike, we 
 were all in the same boat, we mothers and fathers 
 and sweethearts of Britain. And so it was easier 
 
64? A MINSTREL IN FRANCE 
 
 for us not to think too much and too often of our 
 own griefs and cares and anxieties. 
 
 John's letters began to come again in a steady- 
 stream. He was as careful as ever about writ- 
 ing. There was scarcely a day that did not bring 
 its letter to one of the three of us. And what 
 bonnie, brave letters they were! They were as 
 cheerful and as bright as his first letters had 
 been. If John had bad hours and bad days out 
 there he would not let us know it. He told us 
 what news there was, and he was always cheerful 
 and bright when he wrote. He let no hint of 
 discouragement creep into anything he wrote to 
 us. He thought of others first, always and all the 
 time; of his men, and of us at home. He was 
 quite cured and well, he told us, and going back 
 had done him good instead of harm. He wrote 
 to us that he felt as if he had come home. He 
 felt, you ken, that it was there, in France and 
 in the trenches, that men should feel at home in 
 those days, and not safe in Britain by their ain 
 firesides. 
 
 It was not easy for me to be cheerful and com- 
 fortable about him, though. I had my work to 
 do. I tried to do it as w^ell as I could, for I knew 
 that that would please him. My band still went 
 up and down the country, getting recruits, and 
 I was speaking, too, and urging men myself to 
 go out and join the lads who were fighting and 
 dying for them in France. They told me I was 
 
A MINSTREL IN FRANCE 65 
 
 doing good work; that I was a great force in the 
 war. And I did, indeed, get many a word and 
 many a handshake from men who told me I had 
 induced them to enlist. 
 
 ''I'm glad I heard you, Harry," man after 
 man said to me. "You showed me what I should 
 be doing and I've been easier in my mind ever 
 since I put on the khaki!" 
 
 I knew they'd never regret it, no matter what 
 came to them. No man will, that 's done his duty. 
 It's the slackers who couldn't or wouldn't see 
 their duty men should feel sorry for! It's not 
 the lads who gave everything and made the final 
 sacrifice. 
 
 It was hard for me to go on with my work of 
 making folks laugh. It had been growing harder 
 steadily ever since I had come home from Amer- 
 ica and that long voyage of mine to Australia 
 and had seen what war was and what it was doing 
 to Britain. But I carried on, and did the best I 
 could. 
 
 That winter I was in the big revue at the 
 Shaftesbury Theatre, in London, that was called 
 ** Three Cheers." It was one of the gay shows 
 that London liked because it gave some relief 
 from the war and made the Zeppelin raids that 
 the Huns were beginning to make so often now a 
 little easier to bear. And it was a great place for 
 the men who were back from France. It was 
 partly because of them that I could go on as I 
 
66 A MINSTREL IN FRANCE 
 
 did. We owed them all we could give them. And 
 when they came back from the mud and the grime 
 and the dreariness of the trenches, they needed 
 something to cheer them up — needed the sort of 
 production we gave them. A man who has two 
 days' leave in London does not want to see a 
 serious play or a problem drama, as a rule. He 
 wants something light, with lots of pretty girls 
 and jolly tunes and people to make him laugh. 
 And we gave him that. The house was full of 
 officers and men, night after night. 
 
 Soon word came from John that he was to have 
 leave, just after Christmas, that would bring him 
 home for the New Year's holidays. His mother 
 went home to make things ready, for John was 
 to be married when he got his leave. I had my 
 plans all made. I meant to build a wee hoose for 
 the two of them, near our own hoose at Dunoon, 
 so that we might be all together, even though my 
 laddie was in a home of his own. And I counted 
 the hours and the days against the time when 
 John would be home again. 
 
 While we were playing at the Shaftesbury I 
 lived at an hotel in Southampton Eow called the 
 Bonnington. But it was lonely for me there. On 
 New Year's Eve — it fell on a Sunday — Tom Val- 
 lance, my brother-in-law, asked me to tea with 
 him and his family in Clapham, where he lived. 
 That is a pleasant place, a suburb of London on 
 the southwest, and I was glad to go. And so I 
 
A MINSTREL IN FRANCE 67 
 
 drove out with a friend of mine, in a taxicab, and 
 was glad to get out of the crowded part of the city 
 for a time. 
 
 I did not feel right that day. Holiday times 
 were bad, hard times for me then. We had always 
 made so much of Christmas, and here was the 
 third Christmas that our boy had been away. 
 And so I was depressed. And then, there had 
 been no word for me from John for a day or two. 
 I was not worried, for I thought it likely that his 
 mother or his sweetheart had heard, and had not 
 time yet to let me know. But, whatever the rea- 
 son, I was depressed and blue, and I could not 
 enter into the festive spirit that folk were trying 
 to keep alive despite the war. 
 
 I must have been poor company during that 
 ride to Clapham in the taxicab. We scarcely ex- 
 changed a word, my friend and I. I did not feel 
 like talking, and he respected my mood, and kept 
 quiet himself. I felt, at last, that I ought to 
 apologize to him. 
 
 ''I don't know what's the matter with me," I 
 told him. "I simply don't want to talk. I feel 
 sad and lonely. I wonder if my boy is all right T' 
 
 * * Of course he is ! " my friend told me. ' ' Cheer 
 up, Harry. This is a time when no news is good 
 news. If anything were wrong with him they'd 
 let you know." 
 
 Well, I knew that, too. And I tried to cheer up, 
 and feel better, so that I would not spoil the 
 
68 A MINSTREL IN FRANCE 
 
 pleasure of the others at Tom Vallance's house. 
 I tried to picture John as I thought he must be — 
 well, and happy, and smiling the old, familiar 
 boyish smile I knew so well. I had sent him a 
 box of cigars only a few days before, and he 
 would be handing it around among his fellow 
 officers. I knew that ! But it was no use. I could 
 think of John, but it was only with sorrow and 
 longing. And I wondered if this same time in a 
 year would see him still out there, in the trenches. 
 Would this war ever end? And so the shadows 
 still hung about me when we reached Tom's 
 house. 
 
 They made me very welcome, did Tom and all 
 his family. They tried to cheer me, and Tom did 
 all he could to make me feel better, and to reas- 
 sure me. But I was still depressed when we left 
 the house and began the drive back to London. 
 
 "It's the holiday — I'm out of gear with that, 
 I'm thinking," I told my friend. 
 
 He was going to join two other friends, and, 
 with them, to see the New Year in in an old 
 fashioned way, and he wanted me to join them. 
 But I did not feel up to it ; I was not in the mood 
 for anything of the sort. 
 
 **No, no, I'll go home and turn in," I told him. 
 **I'm too dull to-night to be good company." 
 
 He hoped, as we all did, that this New Year 
 that was coming would bring victory and peace. 
 Peace could not come without victory; we were 
 
A MINSTREL IN FRANCE 69 
 
 all agreed on that. But we all hoped that the 
 New Year would bring both — the new year of 
 1917. And so I left him at the corner of South- 
 hampton Row, and went back to my hotel alone. 
 It was about midnight, a little before, I think, 
 when I got in, and one of the porters had a mes- 
 sage for me. 
 
 "Sir Thomas Lipton rang you up," he said, 
 ''and wants you to speak with him when you 
 come in." 
 
 I rang him up at home directly. 
 
 ' ' Happy New Year, when it comes, Harry ! " he 
 said. He spoke in the same bluff, hearty way he 
 always did. He fairly shouted in my ear. ''When 
 did you hear from the boy? Are you and Mrs. 
 Lauder well?" 
 
 "Aye, fine," I told him. And I told him my 
 last news of John. 
 
 "Splendid!" he said. "Well, it was just to 
 talk to you a minute that I rang you up, Harry. 
 Good-night — Happy New Year again. ' ' 
 
 I went to bed then. But I did not go to sleep 
 for a long time. It was New Year's, and I lay 
 thinking of my boy, and wondering what this 
 year would bring him. It was early in the morn- 
 ing before I slept. And it seemed to me that I 
 had scarce been asleep at all when there came a 
 pounding at the door, loud enough to rouse the 
 heaviest sleeper there ever was. 
 
 My heart almost stopped. There must be 
 
70 A MINSTREL IN FRANCE 
 
 something serious indeed for them to be rousing 
 me so early. I rushed to the door, and there was 
 a porter, holding out a telegram. I took it and 
 tore it open. And I knew why I had felt as I had 
 the day before. I shall never forget what I read : 
 
 ''Captain John Lauder killed in action, Decem- 
 ber 28. Official. War Office." 
 
 It had gone to Mrs. Lauder at Dunoon first, 
 and she had sent it on to me. That was all it 
 said. I knew nothing of how my boy had died, 
 or where — save that it was for his country. 
 
 But later I learned that when Sir Thomas 
 Lipton had rung me up he had intended to con- 
 dole with me. He had heard on Saturday of my 
 boy's death. But when he spoke to me, and 
 understood at once, from the tone of my voice, 
 that I did not know, he had not been able to go 
 on. His heart was too tender to make it possible 
 for him to be the one to give me that blow — the 
 heaviest that ever befell me. 
 
CHAPTEB VIII 
 
 IT was on Monday morning, January the first, 
 1917, that I learned of my boy's death. And 
 he had been killed the Thursday before ! He 
 had been dead four days before I knew it! And 
 yet — I had known. Let no one ever tell me again 
 that there is nothing in presentiment. Why else 
 had I been so sad and uneasy in my mind? Why 
 else, all through that Sunday, had it been so im- 
 possible for me to take comfort in what was said 
 to cheer me? Some warning had come to me, 
 some sense that all was not well. 
 
 Eealization came to me slowly. I sat and 
 stared at that slip of paper, that had come to me 
 like the breath of doom. Dead I Dead these four 
 days! I was never to see the light of his eyes 
 again. I was never to hear that laugh of his. I 
 had looked on my boy for the last time. Could it 
 be true f Ah, I knew it was ! And it was for this 
 moment that I had been waiting, that we had all 
 been waiting, ever since we had sent John away 
 to fight for his country and do his part. I think 
 we had all felt that it must come. We had all 
 known that it was too much to hope that he should 
 be one of those to be spared. 
 
 7J 
 
72 A MINSTREL IN FRANCE 
 
 The black despair that had been hovering over 
 me for hours closed down now and enveloped all 
 my senses. Everything was unreal. For a time 
 I was quite numb. But then, as I began to realize 
 and to visualize what it was to mean in my life 
 that my boy was dead there came a great pain. 
 The iron of realization slowly seared every word 
 of that curt telegram upon my heart. I said it 
 to myself, over and over again. And I whispered 
 to myself, as my thoughts took form, over and 
 over, the one terrible word: "Dead!" 
 
 I felt that for me everything had come to an 
 end with the reading of that dire message. It 
 seemed to me that for me the board of life was 
 black and blank. For me there was no past and 
 there could be no future. Everything had been 
 swept away, erased, by one sweep of the hand 
 of a cruel fate. Oh, there was a past, though! 
 And it was in that past that I began to delve. It 
 was made up of every memory I had of my boy. 
 I fell at once to remembering him. I clutched at 
 every memory, as if I must grasp them and make 
 sure of them, lest they be taken from me as well 
 as the hope of seeing him again that the telegram 
 had forever snatched away. 
 
 I would have been destitute ir.deed then. It 
 was as if I must iix in my mind the way he had 
 been wont to look, and recall to my ears every 
 tone of his voice, every trick of his speech. There 
 was something left of him that I must keep, I 
 
A MINSTREL IN FRANCE 73 
 
 knew, even then, at all costs, if I was to be able 
 to bear his loss at all. 
 
 There was a vision of him before my eyes. My 
 bonnie Highland laddie, brave and strong in his 
 kilt and the uniform of his country, going out to 
 his death with a smile on his face. And there was 
 another vision that came up now, unbidden. It 
 was a vision of him lying stark and cold upon the 
 battlefield, the mud on his uniform. And when I 
 saw that vision I was like a man gone mad 
 and possessed of devils who had stolen away his 
 faculties. I cursed war as I saw that vision, and 
 the men who caused war. And when I thought of 
 the Germans who had killed my boy a terrible and 
 savage hatred swept me, and I longed to go out 
 there and kill with my bare hands until I had 
 avenged him or they had killed me too. 
 
 But then I was a little softened. I thought of 
 his mother back in our wee hoose at Dunoon. 
 And the thought of her, bereft even as I was, sor- 
 rowing, even as I was, and lost in her frightful 
 loneliness, was pitiful, so that I had but the one 
 desire and wish — to go to her, and join my tears 
 with hers, that we who were left alone to bear our 
 grief might bear it together and give one to the 
 other such comfort as there might be in life for 
 us. And so I fell upon my knees and prayed, 
 there in my lonely room in the hotel. I prayed to 
 God that he might give us both, John's mother 
 and myself, strength to bear the blow that had 
 
74 A MINSTREL IN FRANCE 
 
 been dealt us and to endure the sacrifice that He 
 and our country had demanded of us. 
 
 My friends came to me. They came rushing to 
 me. Never did man have better friends, and 
 kindlier friends than mine proved themselves to 
 me on that day of sorrow. They did all that good 
 men and women could do. But there was no help 
 for me in the ministration of friends. I was 
 beyond the power of human words to comfort or 
 solace. I was glad of their kindness, and the 
 memory of it now is a precious one, and one I 
 would not be without. But at such a time I could 
 not gain from them what they were eager to give 
 me. I could only bow my head and pray for 
 strength. 
 
 That night, that New Yearns night that I shall 
 never forget, no matter how long God may let me 
 live, I went north. I took train from London to 
 Glasgow, and the next day I came to our wee 
 hoose — a sad, lonely wee hoose it had become 
 now! — on the Clyde at Dunoon, and was with 
 John's mother. It was the place for me. It was 
 there that I wanted to be, and it was with her, 
 who must hereafter be all the world to me. And 
 I was eager to be with her, too, who had given 
 John to me. Sore as my grief was, stricken as I 
 was, I could comfort her as no one else could hope 
 to do, and she could do as much for me. We be- 
 longed together. 
 
 I can scarce remember, even for myself, what 
 
A MINSTREL IN FRANCE 75 
 
 happened there at Dunoon. I cannot tell you 
 what I said or what I did, or what words and what 
 thoughts passed between John's mother and 
 myself. But there are some things that I do know 
 and that I will tell you. 
 
 Almighty God, to whom we prayed, was kind, 
 and He was pitiful and merciful. For presently 
 He brought us both a sort of sad composure. 
 Presently He assuaged our grief a little, and gave 
 us the strength that we must have to meet the 
 needs of life and the thought of going on in a 
 world that was darkened by the loss of the boy in 
 whom all our thoughts and all our hopes had been 
 centred. I thanked God then, and I thank God 
 now, that I have never denied Him nor taken His 
 name in vain. 
 
 For God gave me great thoughts about my boy 
 and about his death. Slowly, gradually, He made 
 me to see things in their true light, and He took 
 away the sharp agony of my first grief and sor- 
 row, and gave me a sort of peace. 
 
 John died in the most glorious cause, and he 
 died the most glorious death, it may be given to 
 a man to die. He died for humanity. He died for 
 liberty, and that this world in which life must go 
 on, no matter how many die, may be a better 
 world to live in. He died in a struggle against 
 the blackest force and the direst threat that has 
 appeared against liberty and humanity within the 
 memory of man. And were he alive now, and 
 
76 A MINSTREL IN FRANCE 
 
 were he called again to-day to go out for the same 
 cause, knowing that he must meet death — as he 
 did meet it — he would go as smilingly and as will- 
 ingly as he went then. He would go as a British 
 soldier and a British gentleman, to fight and die 
 for his King and his country. And I would bid 
 him go. 
 
 I have lived through much since his death. 
 They have not let me take a rifle or a sword and 
 go into the trenches to avenge him. . . . But 
 of that I shall tell you later. 
 
 Ah, it was not at once that I felt so! In my 
 heart, in those early days of grief and sorrow, 
 there was rebellion, often and often. There were 
 moments when in my anguish I cried out, aloud : 
 *'Whyl Why? Why did they have to take John, 
 my boy — ^my only child?" 
 
 But God came to me, and slowly His peace 
 entered my soul. And He made me see, as in a 
 vision, that some things that I had said and that 
 I had believed, were not so. He made me know, 
 and I learned, straight from Him, that our boy 
 had not been taken from us forever as I had paid 
 to myself so often since that telegram had 
 come. 
 
 He is gone from this life, but he is waiting for 
 us beyond this life. He is waiting beyond this 
 life and this world of wicked war and wanton 
 cruelty and slaughter. And we shall come, some 
 day, his mother and I, to the place where he is 
 
A MINSTREL IN FRANCE 77 
 
 waiting for us, and we shall all be as happy there 
 as we were on this earth in the happy days before 
 the war. 
 
 My eyes will rest again upon his face. I will 
 hear his fresh young voice again as he sees me 
 and cries out his greeting. I know what he will 
 say. He will spy me, and his voice will ring out 
 as it used to do. "Hello, Dad!" he will call, as 
 he sees me. And I will feel the grip of his young, 
 strong arms about me, just as in the happy days 
 before that day that is of all the days of my life 
 the most terrible and the most hateful in my 
 memory — the day when they told me that he had 
 been killed. 
 
 That is my belief. That is the comfort that God 
 has given me in my grief and my sorrow. There 
 is a God. Ah, yes, there is a God! Times there 
 are, I know, when some of those who look upon 
 the horrid slaughter of this war, that is going on, 
 hour by hour, feel that their faith is being shaken 
 by doubts. They think of the sacrifices, of the 
 blood that is being poured out, of the sufferings 
 of women and children. And they see the cause 
 that is wrong and foul prospering, for a little 
 time, and they cannot understand. 
 
 "If there is a God," they whisper to them- 
 selves, "why does he permit a thing so wicked to 
 go on!" 
 
 But there is a God — there is ! I have seen the 
 stark horror of war. I know, as none can know 
 
78 A MINSTREL IN FRANCE 
 
 until he has seen it at close quarters, what a thing 
 war is as it is fought to-day. And I believe as I 
 do believe, and as I shall believe until the end, 
 because I know God's comfort and His grace, I 
 know that my boy is surely waiting for me. In 
 America, now, there are mothers and fathers by 
 the scores of thousands who have bidden their 
 sons good-by; who water their letters from 
 France with their tears — who turn white at the 
 sight of a telegram and tremble at the sudden 
 clamor of a telephone. Ah, I know — I know! I 
 suffered as they are suffering! And I have this 
 to tell them and to beg them. They must believe 
 as I believe — then shall they find the peace and 
 the comfort that I have found. 
 
 So it was that there, on the Clyde, John's 
 mother and I came out of the blackness of our 
 first grief. We began to be able to talk to one 
 another. And every day we talked of John. We 
 have never ceased to do that, his mother and I. 
 We never shall. We may not have him with us 
 bodily, but his spirit is never absent. And each 
 day we remember some new thing about him that 
 one of us can call to the other's mind. And it is 
 as if, when we do that, we bring back some part 
 of him out of the void. 
 
 Little, trifling memories of when he was a baby, 
 and when he was a boy, growing up ! And other 
 memories, of later days. Often and often it was 
 the days that were furthest away that we remem- 
 
A MINSTREL IN FRANCE 79 
 
 bered best of all, and things connected with those 
 days. 
 
 But I had small wish to see others. John's 
 mother was enough for me. She and the peace 
 that was coming to me on the Clyde. I could not 
 bear to think of London. I had no plans to make. 
 All that was over. All that part of my life, I 
 thought, had ended with the news of my boy's 
 death. I wanted no more than to stay at home 
 on the Clyde and think of him. My wife and I 
 did not even talk about the future. And no thing 
 was further from all my thoughts than that I 
 should ever step upon a stage again. 
 
 What ! Go out before an audience and seek to 
 make it laugh? Sing my songs when my heart 
 was broken! I did not decide not to do it. I did 
 not so much as think of it as a thing I had to 
 decide about. 
 
CHAPTER IX 
 
 A ND then one thing and another brought the 
 r\ thought into my mind, so that I had to face 
 it and tell people how I felt about it. There 
 were neighbors, wanting to know when I would 
 be about my work again. That it was that first 
 made me understand that others did not feel as 
 I was feeling. 
 
 ''They're thinking I'll be going back to work 
 again," I told John's mother. "I canna'!" 
 
 She felt as I did. We could not see, either one 
 of us, in our grief, how anyone could think that 
 I could begin again where I had left off. 
 
 "I canna'! I will not try!" I told her, again 
 and again. "How can I tak up again with tiiat 
 old mummery? How can I laugh when my heart 
 is breaking, and make others smile when the tears 
 are in my eyes!" 
 
 And she thought as I did, that I could not, and 
 that no one should be asking me. The war had 
 taken much of what I had earned, in one way or 
 another. I was not so rich as I had been, but 
 there was enough. There was no need for me to 
 go back to work, so far as our living was con- 
 cerned. And so it seemed to be settled between 
 us. Planning we left for the future. It was no 
 
 80 
 
A MINSTREL IN FRANCE 81 
 
 time for us to be making plans. It mattered little 
 enough to us what might be in store for us. We 
 could take things as they might come. 
 
 So we bided quiet in our home, and talked of 
 John. And from every part of the earth and 
 from people in all walks and conditions of life 
 there began to pour in upon us letters and tele- 
 grams of sympathy and sorrow. I think there 
 were four thousand kindly folk who remembered 
 us in our sorrow, and let us know that they could 
 think of us in spite of all the other care and 
 trouble that filled the world in those days. Many 
 celebrated names were signed to those letters and 
 telegrams, and there were many, too, from simple 
 folk whose very names I did not know, who told 
 me that I had given them cheer and courage 
 from the stage, and so they felt that they 
 were friends of mine, and must let me know that 
 they were sorry for the blow that had be- 
 fallen me. 
 
 Then it came out that I meant to leave the stage. 
 They sent word from London, at last, to ask when 
 they might look for me to be back at the Shaftes- 
 bury Theatre. And when they found what it was 
 in my mind to do all my friends began to plead 
 with me and argue with me. They said it was 
 my duty to myself to go back. 
 
 "You're too young a man to retire, Harry," 
 they said. " What would you do ? How could you 
 pass away your time if you had no work to do? 
 
82 A MINSTREL IN FRANCE 
 
 Men who retire at your age are always sorry. 
 They wither away and die of dry rot." 
 
 "There'll be plenty for me to be doing," I told 
 them. ''I'U not be idle." 
 
 But still they argued. I was not greatly moved. 
 They were thinking of me, and their arguments 
 appealed to my selfish interests and needs, and 
 just then I was not thinking very much about 
 myself. 
 
 And then another sort of argument came to me. 
 People wrote to me, men and women, who, like 
 me, had lost their sons. Their letters brought the 
 tears to my eyes anew. They were tender letters, 
 and beautiful letters, most of them, and letters to 
 make proud and glad, as well as sad, the heart of 
 the man to whom they were written. I will not 
 copy those letters down here, for they were writ- 
 ten for my eyes, and for no others. But I can 
 tell you the message that they all bore. 
 
 ''Don't desert us now, Harry!" It was so that 
 they put it, one after another, in those letters. 
 ' ' Ah, Harry — there is so much woe and grief and 
 pain in the world that you, who can, must do all 
 that is in your power to make them easier to 
 bear ! There are few forces enough in the world 
 to-day to make us happy, even for a little space. 
 Come back to us, Harry — make us laugh again ! ' ' 
 
 It was when those letters came that, for the 
 first time, I saw that I had others to consider 
 beside myself, and that it was not only my own 
 
A MINSTREL IN FRANCE 83 
 
 wishes that I might take into account. I talked to 
 my wife, and I told her of those letters, and there 
 were tears in both our eyes as we thought about 
 those folks who knew the sorrow that was in our 
 hearts. 
 
 ''You must think about them, Harry," she 
 said. 
 
 And so I did think about them. And then I 
 began to find that there were others still about 
 whom I must think. There were three hundred 
 people in the cast of "Three Cheers," at the 
 Shaftesbury Theatre, in London. And I began to 
 hear now that unless I went back the show would 
 be closed, and all of them would be out of work. 
 At that season of the year, in the theatrical 
 world, it would be hard for them to find other 
 engagements, and they were not, most of them, 
 like me, able to live without the salaries from the 
 show. They wrote to me, many of them, and 
 begged me to come back. And I knew that it was 
 a desperate time for anyone to be without employ- 
 ment. I had to think about those poor souls. And 
 I could not bear the thought that I might be the 
 means, however innocent, of bringing hardship 
 and suffering upon others. It might not be my 
 fault, and yet it would lie always upon my con- 
 science. 
 
 Yet, even with all such thoughts and prayers to 
 move me, I did not see how I could yield to them 
 and go back. Even after I had come to the point 
 
84. A MINSTREL IN FRANCE 
 
 of being willing to go back if I could, I did not 
 think I could go through with it. I was afraid I 
 would break down if I tried to play my part. I 
 talked to Tom Vallance, my brother-in-law. 
 
 'at's very well to talk, Tom," I said. '' But 
 they'd ring the curtain down on me ! I can never 
 doit!" 
 
 **You must!" he said. "Harry, you must go 
 back! It's your duty! What would the boy be 
 saying and having you do? Don't you remember, 
 Harry? John's last words to his men were — 
 'Carry On!' That's what it is they're asking you 
 to do, too, Harry, and it's what John would have 
 wanted. It would be his wish." 
 
 And I knew that he was right. Tom had found 
 the one argument that could really move me and 
 make me see my duty as the others did. So I gave 
 in. I wired to the management that I would re- 
 join the cast of ** Three Cheers," and I took the 
 train to London. And as I rode in the train it 
 seemed to me that the roar of the wheels made a 
 refrain, and I could hear them pounding out those 
 two words, in my boy's voice: ** Carry On!" 
 
 But how hard it was to face the thought of going 
 before an audience again ! And especially in such 
 circumstances. There were to be gayety and life 
 and light and sparkle all about me. There were 
 to be lassies, in their gay dresses, and the mer- 
 riest music in London. And my part was to be 
 merry, too, and to make the great audience laugh 
 
A MINSTREL IN FRANCE 85 
 
 that I would see beyond the footlights. And I 
 thought of the Merryman in The Yeomen of the 
 Guard, and that I must be a little like him, though 
 my cause for grief was different. 
 
 But I had given my word, and though I longed, 
 again and again, as I rode toward London, and 
 as the time drew near for my performance, to 
 back out, there was no way that I could do so. 
 And Tom Vallance did his best^to cheer me and 
 hearten me, and relieve my nervousness. I have 
 never been so nervous before. Not since I made 
 my first appearance before an audience have I 
 been so near to stage fright. 
 
 I would not see anyone that night, when I 
 reached the theatre. I stayed in my dressing- 
 room, and Tom Vallance stayed with me, and kept 
 everyone who tried to speak with me away. There 
 were good folk, and kindly folk, friends of mine 
 in the company, who wanted to shake my hand 
 and tell me how they felt for me, but he knew that 
 it was better for them not to see me yet, and he 
 was my bodyguard. 
 
 ''It's no use, Tom," I said to him, again and 
 again, after I was dressed and in my make up. 
 I was cold first, and then hot. And I trembled 
 in every limb. ''They'll have to ring the curtain 
 down on me." 
 
 "You'll be all right, Harry," he said. "So 
 soon as you're out there! Remember, they're all 
 your friends ! ' ' 
 
86 A MINSTREL IN FRANCE 
 
 But he could not comfort me. I felt sure that it 
 was a foolish thing for me to try to do; that I 
 could not go through with it. And I was sorry, 
 for the thousandth time, that I had let them per- 
 suade me to make the effort. 
 
 A call boy came at last to warn me that it was 
 nearly time for my first entrance. I went with 
 Tom into the wings, and stood there, waiting. I 
 was pale under my make up, and I was shaking 
 and trembling like a baby. And even then I 
 wanted to cry off. But I remembered my boy, 
 and those last words of his — ' ' Carry On ! " I must 
 not fail him without at least trying to do what 
 he would have wanted me to do ! 
 
 My entrance was with a lilting little song called 
 ' ' I Love My Jean. ' ' And I knew that in a moment 
 my cue would be given, and I would hear the 
 music of that song beginning. I was as cold as 
 if I had been in an icy street, although it was hot. 
 I thought of the two thousand people who were 
 waiting for me beyond the footlights — the house 
 was a big one, and it was packed full that 
 night. 
 
 "I can't, Tom — I can't!" I cried. 
 
 But he only smiled, and gave me a little push 
 as my cue came and the music began. I could 
 scarcely hear it ; it was like music a great distance 
 off, coming very faintly to my ears. And I said 
 a prayer, inside. I asked God to be good to me 
 once more, and to give me strength, and to bear 
 
A MINSTREL IN FRANCE 87 
 
 me through this ordeal that I was facing, as he 
 had borne me through before. And then I had to 
 step into the full glare of the great lights. 
 
 I felt as if I were in a dream. The people were 
 unreal — stretching away from me in long, slop- 
 ing rows, their white faces staring at me from the 
 darkness beyond the great lights. And there was 
 a little ripple that ran through them as I went 
 out, as if a great many people, all at the same 
 moment, had caught their breath. 
 
 I stood and faced them, and the music sounded 
 in my ears. For just a moment they were still. 
 And then they were shaken by a mighty roar. 
 They cheered and cheered and cheered. They 
 stood up and waved to me. I could hear their 
 voices rising, and cries coming to me, with my 
 own name among them. 
 
 ' ' Bravo, Harry ! " I heard them call. And then 
 there were more cheers, and a great clapping of 
 hands. And I have been told that everywhere in 
 that great audience men and women were crying, 
 and that the tears were rolling down their cheeks 
 without ever an attempt by any of them to hide 
 them or to check them. It was the most wonderful 
 and the most beautiful demonstration I have ever 
 seen, in all the years that I have been upon the 
 stage. Many and many a time audiences have 
 been good to me. They have clapped me and they 
 have cheered me, but never has an audience 
 treated me as that one did. I had to use every 
 
88 A MINSTREL IN FRANCE 
 
 bit of strength and courage that I had to keep 
 from breaking down. 
 
 To this day I do not know how I got through 
 with that first song that night. I do not even 
 know whether I really sang it. But I think that, 
 somehow, blindly, without knowing what I was 
 doing, I did get through ; I did sing it to the end. 
 Habit, the way that I was used to it, I suppose, 
 helped me to carry on. And when I left the stage 
 the whole company, it seemed to me, was waiting 
 for me. They were crying and laughing, hys- 
 terically, and they crowded around me, and kissed 
 me, and hugged me, and wrung my hand. 
 
 It seemed that the worst of my ordeal was over. 
 But in the last act I had to face another test. 
 
 There was a song for me in that last act that 
 was the great song in London that season. I have 
 sung it all over America since then — "The Lad- 
 dies Who Fought and Won." It has been suc- 
 cessful everywhere — that song has been one of the 
 most popular I have ever sung. But it was a cruel 
 song for me to sing that night ! 
 
 It was the climax of the last act and of the 
 whole piece. In "Three Cheers" soldiers were 
 brought on each night to be on the stage behind 
 me when I sang that song. They were from the 
 battalion of the Scots Guards in London, and they 
 were real soldiers, in uniform. Different men 
 were used each night, and the money that was 
 paid to the Tommies for their work went into the 
 
A MINSTREL IN FRANCE 89 
 
 company fund of the men who appeared, and 
 helped to provide them with comforts and luxu- 
 ries. And the war office was glad of the arrange- 
 ment, too, for it was a great song to stimulate 
 recruiting. 
 
 There were two lines in the refrain that I shall 
 never forget. And it was when I came to those 
 two lines that night that I did, indeed, break 
 down. Here they are : 
 
 "When we all gather round the old fireside 
 And the fond mother kisses her son — " 
 
 Were they not cruel words for me to have to 
 sing, who knew that his mother could never kiss 
 my son again? They brought it all back to me! 
 My son was gone — he would never come back with 
 the laddies who had fought and won! 
 
 For a moment I could not go on. I was chok- 
 ing. The tears were in my eyes, and my throat 
 was choked with sobs. But the music went on, 
 and the chorus took up the song, and between the 
 singers and the orchestra they covered the break 
 my emotion had made. And in a little space I was 
 able to go on with the next verse, and to carry on 
 until my part in the show was done for the night. 
 But I still wondered how it was that they had not 
 had to ring down the curtain upon me, and that 
 Tom Vallance and the others had been right and 
 I the one that was wrong ! 
 
90 A MINSTREL IN FRANCE 
 
 Ah, weel, I learned that night what many and 
 many another Briton had learned, both at home 
 and in France — that you can never know what 
 you can do until you have to find it out! Yon 
 was the hardest task ever I had to undertake, but 
 for my boy's sake, and because they had made me 
 understand that it was what he would have 
 wanted me to do, I got through with it. 
 
 They rose to me again, and cheered and cheered, 
 after I had finished singing "The Laddies Who 
 Fought and Won." And there were those who 
 called to me for a speech, but so much I had to 
 deny them, good though they had been to me, and 
 much as I loved them for the way they had re- 
 ceived me. I had no words that night to thank 
 them, and I could not have spoken from that stage 
 had my life depended upon it. I could only get 
 through, after my poor fashion, with my part in 
 the show. 
 
 But the next night I did pull myself together, 
 and I was able to say a few words to the audience 
 — thanks that were simply and badly put, it may 
 be, but that came from the bottom of my over- 
 flowing heart. 
 
CHAPTER X 
 
 I HAD not believed it possible. But there I 
 was, not only back at work, back upon the 
 stage to which I thought I had said good-by 
 forever, but successful as I had thought I could 
 never be again. And so I decided that I would 
 remain until the engagement of ''Three Cheers" 
 closed. But my mind was made up to retire after 
 that engagement. I felt that I had done all I 
 could, and that it was time for me to retire, and 
 to cease trying to make others laugh. There was 
 no laughter in my heart, and often and often, that 
 season, as I cracked my merriest jokes, my heart 
 was sore and heavy and the tears were in my 
 eyes. 
 
 But slowly a new sort of courage came to me. 
 I was able to meet my friends again, and to talk 
 to them, of myself and of my boy. I met brother 
 officers of his, and I heard tales of him that gave 
 me a new and even greater pride in him than I 
 had known before. And my friends begged me to 
 carry on in every way. 
 
 "You were doing a great work and a good 
 work, Harry," they said. "The boy would want 
 you to carry on. Do not drop all the good you 
 were doing." 
 
 91 
 
92 A MINSTREL IN FRANCE 
 
 I knew that they were right. To sit alone and 
 give way to my grief was a selfish thing to do at 
 such a time. If there was work for me to do, still, 
 it was my duty to try to do it, no matter how 
 greatly I would have preferred to rest quiet. At 
 this time there was great need of making the peo- 
 ple of Britain understand the need of food con- 
 servation, and so I began to go about London, 
 making speeches on that subject wherever people 
 could be gathered together to listen to me. They 
 told me I did some good. And at least, I tried. 
 
 And before long I was glad, indeed, that I had 
 listened to the counsel of my friends and had not 
 given way to my selfish desire to nurse my grief 
 in solitude and silence. For I realized that there 
 was a real work for me to do. Those folk who 
 had begged me to do my part in lightening the 
 gloom of Britain had been right. There was so 
 much sorrow and grief in the land that it was the 
 duty of all who could dispel it, if even for a little 
 space, to do what they could. I remembered that 
 poem of Ella Wheeler Wilcox — "Laugh and the 
 World Laughs With You!" And so I tried to 
 laugh, and to make the part of the world that I 
 chanced to be in laugh with me. For I knew there 
 was weeping and sorrowing enough. 
 
 And all the time I felt that the spirit of my boy 
 was with me, and that he knew what I was doing, 
 and why, and was glad, and that he understood 
 that if I laughed it was not because I thought less 
 
A MINSTREL IN FRANCE 93 
 
 often of him, or missed him less keenly and bit- 
 terly than I had done from the very beginning. 
 
 There was much praise for my work from high 
 officials, and it made me proud and glad to know 
 that the men who were at the head of Britain's 
 effort in the war thought I was being of use. One 
 time I spoke with Mr. Balfour, the former Prime 
 Minister, at Drury Lane Theatre to one of the 
 greatest war gatherings that was ever held in 
 London. 
 
 And always and everywhere there were the 
 hospitals, full of the laddies who had been brought 
 home from France. Ah, but they were pitiful, 
 those laddies who had fought, and won, and been 
 brought back to be nursed back to the life they 
 had been so bravely willing to lay down for their 
 country! But it was hard to look at them, and 
 know how they were suffering, and to go through 
 with the task I had set myself of cheering them 
 and comforting them in my own way! There 
 were times when it was all I could do to get 
 through with my program. 
 
 They never complained. They were always 
 bright and cheerful, no matter how terrible their 
 wounds might be; no matter what sacrifices they 
 had made of eyes and limbs. There were men in 
 those hospitals who knew that they were going 
 out no more than half the men they had been. 
 And yet they were as brave and careless of them- 
 selves as if their wounds had been but trifles. I 
 
94 A MINSTREL IN FRANCE 
 
 think the greatest exhibition of courage and nerve 
 the world has ever seen was to be found in those 
 hospitals in London and, indeed, all over Britain, 
 where those wonderful lads kept up their spirits 
 always, though they knew they could never again 
 be sound in body. 
 
 Many and many of them there were who knew 
 that they could never walk again the shady lanes 
 of their hameland or the little streets of their 
 hame towns! Many and many more there were 
 who knew that, even after the bandages were 
 taken from about their eyes, they would never gaze 
 again upon the trees and the grass and the flowers 
 growing upon their native hillsides; that never 
 again could they look upon the faces of their 
 loved ones. They knew that everlasting darkness 
 was their portion upon this earth. 
 
 But one and all they talked and laughed and 
 sang ! And it was there among the hospitals, that 
 I came to find true courage and good cheer. It 
 was not there that I found talk of discouragement, 
 and longing for any early peace, even though the 
 final victory that could alone bring a real peace 
 and a worthy peace had not been won. No — not 
 in the hospitals could I find and hear such talk as 
 that ! For that I had to listen to those who had 
 not gone — who had not had the courage and the 
 nerve to offer all they had and all they were and 
 go through that hell of hells that is modern war ! 
 
 I saw other hospitals besides the ones in Lon- 
 
A MINSTREL IN FRANCE 95 
 
 don. After a time, when I was very tired, and 
 far from well, I went to Scotland for a space to 
 build myself up and get some rest. And in the 
 far north I went fishing on the River Dee, which 
 runs through the Durrie estate. And while I 
 was there the Laird heard of it. And he sent 
 word to tell me of a tiny hospital hard by where 
 a guid lady named Mrs. Baird was helping to 
 nurse disabled men back to health and strength. 
 He asked me would I no call upon the men and 
 try to give them a little cheer. And I was glad 
 to hear of the chance to help. 
 
 I laid down my rod forthwith, for here was bet- 
 ter work than fishing — and in my ain country. 
 They told me the way that I should go, and that 
 this Mrs. Baird had turned a little school house 
 into a convalescent home, and was doing a fine 
 and wonderful work for the laddies she had taken 
 in. So I set out to find it, and I walked along a 
 country road to come to it. 
 
 Soon I saw a man, strong and hale, as it seemed, 
 pushing a wheel chair along the road toward me. 
 And in the chair sat a man, and I could see at' 
 once that he had lost the use of his legs — that he 
 was paralyzed from the waist down. It was the 
 way he called to him who was pushing him that 
 made me tak notice. 
 
 "Go to the right, mon!" he would call. Or, a 
 moment later, "To the left now." 
 
 And then they came near to the disaster. The 
 
96 A MINSTREL IN FRANCE 
 
 one who was pushing was heading straight for 
 the side of the road, and the one in the chair bel- 
 lowed out to him: 
 
 * ' Whoa there ! " he called. * ' Mon — ^ye 're taking 
 me into the ditch ! Where would ye be going with 
 me, anyway?" 
 
 And then I understood. The man who was 
 pushing was blind! They had but the one pair 
 of eyes and the one pair of legs between the two 
 of them, and it was so that they contrived to go 
 out together without taking help from anyone 
 else ! And they were both as cheerful as wee lad- 
 dies out for a lark. It was great sport for them. 
 And it was they who gave me my directions to get 
 to Mrs. Baird's. 
 
 They disputed a little about the way. The 
 blind man, puir laddie, thought he knew. And he 
 did not — not quite. But he corrected the man who 
 could see but could not walk. 
 
 ^'It's the wrong road you're giving the gentle- 
 man," he said. "It's the second turn he should 
 be taking, not the first. ' ' 
 
 And the other would not argue with him. It 
 was a kindly thing, the way he kept quiet, and 
 did but wink at me, that I might know the truth. 
 He trusted me to understand and to know why he 
 was acting as he was, and I blessed him in my 
 heart for his thoughtfulness. And so I thanked 
 them, and passed on, and reached Mrs. Baird's, 
 and found a royal welcome there, and when they 
 
A MINSTREL IN FRANCE 97 
 
 asked me if I would sing for the soldiers, and I 
 said it was for that that I had come, there were 
 tears in Mrs. Baird's eyes. And so I gave a wee 
 concert there, and sang my songs, and did my best 
 to cheer up those boys. 
 
 Ah, my puir, brave Scotland — my bonnie little 
 Scotland ! 
 
 No part of all the United Kingdom, and, for 
 that matter, no part of the world, has played a 
 greater part, in proportion to its size and its 
 ability, than has Scotland in this war for human- 
 ity against the black force that has attacked it. 
 Nearly a million men has Scotland sent to the 
 army — out of a total population of five million! 
 One in five of all her people have gone. No coun- 
 try in the world has ever matched that record. 
 Ah, there were no slackers in Scotland ! And they 
 are still going — they are still going! As fast as 
 they are old enough, as fast as restrictions are 
 removed, so that men are taken who were turned 
 back at first by the recruiting officers, as fast as 
 men see to it that some provision is made for 
 those they must leave behind them, they are put- 
 ting on the King's uniform and going out against 
 the Hun. My country, my ain Scotland, is not 
 great in area. It is not a rich country in worldly 
 goods or money. But it is big with a bigness be- 
 yond measurement, it is rich beyond the wildest 
 dreams of avarice, in patriotism, in love of coun- 
 try, and in bravery. 
 
98 A MINSTREL IN FRANCE 
 
 We have few young men left in Scotland. It is 
 rarely indeed that in a Scottish village, in a glen, 
 even in a city, you see a young man in these days. 
 Only the very old are left, and the men of middle 
 age. And you know why the young men you see 
 are there. They cannot go, because, although 
 their spirit is willing their flesh is too weak to let 
 them go, for one reason or another. Factory and 
 field and forge — all have been stripped to fill the 
 Scottish regiments and keep them at their full 
 strength. And in Scotland, as in England, women 
 have stepped in to fill the places their men have 
 left vacant. This war is not to be fought by men 
 alone. Women have their part to play, and they 
 are playing it nobly, day after day. The women 
 of Scotland have seen their duty; they have 
 heard their country's call, and they have an- 
 swered it. 
 
 You will find it hard to discover anyone in 
 domestic service to-day in Scotland. The folk 
 who used to keep servants sent them packing long 
 since, to work where they would be of more use 
 to their country. The women of each household 
 are doing the work about the house, little though 
 they may have been accustomed to such tasks in 
 the days of peace. And they glory and take pride 
 in the knowledge that they are helping to fill a 
 place in the munitions factories or in some other 
 necessary war work. 
 
 Do not look along the Scottish roads for folk 
 
a, 
 
 be 
 
 s 
 
A MINSTREL IN FRANCE 99 
 
 riding in motor cars for pleasure. Indeed, you 
 will waste your time if you look for pleasure- 
 making of any sort in Scotland to-day. Scotland 
 lias gone back to her ancient business of war, and 
 she is carrying it on in the most businesslike way, 
 sternly and relentlessly. But that is true all over 
 the United Kingdom ; I do not claim that Scotland 
 takes the war more seriously than the rest of 
 Britain. But I do think that she has set an exam- 
 ple by the way she has flung herself, tooth and 
 nail, into the mighty task that confronts us all — 
 all of us allies who are leagued against the Hun 
 and his plan to conquer the world and make it 
 bow its neck in submission under his iron heel. 
 
 Let me tell you how Scotland takes this war. 
 Let me show you the homecoming of a Scottish 
 soldier, back from the trenches on leave. Why, 
 he is received with no more ceremony than if he 
 were coming home from his day's work! 
 
 Donald — or Jock might be his name, or Andy ! 
 — steps from the train at his old hame town. He 
 is fresh from the mud of the Flanders trenches, 
 and all his possessions and his kit are on his back, 
 so that he is more like a beast of burden than the 
 natty creature old tradition taught us to think a 
 soldier must always be. On his boots there are 
 still dried blobs of mud from some hole in France 
 that is like a crater in hell. His uniform will be 
 pretty sure to be dirty, too, and torn, and perhaps, 
 if you looked closely at it, you would see stains 
 
100 A MINSTREL IN FRANCE 
 
 upon it that you might not be far wrong in guess- 
 ing to be blood. 
 
 Leave long enough to let him come home to 
 Scotland — a long road it is from France to Scot- 
 land these days ! — has been a rare thing for Jock. 
 He will have been campaigning a long time to 
 earn it — months certainly, and maybe even years. 
 Perhaps he was one of these who went out first. 
 He may have been mentioned in dispatches ; there 
 may be a distinguished conduct medal hidden 
 about him somewhere — worth all the iron crosses 
 the Kaiser ever gave ! He has seen many a bloody 
 field, be sure of that. He has heard the sounding 
 of the gas alarm, and maybe got a whiff of the 
 dirty poison gas the Huns turned loose against 
 our boys. He has looked Death in the face so 
 often that he has grown used to him. But now 
 he is back in Scotland, safe and sound, free from 
 battle and the work of the trenches for a space, 
 home to gain new strength for his next bout with 
 Fritz across the water. 
 
 When he gets off the train Jock looks about 
 him, from force of habit. But no one has come 
 to the station to meet him, and he looks as if that 
 gave him neither surprise nor concern. For a 
 minute, perhaps, he will look around him, wonder- 
 ing, I think, that things are so much as they were, 
 fixing in his mind the old familiar scenes that 
 have brought him cheer so often in black, deadly 
 nights in the trenches or in lonely billets out there 
 
A MINSTREL IN FRANCE 101 
 
 in France. And then, quietly, and as if he were 
 indeed just home from some short trip, he shifts 
 his pack, so that it lies comfortably across his 
 back, and trudges off. There would be cabs 
 around the station, but it would not come into 
 Jock's mind to hail one of the drivers. He has 
 been used to using Shank's Mare in France when 
 he wanted to go anywhere, and so now he sets off 
 quietly, with his long, swinging soldier's stride. 
 
 As he walks along he is among scenes familiar 
 to him since his boyhood. Yon house, yon barn, 
 yon wooded rise against the sky are landmarks 
 for him. And he is pretty sure to meet old 
 friends. They nod to him, pleasantly, and with a 
 smile, but there is no excitement, no strangeness, 
 in their greeting. For all the emotion they show, 
 these folk to whom he has come back, as from the 
 grave, they might have seen him yesterday, and 
 the day before that, and the war never have been 
 at all. And Jock thinks nothing of it that they 
 are not more excited about him. You and I may 
 be thinking of Jock as a hero, but that is not his 
 idea about himself. He is just a Tommy, home 
 on leave from France — one of a hundred thou- 
 sand, maybe. And if he thought at all about the 
 way his home folk greeted him it would be just 
 so — that he could not expect them to be making a 
 fuss about one soldier out of so many. And, since 
 he, Jock, is not much excited, not much worked 
 up, because he is seeing these good folk again, he 
 
102 A MINSTREL IN FRANCE 
 
 does not think it strange that they are not more 
 excited about the sight of him. It would be if 
 they did make a fuss over him, and welcome him 
 loudly, that he would think it strange ! 
 
 And at last he comes to his own old home. He 
 will stop and look around a bit. Maybe he has 
 seen that old house a thousand times out there, 
 tried to remember every line and corner of it. 
 And maybe, as he looks down the quiet village 
 street, he is thinking of how different France was. 
 And, deep down in his heart, Jock is glad that 
 everything is as it was, and that nothing has been 
 changed. He could not tell you why ; he could not 
 put his feeling into words. But it is there, deep 
 down, and the truer and the keener because it is 
 so deep. Ah, Jock may take it quietly, and there 
 may be no way for him to show his heart, but he 
 is glad to be home ! 
 
 And at his gate will come, as a rule, Jock's first 
 real greeting. A dog, grown old since his depar- 
 ture, will come out, wagging his tail, and licking 
 the soldier's hand. And Jock will lean down, and 
 give his old dog a pat. If the dog had not come 
 he would have been surprised and disappointed. 
 And so, glad with every fibre of his being, Jock 
 goes in, and finds father and mother and sisters 
 within. They look up at his coming, and their 
 happiness shines for a moment in their eyes. But 
 they are not the sort of people to show their emo- 
 tions or make a fuss. Mother and girls will rise 
 
A MINSTREL IN FRANCE 103 
 
 and kiss him, and begin to take his gear, and his 
 father will shake him by the hand. 
 
 ''Well," the father will ask, *'how are you get- 
 ting along, lad?" 
 
 And — " All right," he will answer. That is the 
 British soldier's answer to that question, always 
 and everywhere. 
 
 Then he sits down, happy and at rest, and lights 
 his pipe, maybe, and looks about the old room 
 which holds so many memories for him. And sup- 
 per will be ready, you may be sure. They will not 
 have much to say, these folk of Jock's, but if you 
 look at his face as dish after dish is set before 
 him, you will understand that this is a feast that 
 has been prepared for him. They may have been 
 going without sorts of good things themselves, 
 but they have contrived, in some fashion, to have 
 them all for Jock. All Scotland has tightened its 
 belt, and done its part, in that fashion, as in every 
 other, toward the winning of the war. But for the 
 soldiers the best is none too good. And Jock's 
 folk would rather make him welcome so, by proof 
 that takes no words, than by demonstrations of 
 delight and of affection. 
 
 As he eats, they gather round him at the board, 
 and they tell him all the gossip of the neighbor- 
 hood. He does not talk about the war, and, if they 
 are curious — probably they are not ! — they do not 
 ask him questions. They think that he wants to 
 forget about the war and the trenches and the 
 
104? A MINSTREL IN FRANCE 
 
 mud, and they are right. And so, after he has 
 eaten his fill, he lights his pipe again, and sits 
 about. And maybe, as it grows dark, he takes a 
 bit walk into town. He walks slowly, as if he is 
 glad that for once he need not be in a hurry, and 
 he stops to look into shop windows as if he had 
 never seen their stocks before, though you may be 
 sure that, in a Scottish village, he has seen every- 
 thing they have to offer hundreds of times. 
 
 He will meet friends, maybe, and they will stop 
 and nod to him. And perhaps one of six will stop 
 longer. 
 
 **How are you getting on, Jock?" will be the 
 question. 
 
 "All right!" Jock will say. And he will think 
 the question rather fatuous, maybe. If he were 
 not all right, how should he be there ? But if Jock 
 had lost both legs, or an arm, or if he had been 
 blinded, that would still be his answer. Those 
 words have become a sort of slogan for the Brit- 
 ish army, that typify its spirit. 
 
 Jock's walk is soon over, and he goes home, by 
 an old path that is known to him, every foot of 
 it, and goes to bed in his own old bed. He has 
 not broken into the routine of the household, and 
 he sees no reason why he should. And the next 
 day it is much the same for him. He gets up as 
 early as he ever did, and he is likely to do a few 
 odd bits of work that his father has not had time 
 to come to. He talks with his mother and the 
 
A MINSTREL IN FRANCE 105 
 
 girls of all sorts of little, commonplace things, 
 and with his father he discusses the affairs of the 
 community. And in the evening he strolls down 
 town again, and exchanges a few words with 
 friends, and learns, perhaps, of boys who haven't 
 been lucky enough to get home on leave — of boys 
 with whom he grew up, who have gone west. 
 
 So it goes on for several days, each day the 
 same. Jock is quietly happy. It is no task to 
 entertain him ; he does not want to be entertained. 
 The peace and quiet of home are enough for him ; 
 they are change enough from the turmoil of the 
 front and the ceaseless grind of the life in the 
 army in France. 
 
 And then Jock's leave nears its end, and it is 
 time for him to go back. He tells them, and he 
 makes his few small preparations. They will 
 have cleaned his kit for him, and mended some 
 of his things that needed mending. And when it 
 is time for him to go they help him on with his 
 pack and he kisses his mother and the girls 
 good-by, and shakes hands with his father. 
 
 ''Well, good-by," Jock says. He might be 
 going to work in a factory a few miles off. ''I'll 
 be all right. Good-by, now. Don't you cry, now, 
 mother, and you, Jeannie and Maggie. Don't you 
 fash yourselves about me. I'll be back again. 
 And if I shouldn't come back — ^why, I'll be all 
 right." 
 
 So he goes, and they stand looking after him, 
 
106 A MINSTREL IN FRANCE 
 
 and his old dog wonders why he is going, and 
 where, and makes a move to follow him, maybe. 
 But he marches off down the street, alone, never 
 looking back, and is waiting when the train comes. 
 It will be full of other Jocks and Andrews and 
 Tarns, on their way back to France, like him, and 
 he will nod to some he knows as he settles down 
 in the carriage. 
 
 And in just two days Jock will have traveled 
 the length of England, and crossed the channel, 
 and ridden up to the front. He will have re- 
 ported himself, and have been ordered, with his 
 company, into the trenches. And on the third 
 night, had you followed him, you might see him 
 peering over the parapet at the lines of the Hun, 
 across No Man's Land, and listening to the whine 
 of bullets and the shriek of shells over his head, 
 with a star shell, maybe, to throw a green light 
 upon him for a moment. 
 
 So it is that a warrior comes and that a war- 
 rior goes in a land where war is war; in a land 
 where war has become the business of all every 
 day, and has settled down into a matter of routine. 
 
CHAPTER XI 
 
 I COULD not, much as I should in many ways 
 have liked to do so, prolong my stay in Scot- 
 land. The peace and the restfulness of the 
 Highlands, the charm of the heather and the hills, 
 the long, lazy days with my rod, whipping some 
 favorite stream — ah, they made me happy for a 
 moment, but they could not make me forget ! My 
 duty called me back, and the thought of war, and 
 suffering, and there were moments when it seemed 
 to me that nothing could keep me from plung- 
 ing again into the work I had set out to do. 
 
 In those days I was far too restless to be taking 
 my ease at home, in my wee hoose at Dunoon. A 
 thousand activities called me. The rest had been 
 necessary; I had had to admit that, and to obey 
 my doctor, for I had been feeling the strain of 
 my long continued activity, piled up, as it was, 
 on top of my grief and care. And yet I was eager 
 to be off and about my work again. 
 
 I did not want to go back to the same work I 
 had been doing. No! I was still a young man. 
 I was younger than men and officers who were 
 taking their turn in the trenches. I was but forty- 
 six years old, and there was a lot of life and snap 
 in the old dog yet! My life had been rightly 
 
 107 
 
108 A MINSTREL IN FRANCE 
 
 lived. As a young man I had worked in a pit, ye 
 ken, and that had given me a strength in my back 
 and my legs that would have served me well in 
 the trenches. War, these days, means hard work 
 as well as fighting — more, indeed. War is a busi- 
 ness, a great industry, now. There is all manner 
 of work that must be done at the front and right 
 behind it. Aye, and I was eager to be there and 
 to be doing my share of it — and not for the first 
 time. 
 
 Many a time, and often, I had broached my idea 
 of being allowed to enlist, e'en before the Huns 
 killed my boy. But they would no listen to me. 
 They told me, each time, that there was more and 
 better work for me to do at hame in Britain, spur- 
 ring others on, cheering them when they came 
 back maimed and broken, getting the country to 
 put its shoulder to the wheel when it came to sub- 
 scribing to the war loans and all the rest of it. 
 And it seemed to me that it was not for me to 
 decide ; that I must obey those who were better in 
 a position to judge than I could be. 
 
 I went down south to England, and I talked 
 again of enlisting and trying to get a crack at 
 those who had killed my boy. And again my 
 friends refused to listen to me. 
 
 **Why, Harry," they said to me — and not my 
 own friends, only, but men highly placed enough 
 to make me know that I must pay heed to what 
 they said — *'you must not think of it! If you en- 
 
A MINSTREL IN FRANCE 109 
 
 listed, or if we got you a commission, you 'd be but 
 one man out there. Here you're worth many men 
 — a brigade, or a division, maybe. You are more 
 use to us than many men who go out there to 
 fight. You do great things toward winning the 
 war every day. No, Harry, there is work for 
 every man in Britain to do, and you have found 
 yours and are doing it." 
 
 I was not content, though, even when I seemed 
 to agree with them. I did try to argue, but it was 
 no use. And still I felt that it was no time for a 
 man to be playing and to be giving so much of his 
 time to making others gay. It was well for folk 
 to laugh, and to get their minds oif the horror of 
 war for a little time. Well I knew! Aye, and I 
 believed that I was doing good, some good at 
 least, and giving cheer to some puir laddies who 
 needed it sorely. But — weel, it was no what I 
 wanted to be doing when my country was fighting 
 for her life ! I made up my mind, slowly, what it 
 was that I wanted to do that would fit in with the 
 ideas and wishes of those whose word I was 
 bound to heed and that would still come closer 
 than what I was doing to meet my own desires. 
 
 Every day, nearly, then, I was getting letters 
 from the front. They came from laddies whom 
 I'd helped to make up their minds that they be- 
 longed over yon, where the men were. Some were 
 from boys who came from aboot Dunoon. I'd 
 known those laddies since they were bits o ' bairns, 
 
110 A MINSTREL IN FRANCE 
 
 most of them. And then there were letters — and 
 they touched me as much and came as close 
 home as any of them — from boys who were utter 
 strangers to me, but who told me they felt they 
 knew me because they'd seen me on the stage, or 
 because their phonograph, maybe, played some of 
 my records, and because they'd read that my boy 
 had shared their dangers and given his life, as 
 they were ready, one and all, to do. 
 
 And those letters, nearly all, had the same re- 
 frain. They wanted me. They wanted me to 
 come to them, since they couldn't be coming 
 to me. 
 
 ' ' Come on out here and see us and sing for us, 
 Harry," they'd write to me. "It'd be a fair treat 
 to see your mug and hear you singing about the 
 wee hoose amang the heather or the bonnie, bon- 
 nie lassie!" 
 
 How could a man get such a plea as that and 
 not want to do what those laddies asked? How 
 could he think of the great deal they were doing 
 and not want to do the little bit they asked of him? 
 But it was no a simple matter, ye '11 ken ! I could 
 not pack a bag and start for France from Charing 
 Cross or Victoria as I might have done — and often 
 did — ^before the war. No one might go to France 
 unless he had passports and leave from the war 
 office, and many another sort of arrangement 
 there was to make. But I set wheels in motion. 
 
 Just to go to France to sing for the boys would 
 
A MINSTREL IN FRANCE 111 
 
 have been easy enough. They told me that at 
 once. 
 
 "What? Harry Lauder wants to go to France 
 to sing for the soldiers? He shall — whenever he 
 pleases ! Tell him we '11 be glad to send him ! ' ' 
 
 So said the war office. But I knew what they 
 meant. They meant for me to go to one or more 
 of the British bases and give concerts. There 
 were troops moving in and out of the bases all the 
 time; men who'd been in the trenches or in action 
 in an offensive and were back in rest billets, or 
 even further back, were there in their thousands. 
 But it was the real front I was eager to reach. I 
 wanted to be where my boy had been, and to see 
 his grave. I wanted to sing for the laddies who 
 were bearing the brunt of the big job over there 
 — while they were bearing it. 
 
 And that no one had done. Many of our lead- 
 ing actors and singers and other entertainers 
 were going back and forth to France all the time. 
 Never a week went by but they were helping to 
 cheer up the boys at the bases. It was a grand 
 work they were doing, and the boys were grateful 
 to them, and all Britain should share that grati- 
 tude. But it was a wee bit more that I wanted to 
 be doing, and there was the rub. 
 
 I wanted to go up to the battle lines themselves 
 and to sing for the boys who were in the thick of 
 the struggle with the Hun. I wanted to give a 
 concert in a front-line trench where the Huns 
 
112 A MINSTREL IN FRANCE 
 
 could hear me, if they cared to listen. I wanted 
 them to learn once more the lesson we could never 
 teach them often enough — the lesson of the spirit 
 of the British army, that could go into battle with 
 a laugh on its lips. 
 
 But at iSrst I got no encouragement at all when 
 I told what it was in my mind to do. My friends 
 who had influence shook their heads. 
 
 **I'm afraid it can't be managed, Harry," they 
 told me. *' It's never been done." 
 
 I told them what I believed myself, and what I 
 have often thought of when things looked hard 
 and prospects were dark. I told them everything 
 had to be done for the first time sometime, and I 
 begged them not to give up the effort to win my 
 way for me. And so I knew that when they told 
 me no one had done it before it wasn't reason 
 enough why I shouldn't do it. And I made up my 
 mind that I would be the pioneer in giving con- 
 certs under fire if that should turn out to be a part 
 of the contract. 
 
 But I could not argue. I could only say what it 
 was that I wanted to do, and wait the pleasure of 
 those whose duty it was to decide. I couldn't tell 
 the military authorities where they must send me. 
 It was for me to obey when they gave their orders, 
 and to go wherever they thought I would do the 
 most good. I would not have you thinking that I 
 was naming conditions, and saying I would go 
 where I pleased or bide at hame ! That was not 
 
A MINSTREL IN FRANCE 113 
 
 my way. All I could do was to hope that in the 
 end they would see matters as I did and so decide 
 to let me have my way. But I was ready for my 
 orders, whatever they might be. 
 
 There was one thing I wanted, above all others, 
 to do when I got to France, and so much I said. I 
 wanted to meet the Highland Brigade, and see the 
 bonnie laddies in their kilts as the Huns saw them 
 — the Huns, who called them the Ladies from 
 Hell, and hated them worse than they hated any 
 troops in the whole British army. 
 
 Ha' ye heard the tale of the Scotsman and the 
 Jew? Sandy and Ikey they were, and they were 
 having a disputatious argument together. Each 
 said he could name more great men of his race 
 who were famous in history than the other could. 
 And they argued, and nearly came to blows, and 
 were no further along until they thought of mak- 
 ing a bet. An odd bet it was. For each great 
 name that Sandy named of a Scot whom history 
 had honored he was to pull out one of Ikey's hairs, 
 and Ikey was to have the same privilege. 
 
 ''Do ye begin!" said Sandy. 
 
 ''Moses!" said Ikey, and pulled. 
 
 "Bobbie Burns!" cried Sandy, and returned 
 the compliment. 
 
 "Abraham!" said Ikey, and pulled again. 
 
 ' ' Ouch — Duggie Haig ! ' ' said Sandy. 
 
 And then Ikey grabbed a handful of hairs at 
 once. 
 
114. A MINSTREL IN FRANCE 
 
 *' Joseph and his brethren!" he said, gloating a 
 bit as he watched the tears starting from Sandy's 
 eyes at the pain of losing so many good hairs at 
 once. 
 
 **So it's pulling them out in bunches ye are!" 
 
 said Sandy. ''Ah, well, man " And he 
 
 reached with both his hands for Ikey's thatch. 
 
 "The Hieland Brigade!" he roared, and pulled 
 all the hairs his two hands would hold ! 
 
 Ah, weel, there are sad thoughts that come to 
 me, as well as proud and happy ones, when I think 
 of the bonnie kilted laddies who fought and died 
 so nobly out there against the Hun ! They were 
 my own laddies, those, and it was with them and 
 amang them that my boy went to his death. It 
 was amang them I would find, I thought, those 
 who could tell me more than I knew of how he had 
 died, and of how he had lived before he died. And 
 I thought the boys of the brigade would be glad 
 to see me and to hear my songs — songs of their 
 hames and their ain land, auld Scotland. And so 
 I used what influence I had, and did not think it 
 wrong to employ at such a time, and in such a 
 cause. For I knew that if they sent me to the 
 Hieland Brigade they would be sending me to the 
 front of the front line — for that was where I 
 would have to go seeking the Hieland laddies ! 
 
 I waited as patiently as I could. And then one 
 day I got my orders! I was delighted, for the 
 thing they had told me could not be done had 
 
A MINSTREL IN FRANCE 115 
 
 actually been arranged for me. I was asked to get 
 ready to go to France to entertain the soldiers, 
 and it was the happiest day I had known since I 
 had heard of my boy's death. 
 
 There was not much for me to do in the way of 
 making ready. The whole trip, of course, would 
 be a military one. I might be setting out as a 
 minstrel for France, but every detail of my ar- 
 rangements had to be made in accordance with 
 military rules, and once I reached France I would 
 be under the orders of the army in every move- 
 ment I might make. All that was carefully ex- 
 plained to me. 
 
 But still there were things for me to think about 
 and to arrange. I wanted some sort of accom- 
 paniment for my songs, and how to get it puzzled 
 me for a time. But there was a firm in London 
 that made pianos that heard of my coming trip, 
 and solved that problem for me. They built, and 
 they presented to me, the weest piano ever you 
 saw — a piano so wee that it could be carried in 
 an ordinary motor car. Only five octaves it had, 
 but it Was big enough, and sma' enough at once. 
 I was delighted with it, and so were all who saw 
 it. It weighed only about a hundred and fifty 
 pounds — less than even a middling stout man! 
 And it was cunningly built, so that no space at all 
 was wasted. Mrs. Lauder, when she saw it, called 
 it cute, and so did every other woman who laid 
 eyes upon it. It was designed to be carried on the 
 
116 A MINSTREL IN FRANCE 
 
 grid of a motor car — and so it was, for many miles 
 of shell-torn roads ! 
 
 When I was sure of my piano I thought of 
 another thing it would be well for me to take with 
 me. And so I spent a hundred pounds — a thou- 
 sand American dollars — for cigarettes. I knew 
 they would be welcome everywhere I went. It 
 makes no matter how many cigarettes we send to 
 France, there will never be enough. My friends 
 thought I was making a mistake in taking so 
 many ; they were afraid they would make matters 
 hard when it came to transportation, and re- 
 minded me that I faced difficulties in that respect 
 in France it was nearly impossible for us at home 
 in Britain to visualize at all. But I had my mind 
 and my heart set on getting those fags — a ciga- 
 rette is a fag to every British soldier — to my des- 
 tination with me. Indeed, I thought they would 
 mean more to the laddies out there than I could 
 hope to do myself! 
 
 I was not to travel alone. My tour was to in- 
 clude two traveling companions of distinction and 
 fame. One was James Hogge, M.P., member from 
 East Edinburgh, who was eager, as so many mem- 
 bers of Parliament were, to see for himself how 
 things were at the front. James Hogge was one 
 of the members most liked by the soldiers. He 
 had worked hard for them, and gained — and well 
 earned — ^much fame by the way he struggled with 
 the matter of getting the right sort of pensions 
 
A MINSTREL IN FRANCE 117 
 
 for the laddies who were offering their lives. 
 
 The other distinguished companion I was to 
 have was an old and good friend of mine, the 
 Reverend George Adam, then a secretary to the 
 Minister of Munitions. He lived in Ilford, a 
 suburb of London, then, but is now in Montreal, 
 Canada. I was glad of the opportunity to travel 
 with both these men, for I knew that one's trav- 
 eling companions, on such a tour, were of the 
 utmost importance in determining its success or 
 failure, and I could not have chosen a better pair, 
 had the choice been left to me — which, of course, 
 it was not. 
 
 There we were, you see — the Reverend George 
 Adaan, Harry Lauder and James Hogge, M.P. 
 And no sooner did the soldiers hear of the com- 
 bination than our tour was named ** The Rev- 
 erend Harry Lauder, M.P., Tour" was what we 
 were called! And that absurd name stuck to us 
 through our whole journey, in France, up and 
 down the battle line, and until we came home to 
 England and broke up ! 
 
CHAPTER XII 
 
 UP to that time I had thought I knew a good 
 deal about the war. I had had much news 
 from my boy. I had talked, I think, to as 
 many returned soldiers as any man in Britain. 
 I had seen much of the backwash and the wretched 
 aftermath of war. Ah, yes, I thought I knew 
 more than most folk did of what war meant ! But 
 until my tour began, as I see now, easily enough, 
 I knew nothing — literally nothing at all! 
 
 There are towns and ports in Britain that are 
 military areas. One may not enter them except 
 upon business, the urgency of which has been 
 established to the satisfaction of the military 
 authorities. One must have a permit to live in 
 them, even if they be one's home town. These 
 towns are vital to the war and its successful 
 prosecution. 
 
 Until one has seen a British port of embarka- 
 tion in this war one has no real beginning, even, 
 of a conception of the task the war has imposed 
 upon Britain. It was so with me, I know, and 
 since then other men have told me the same thing. 
 There the army begins to pour into the funnel, so 
 to speak, that leads to France and the front. 
 There all sorts of lines are brought together, all 
 
 118 
 
A MINSTREL IN FRANCE 119 
 
 sorts of scattered activities come to a focus. 
 There is incessant activity, day and night. 
 
 It was from Folkestone, on the southeast coast, 
 that the Reverend Harry Lauder, M.P. Tour was 
 to embark. And we reached Folkestone on June 
 7, 1917. 
 
 Folkestone, in time of peace, was one of the 
 greatest of the Southern watering places. It is a 
 lovely spot. Great hotels line the Leas, a glorious 
 promenade, along the top of chalk cliffs, that looks 
 out over the Channel. In the distance one fancies 
 one may see the coast of France, beyond the blue 
 water. 
 
 There is green grass everywhere behind the 
 beach. Folkestone has a miniature harbor, that 
 in time of peace gave shelter to the fishing fleet 
 and to the channel steamers that plied to and 
 from Boulogne, in France. The harbor is guarded 
 by stone jetties. It has been greatly enlarged now 
 — so has all Folkestone, for that matter. But I 
 am remembering the town as it was in peace ! 
 
 There was no pleasanter and kindlier resort 
 along that coast. The beach was wonderful, and 
 all summer long it attracted bathers and children 
 at play. Bathing machines lined the beach, of 
 course, within the limits of the town ; those queer, 
 old, clumsy looking wagons, with a dressing cabin 
 on wheels, that were drawn up and down accord- 
 ing to the tide, so that bathers might enter the 
 water from them directly. There, as in most Brit- 
 
120 A MINSTREL IN FRANCE 
 
 ish towns, women bathed at one part of the beach, 
 men at the other, and all in the most decorous 
 and modest of costumes. 
 
 But at Folkestone, in the old days of peace, 
 about a mile from the town limits, there was 
 another stretch of beach where all the gay folk 
 bathed — men and women together. And there the 
 costumes were such as might be seen at Deauville 
 or Ostend, Etretat or Trouville. Highly they 
 scandalized the good folk of Folkestone, to be sure 
 — but little was said, and nothing was done, for, 
 after all those were the folk who spent the money ! 
 They dressed in white tents that gleamed against 
 the sea, and a pretty splash of color they made 
 on a bright day for the soberer folk to go and 
 watch, as they sat on the low chalk cliffs above 
 them! 
 
 Gone — gone ! Such days have passed for Folke- 
 stone! They will no doubt come again — but 
 when! When? 
 
 June the seventh ! Folkestone should have been 
 gay for the beginning of the onset of summer 
 visitors. Sea bathing should just have been be- 
 ginning to be attractive, as the sun warmed the 
 sea and the beach. But when we reached the town 
 war was over all. Men in uniform were every- 
 where. Warships lay outside the harbor. Khaki 
 and guns, men trudging along, bearing the bur- 
 dens of war, motor trucks, rushing ponderously 
 along, carrying ammunition and food, messengers 
 
A MINSTREL IN FRANCE 121 
 
 on motorcycles, sounding to all traffic that might 
 be in the way the clamorous summons to clear the 
 path — those were the sights we saw ! 
 
 How hopelessly confused it all seemed ! I could 
 not believe that there was order in the chaos that 
 I saw. But that was because the key to all that 
 bewildering activity was not in my possession. 
 
 Every man had his appointed task. He was a 
 cog in the greatest machine the world has ever 
 seen. He knew just what he was to do, and how 
 much time had been allowed for the performance 
 of his task. It was assumed he would not fail. 
 The British army makes that assumption, and it 
 is warranted. 
 
 I hear praise, even from men who hate the Hun 
 as I hate him, for the superb military organiza- 
 tion of the German army. They say the Kaiser's 
 people may well take pride in that. But I say that 
 I am prouder of what Britain and the new British 
 army that has come into being since this war be- 
 gan have done than any German has a right to 
 be ! They spent forty-four years in making ready 
 for a war they knew they meant, some day, to 
 fight. We had not had, that day that I first saw 
 our machine really functioning, as many months 
 for preparation as they had had years. And yet 
 we were doing our part. 
 
 We had had to build and prepare while we 
 helped our ally, France, to hold off that gray 
 horde that had swept down so treacherously 
 
122 A MINSTREL IN FRANCE 
 
 through Belgium from the north and east. It was 
 as if we had organized and trained and equipped 
 a fire brigade while the fire was burning, and while 
 our first devoted fighters sought to keep it in check 
 with water buckets. And they did! They did! 
 The water buckets served while the hose was 
 made, and the mains were laid, and the hydrants 
 set in place, and the trained firemen were made 
 ready to take up the task. 
 
 And, now that I had come to Folkestone, now 
 that I was seeing the results of all the labor that 
 had been performed, the effect of all the prodigies 
 of organization, I began to know what Lord 
 Kitchener and those who had worked with him 
 had done. System ruled everything at Folke- 
 stone. Nothing, it seeemd to me, as officers ex- 
 plained as much as they properly could, had been 
 left to chance. Here was order indeed. 
 
 In the air above us airplanes flew to and fro. 
 They circled about like great, watchful hawks. 
 They looped and whirled around, cutting this way 
 and that, circling always. And I knew that, as 
 they flew about outside the harbor the men in them 
 were never off their guard; that they were peer- 
 ing down, watching every moment for the first 
 trace of a submarine that might have crept 
 through the more remote defenses of the Channel. 
 Let a submarine appear — its shrift would be short 
 indeed ! 
 
 There, above, waited the airplanes. And on the 
 
A MINSTREL IN FRANCE 123 
 
 surface of the sea sinister destroyers darted 
 about as watchful as the jSyers above, ready for 
 any emergency that might arise. I have no doubt 
 that submarines of our own lurked below, waiting, 
 too, to do their part. But those, if any there 
 were, I did not see. And one asks no questions 
 at a place like Folkestone. I was glad of any in- 
 formation an officer might voluntarily give me. 
 But it was not for me or any other loyal Briton to 
 put him in the position of having to refuse to an- 
 swer. 
 
 Soon a great transport was pointed out to me, 
 lying beside the jetty. Gangplanks were down, 
 and up them streams of men in khaki moved end- 
 lessly. Up they went, in an endless brown river, 
 to disappear into the ship. The whole ship was a 
 very hive of activity. Not only men were going 
 aboard, but supplies of every sort; boxes of am- 
 munition, stores, food. And I understood, and 
 was presently to see, that beyond her sides there 
 was the same ordered scene as prevailed on shore. 
 Every man knew his task; the stowing away of 
 everything that was being carried aboard was be- 
 ing carried out systematically and with the utmost 
 possible economy of time and effort. 
 
 *' That's the ship you will cross the Channel 
 on, " I was told. And I regarded her with a new 
 interest. I do not know what part she had been 
 wont to play in time of peace ; what useful, pleas- 
 ant journeys it had been her part to complete. I 
 
124 A MINSTREL IN FRANCE 
 
 only knew that she was to carry me to France, and 
 to the place where my heart was and for a long 
 time had been. Me — and two thousand men who 
 were to be of real use over there ! 
 
 We were nearly the last to go on board. We 
 found the decks swarming with men. Ah, the 
 braw laddies ! They smoked and they laughed as 
 they settled themselves for the trip. Never a one 
 looked as though he might be sorry to be there. 
 They were leaving behind them all the good 
 things, all the pleasant things, of life as, in time 
 of peace, every one of them had learned to live it 
 and to know it. Long, long since had the last 
 illusion faded of the old days when war had 
 seemed a thing of pomp and circumstance and 
 glory. 
 
 They knew well, those boys, what it was they 
 faced. Hard, grinding work they could look for- 
 ward to doing ; such work as few of them had ever 
 known in the old days. Death and wounds they 
 could reckon upon as the portion of just about so 
 many of them. There would be bitter cold, later, 
 in the trenches, and mud, and standing for hours 
 in icy mud and water. There would be hard fare, 
 and scanty, sometimes, when things went wrong. 
 There would be gas attacks, and the bursting of 
 shells about them with all sorts of poisons in them. 
 Always there would be the deadliest perils of 
 these perilous days. 
 
 But they sang as they set out upon the great 
 
A MINSTREL IN FRANCE 125 
 
 adventure of their lives. They smiled and 
 laughed. They cheered me, so that the tears 
 started from my eyes, when they saw me, and 
 they called the gayest of gay greetings, though 
 they knew that I was going only for a little while, 
 and that many of them had set foot on British soil 
 for the last time. The steady babble of their 
 voices came to our ears, and they swarmed below 
 us like ants as they disposed themselves about the 
 decks, and made the most of the scanty space that 
 was allowed for them. The trip was to be short, 
 of course ; there were too few ships, and the prob- 
 lems of convoy were too great, to make it possible 
 to make the voyage a comfortable one. It was a 
 case of getting them over as might best be ar- 
 ranged. 
 
 A word of command rang out and was passed 
 around by officers and non coms. 
 
 "Life belts must be put on before the ship 
 sails ! ' ' 
 
 That simple order brought home the grim facts 
 of war at that moment as scarcely anything else 
 could have done. Here was a grim warning of 
 the peril that lurked outside. Everywhere men 
 were scurrying to obey — I among the rest. The 
 order applied as much to us civilians as it did to 
 any of the soldiers. And my belt did not fit, and 
 was hard, extremely hard, for me to don. I could 
 no manage it at all by myself, but Adam and 
 Hogge had had an easier time with theirs, and 
 
126 A MINSTREL IN FRANCE 
 
 they came to my help. Among us we got mine on, 
 and Hogge stood off, and looked at me, and 
 smiled. 
 
 "An extraordinary effect, Harry!" he said, 
 with a smile. ''I declare — it gives you the most 
 charming embonpoint!" 
 
 I had my doubts about his use of the word 
 charming. I know that I should not have cared 
 to have anyone judge of my looks from a picture 
 taken as I looked then, had one been taken. 
 
 But it was not a time for such thoughts. For a 
 civilian, especially, and one not used to journeys 
 in such times as these, there is a thrill and a solem- 
 nity about the donning of a life preserver. I felt 
 that I was indeed, it might be, taking a risk in 
 making this journey, and it was an awesome 
 thought that I, too, might have seen my native 
 land for the last time, and said a real good-by to 
 those whom I had left behind me. 
 
 Now we cast off, and begun to move, and a thrill 
 ran through me such as I had never known before 
 in all my life. I went to the rail as we turned our 
 nose toward the open sea. A destroyer was 
 ahead, another was beside us, others rode steadily 
 along on either side. It was the most reassuring 
 of sights to see them. They looked so business 
 like, so capable. I could not imagine a Hun sub- 
 marine as able to evade their watchfulness. And 
 moreover, there were the watchful man birds 
 above us, the circling airplanes, that could make 
 
A MINSTREL IN FRANCE 127 
 
 out, so much better than could any lookout on a 
 ship, the first trace of the presence of a tin fish. 
 No — I was not afraid! I trusted in the British 
 navy, which had guarded the sea lane so well that 
 not a man had lost his life as the result of a Hun 
 attack, although many millions had gone back 
 and forth to France since the beginning of the 
 war. 
 
 I did not stay with my own party. I preferred 
 to move about among the Soldiers. I was deeply 
 interested in them, as I have always been. And 
 I wanted to make friends among them, and see 
 how they felt. 
 
 *'Lor' lumme — its old 'Arry Lauder!" said one 
 cockney. *'God bless you, 'Arry — many's the 
 time I've sung with you in the 'alls. It's good to 
 see you with us ! " 
 
 And so I was greeted everywhere. Man after 
 man crowded around me to shake hands. It 
 brought a lump into my throat to be greeted so, 
 and it made me more than ever glad that the mili- 
 tary authorities had been able to see their way to 
 grant my request. It confirmed my belief that I 
 was going where I might be really useful to the 
 men who were ready and willing to make the 
 greatest of all sacrifices in the cause so close to all 
 our hearts. 
 
 When I first went aboard the transport I picked 
 up a little gold stripe. It was one of those men 
 wear who have been wounded, as a badge of 
 
128 A MINSTREL IN FRANCE 
 
 honor. I hoped I might be able to find the man 
 who had lost it, and return it to him. But none 
 of them claimed it, and I have kept it, to this day, 
 as a souvenir of that voyage. 
 
 It was easy for them to know me. I wore my 
 kilt and my cap, and my knife in my stocking, as 
 I have always done, on the stage, and nearly al- 
 ways off it as well. And so they recognized me 
 without difficulty. And never a one called me any- 
 thing but Harry — except when it was 'Arry! I 
 think I would be much affronted if ever a British 
 soldier called me Mr. Lauder. I don't know — ^be- 
 cause not one of them ever did, and I hope none 
 ever will ! 
 
 They told me that there were men from the 
 Highlands on board, and I went looking for them, 
 and found them after a time, though going about 
 that ship, so crowded she was, was no easy mat- 
 ter. They were Gordon Highlanders, mostly, I 
 found, and they were glad to see me, and made me 
 welcome, and I had a pipe with them, and a good 
 talk. 
 
 Many of them were going back, after having 
 been at home, recuperating from wounds. And 
 they and the new men too were all eager and 
 anxious to be put there and at work. 
 
 "Gie us a chance at the Huns — it's all we're 
 asking," said one of a new draft. ** They 're tell- 
 ing us they don't like the sight of our kilts, Harry, 
 and that a Hun's got less stomach for the cold 
 
A MINSTREL IN FRANCE 129 
 
 steel of a bayonet than for anything else on earth. 
 Weel — we're carrying a dose of it for them!" 
 
 And the men who had been out before, and were 
 taking back with them the scars they had earned, 
 were just as anxious as the rest. That was the 
 spirit of every man on board. They did not like 
 war as war, but they knew that this was a war 
 that must be fought to the finish, and never a man 
 of them wanted peace to come until Fritz had 
 learned his lesson to the bottom of the last grim 
 page. 
 
 I never heard a word of the danger of meeting 
 a submarine. The idea that one might send a tor- 
 pedo after us popped into my mind once or twice, 
 but when it did I looked out at the destroyers, 
 guarding us, and the airplanes above, and I felt 
 as safe as if I had been in bed in my wee hoose at 
 Dunoon. It was a true highway of war that those 
 whippets of the sea had made the Channel cross- 
 ing. 
 
 Ahm, but I was proud that day of the British 
 navy! It is a great task that it has performed, 
 and nobly it has done it. And it was proud and 
 glad I was again when we sighted land, as we soon 
 did, and I knew that I was gazing, for the first 
 time since war had been declared, upon the shores 
 of our great ally, France. It was the great day 
 and the proud day and the happy day for me ! 
 
 I was near the realizing of an old dream I had 
 often had. I was with the soldiers who had my 
 
130 A MINSTREL IN FRANCE 
 
 love and my devotion, and I was coming to France 
 — the France that every Scotchman learns to love 
 at his mother's breast. 
 
 A stir ran through the men. Orders began to 
 fly, and I went back to my place and my party. 
 Soon we would be ashore, and I would be in the 
 way of beginning the work I had come to do. 
 
A tatter of plaid of the Black Watch .m a wire of a German 
 entanglement barely suggests the hell the Scotch troops have 
 gone through. 
 
CHAPTER Xni 
 
 BOULOGNE ! 
 Like Folkestone, Boulogne, in happier 
 times, had been a watering place, less fash- 
 ionable than some on the French coast, but the 
 pleasant resort of many in search of health and 
 pleasure. And like Folkestone it had suffered the 
 blight of war. The war had laid its heavy hand 
 upon the port. It ruled everything; it was omni- 
 present. From the moment when we came into 
 full view of the harbor it was impossible to think 
 of anything else. 
 
 Folkestone had made me think of the mouth of 
 a great funnel, into which all broad Britain had 
 been pouring men and guns and all the manifold 
 supplies and stores of modern war. And the trip 
 across the narrow, well guarded lane in the Chan- 
 nel had been like the pouring of water through the 
 neck of that same funnel. Here in Boulogne was 
 the opening. Here the stream of men and sup- 
 plies spread out to begin its orderly, irresistible 
 flow to the front. All of northern France and 
 Belgium lay before that stream; it had to cover 
 all the great length of the British front. Not 
 from Boulogne alone, of course; I knew of Dun- 
 
 131 
 
132 A MINSTREL IN FRANCE 
 
 kirk and Calais, and guessed at other ports. 
 There were other funnels, and into all of them, 
 day after day, Britain was pouring her tribute; 
 through all of them she was offering her sacrifice, 
 to be laid upon the altar of strife. 
 
 Here, much more than at Folkestone, as it 
 chanced, I saw at once another thing. There was 
 a double funnel. The stream ran both ways. 
 For, as we steamed into Boulogne, a ship was 
 coming out — a ship with a grim and tragic burden. 
 She was one of our hospital ships. But she was 
 guarded as carefully by destroyers and aircraft as 
 our transport had been. The Red Cross meant 
 nothing to the Hun — except, perhaps, a shining 
 target. Ship after ship that bore that symbol of 
 mercy and of pain had been sunk. No longer did 
 our navy dare to trust the Red Cross. It took 
 every precaution it could take to protect the poor 
 fellows who were going home to Blighty. 
 
 As we made our way slowly in, through the 
 crowded harbor, full of transports, of ammunition 
 ships, of food carriers, of destroyers and small 
 naval craft of all sorts, I began to be able to see 
 more and more of what was afoot ashore. It was 
 near noon; the day that had been chosen for my 
 arrival in France was one of brilliant sunshine 
 and a cloudless sky. And my eyes were drawn to 
 other hospital ships that were waiting at the 
 docks. Motor ambulances came dashing up, one 
 after the other, in what seemed to me to be an end- 
 
A MINSTREL IN FRANCE 133 
 
 less stream. The pity of that sight ! It was as if 
 I could peer through the intervening space and see 
 the bandaged heads, the places where limbs had 
 been, the steadfast gaze of the boys who were 
 being carried up in stretchers. They had done 
 their task, a great number of them ; they had given 
 all that God would let them give to King and 
 country. Life was left to them, to be sure; most 
 of these boys were sure to live. 
 
 But to what maimed and incomplete lives were 
 they doomed ! The thousands who would be crip- 
 ples always — blind, some of them, and helpless, 
 dependent upon what others might choose or be 
 able to do for them. It was then, in that moment, 
 that an idea was born, vaguely, in my mind, of 
 which I shall have much more to say later. 
 
 There was beauty in that harbor of Boulogne. 
 The sun gleamed against the chalk cliffs. It 
 caught the wings of airplanes, flying high above 
 us. But there was little of beauty in my mind's 
 eye. That could see through the surface beauty 
 of the scene and of the day to the grim, stark ugli- 
 ness of war that lay beneath. 
 
 I saw the ordered piles of boxes and supplies, 
 the bright guns, mth the sun reflected from their 
 barrels, dulled though these were to prevent that 
 very thing. And I thought of the waste that was 
 involved — of how all this vast product of industry 
 was destined to be destroyed, as swiftly as might 
 be, bringing no useful accomplishment with its 
 
134. A MINSTREL IN FRANCE 
 
 destruction — save, of course, that accomplishment 
 which must be completed before any useful thing 
 may be done again in this world. 
 
 Then we went ashore, and I could scarcely be- 
 lieve that we were indeed in France, that land 
 which, friends though our nations are, is at heart 
 and in spirit so different from my own country. 
 Boulogne had ceased to be French, indeed. The 
 port was like a bit of Britain picked up, carried 
 across the Channel and transplanted successfully 
 to a new resting-place. 
 
 English was spoken everywhere — and much of 
 it was the English of the cockney, innocent of the 
 aitch, and redolent of that strange tongue. But it 
 is no for me, a Scot, to speak of how any other 
 man uses the King's English ! Well I ken it ! It 
 was good to hear it — had there been a thought in 
 my mind of being homesick, it would quickly have 
 been dispelled. The streets rang to the tread of 
 British soldiers; our uniform was everywhere. 
 There were Frenchmen, too ; they were attached, 
 many of them, for one reason and another, to the 
 British forces. But most of them spoke English 
 too. 
 
 I had most care about the unloading of my 
 cigarettes. It was a point of honor with me, by 
 now, after the way my friends had joked me about 
 them, to see that every last one of the *'fags" I 
 had brought with me reached a British Tommy. So 
 to them I gave my first care. Then I saw to the 
 
A MINSTREL IN FRANCE 135 
 
 unloading of my wee piano, and, having done so, 
 was free to go with the other members of the 
 Reverend Harry Lauder, M.P., Tour to the small 
 hotel that was to be headquarters for all of us in 
 Boulogne. 
 
 Arrangements had to be made for my debut in 
 France, and I can tell you that no professional en- 
 gagement I have ever filled ever gave me half so 
 much concern as this one! I have sung before 
 many strange audiences, in all parts of the world, 
 or nearly all. I have sung for folk who had no 
 idea of what to expect from me, and have known 
 that I must be at work from the moment of my 
 first appearance on the stage to win them. But 
 these audiences that I was to face here in France 
 gave me more thought than any of them. I had so 
 great a reason for wanting to suceed with 
 them! 
 
 And here, ye ken, I faced conditions that were 
 harder than had ever fallen to my lot. I was not 
 to have, most of the time, even the military thea- 
 ters that had, in some cases, been built for the 
 men behind the lines, where many actors and, in- 
 deed, whole companies, from home had been ap- 
 pearing. I could make no changes of costume. 
 I would have no orchestra. Part of the time I 
 would have my wee piano, but I reckoned on going 
 to places where even that sma' thing could no fol- 
 low me. 
 
 But I had a good manager — the British army, 
 
136 A MINSTREL IN FRANCE 
 
 no less ! It was the army that had arranged my 
 booking. We were not left alone, not for a min- 
 ute. I would not have you think that we were left 
 to go around on our own, and as we pleased. 
 Far from it! No sooner had we landed than 
 Captain Roberts, D.S.O., told me, in a brief, sol- 
 dierly way, that was also extremely businesslike, 
 what sort of plans had been made for us. 
 
 *'We have a number of big hospitals here," he 
 said. ^'This is one of the important British 
 bases, as you know, and it is one of those where 
 many of our men are treated before they are sent 
 home. So, since you are here, we thought you 
 would want to give your first concerts to the 
 wounded men here." 
 
 So I learned that the opening of what you might 
 call my engagement in the trenches was to be in 
 hospitals. That was not new to me, and yet I was 
 to find that there was a difference between a base 
 hospital in France and the sort of hospitals I had 
 seen so often at home. 
 
 Nothing, indeed, was left to us. After Captain 
 Roberts had explained matters, we met Captain 
 Godfrey, who was to travel with us, and be our 
 guide, our military mentor and our ruler. We 
 understood that we must place ourselves under 
 him, and under military discipline. No Tommy, 
 indeed, was more under discipline than we had to 
 be. But we did not chafe, civilians though we 
 were. When you see the British army at work 
 
A MINSTREL IN FRANCE 137 
 
 nothing is further from your thoughts than to 
 criticize or to offer any suggestions. It knows its 
 business, and does it, quietly and without fuss. 
 But even Fritz has learned to be chary of getting 
 in the way when the British army has made up its 
 mind — and that is what he is there for, though I've 
 no doubt that Fritz himself would give a pretty 
 penny to be at home again, with peace de- 
 clared. 
 
 Captain Godfrey, absolute though his power 
 over us was — he could have ordered us all home 
 at a moment's notice — turned out to be a delight- 
 ful young officer, who did everything in his power 
 to make our way smooth and pleasant, and who 
 was certainly as good a manager as I ever had or 
 ever expect to have. He entered into the spirit of 
 our tour, and it was plain to see that it would be 
 a success from start to finish if it were within his 
 power to make it so. He liked to call himself my 
 manager, and took a great delight, indeed, in the 
 whole experience. Well, it was a change for him, 
 no doubt! 
 
 I had brought a piano with me, but no accom- 
 panist. That was not an oversight ; it was a mat- 
 ter of deliberate choice. I had been told, before I 
 left home, that I would have no difficulty in finding 
 some one among the soldiers to accompany me. 
 And that was true, as I soon found. In fact, as 
 I was to learn later, I could have recruited a full 
 orchestra among the Tommies, and I would have 
 
138 A MINSTREL IN FRANCE 
 
 had in my band, too, musicians of fame and great 
 ability, far above the average theater orchestra. 
 Oh, you must go to France to learn how every art 
 and craft in Britain has done its part ! 
 
 Aye, every sort of artist and artisan, men of 
 every profession and trade, can be found in the 
 British army. It has taken them all, like some 
 great melting pot, and made them soldiers. I 
 think, indeed, there is no calling that you could 
 name that would not yield you a master hand from 
 the ranks of the British army. And I am not 
 talking of the officers alone, but of the great mass 
 of Tommies. And so when I told Captain God- 
 frey I would be needing a good pianist to play my 
 accompaniments, he just smiled. 
 
 ** Right you are!" he said. ".We'll turn one 
 up for you in no time!" 
 
 He had no doubts at all, and he was right. They 
 found a lad called Johnson, a Yorkshireman, in a 
 convalescent ward of one of the big hospitals. 
 He was recovering from an illness he had incurred 
 in the trenches, and was not quite ready to go 
 back to active duty. But he was well enough to 
 play for me, and delighted when he heard he might 
 get the assignment. He was nervous lest he 
 should not please me, and feared I might ask for 
 another man. But when I ran over with him the 
 songs I meant to sing I found he played the piano 
 very well indeed, and had a knack for accompany- 
 ing, too. There are good pianists, soloists, who 
 
A MINSTREL IN FRANCE 139 
 
 are not good accompanists; it takes more than 
 just the ability to play the piano to work with a 
 singer, and especially with a singer like me. It 
 is no straight ahead singing I do always, as you 
 ken, perhaps. 
 
 But I saw at once that Johnson and I would 
 get along fine together, so everyone was pleased, 
 and I went on and made my preparations with him 
 for my first concert. That was to be in the Bou- 
 logne Casino — center of the gayety of the resort 
 in the old days, but now, for a long time, turned 
 into a base hospital. 
 
 They had played for high stakes there in the 
 old days before the war. Thousands of dollars 
 had changed hands in an hour there. But they 
 were playing for higher stakes now ! They were 
 playing for the lives and the health of men, and 
 the hearts of the women at home in Britain who 
 were bound up with them. In the old days men 
 had staked their money against the turn of a card 
 or the roll of the wheel. But now it was with 
 Death they staked — and it was a mightier game 
 than those old walls had ever seen before. 
 
 The largest ward of the hospital was in what 
 had been the Baccarat room, and it was there I 
 held my first concert of the trench engagement. 
 "When I appeared it was packed full. There were 
 men on cots, lying still and helpless, bandaged to 
 their very eyes. Some came limping in on their 
 crutches; some were rolled in in chairs. It was 
 
140 A MINSTREL IN FRANCE 
 
 a sad scene and an impressive one, and it went to 
 my heart when I thought that my own poor laddie 
 must have lain in just such a room — in this very 
 one, perhaps. He had suffered as these men were 
 suffering, and he had died — as some of these men 
 for whom I was to sing would die. For there 
 were men here w^ho would be patched up, pres- 
 ently, and would go back. And for them there 
 might be a next time — a next time when they 
 would need no hospital. 
 
 There was one thing about the place I liked. 
 It was so clean and white and spotless. All the 
 garish display, the paint and tawdry finery, of the 
 old gambling days, had gone. It was restful, 
 now, and though there was the hospital smell, it 
 was a clean smell. And the men looked as though 
 they had wonderful care. Indeed, I knew they 
 had that; I knew that everything that could be 
 done to ease their state was being done. And 
 every face I saw was brave and cheerful, though 
 the skin of many and many a lad was stretched 
 tight over his bones with the pain he had known, 
 and there was a look in their eyes, a look with 
 no repining in it, or complaint, but with the evi- 
 dences of a terrible pain, bravely suffered, that 
 sent the tears starting to my eyes more than 
 once. 
 
 It was much as it had been in the many hospi- 
 tals I had visited in Britain, and yet it was differ- 
 ent^ too. I felt that I was really at the front. 
 
A MINSTREL IN FRANCE 14.1 
 
 Later I came to realize how far from the real front 
 I actually was at Boulogne, but then I knew no 
 better. 
 
 I had chosen my programme carefully. It was 
 made up of songs altogether. I had had enough 
 experience in hospitals and camps by now to have 
 learned what soldiers liked best, and I had no 
 doubt at all that it was just songs. And best of 
 all they liked the old love songs, and the old songs 
 of Scotland — tender, crooning melodies, that 
 would help to carry them back, in memory, to their 
 hames and, if they had them, to the lassies of their 
 dreams. It was no sad, lugubrious songs they 
 wanted. But a note of wistful tenderness they 
 liked. That was true of sick and wounded, and of 
 the hale and hearty too — and it showed that, 
 though they were soldiers, they were just humans 
 like the rest of us, for all the great and super- 
 human things they ha' done out there in 
 France. 
 
 Not every actor and artist who has tried to help 
 in the hospitals has fully understood the men he 
 or she wanted to please. They meant well, every 
 one, but some were a wee bit unfortunate in the 
 way they went to work. There is a story that is 
 told of one of our really great serious actors. He 
 is serious minded, always, on the stage and off, 
 and very, very dignified. But some folk went to 
 him and asked him would he no do his bit to cheer 
 up the puir laddies in a hospital I 
 
142 A MINSTREL IN FRANCE 
 
 He never thought of refusing — and I would no 
 have you think I am sneering at the man ! His in- 
 tentions were of the best. 
 
 *'0f course, I do not sing or dance," he said, 
 drawing down his lip. And the look in his eyes 
 showed what he thought of such of us as had de- 
 scended to such low ways of pleasing the public 
 that paid to see us and to hear us : * ' But I shall 
 very gladly do something to bring a little diver- 
 sion into the sad lives of the poor boys in the hos- 
 pitals." 
 
 It was a stretcher audience that he had. That 
 means a lot of boys who had to lie in bed to hear 
 him. They needed cheering. And that great 
 actor, with all his good intentions could think of 
 nothing more fitting than to stand up before 
 them and begin to recite, in a sad, elocu- 
 tionary tone, Longfellow's **The Wreck of the 
 Hesperus!" 
 
 He went on, and his voice gained power. He 
 had come to the third stanza, or the fourth, maybe, 
 when a command rang out through the ward. It 
 was one that had been heard many and many a 
 time in France, along the trenches. It came from 
 one of the beds. 
 
 ''To cover, men!" came the order. 
 
 It rang out through the ward, in a hoarse voice. 
 And on the word every man's head popped under 
 the bedclothes! And the great actor, astonished 
 beyond measure, was left there, reciting away to 
 
A MINSTREL IN FRANCE 143 
 
 shaking mounds of bedclothes that entrenched his 
 hearers from the sound of his voice ! 
 
 Well, I had heard yon tale. I do no think I 
 should ever have risked a similar fate by making 
 the same sort of mistake, but I profited by hearing 
 it, and I always remembered it. And there was 
 another thing. I never thought, when I was go- 
 ing to sing for soldiers, that I was doing some- 
 thing for them that should make them glad to 
 listen to me, no matter what I chose to sing for 
 them. 
 
 I always thought, instead, that here was an au- 
 dience that had paid to hear me in the dearest coin 
 in all the world — their legs and arms, their health 
 and happiness. Oh, they had paid! They had 
 not come in on free passes! Their tickets had 
 cost them dear — dearer than tickets for the thea- 
 ter had ever cost before. I owed them more than 
 I could ever pay — my own future, and my free- 
 dom, and the right and the chance to go on living 
 in my own country free from the threat and the 
 menace of the Hun. It was for me to please those 
 boys when I sang for them, and to make such an 
 effort as no ordinary audience had ever heard 
 from me. 
 
 They had made a little platform to serve as a 
 stage for me. There was room for me and for 
 Johnson, and for the wee piano. And so I sang 
 for them, and they showed me from the start that 
 j;hey were pleased. Those who could, clapped, 
 
144 A MINSTREL IN FRANCE 
 
 and all cheered, and after each song there was a 
 great pounding of crutches on the floor. It was 
 an inspiring sound and a great sight, sad though 
 it was to see and to hear. 
 
 When I had done I went aboot amang the men, 
 shaking hands with such as could gie me their 
 hands, and saying a word or two to all of them. 
 Directly in front of the platform there lay a 
 wounded Scots soldier, and all through my concert 
 he watched me most intently; he never took his 
 eyes off me. When I had sung my last song he 
 beckoned to me feebly, and I went to him, and 
 bent over to listen to him. 
 
 **Eh, Harry, man," he said, "will ye be doin' 
 me a favor?" 
 
 "Aye, that I will, if I can," I told him. 
 
 "It's to ask the doctor will I no be gettin' better 
 soon. Because, Harry, mon, I've but the one de- 
 sire left — and that's to be in at the finish of yon 
 fight!" 
 
 I was to give one more concert in Boulogne, that 
 night. That was more cheerful, and it was differ- 
 ent, again, from anything I had done or known be- 
 fore. There was a convalescent camp, about two 
 miles from town, high up on the chalk cliffs. And 
 this time my theater was a Y.M.C.A. hut. But 
 do not let the name hut deceive ye! I had an 
 audience of two thousand men that nicht ! It was 
 all the "hut" would hold, with tight squeezing. 
 And what a roaring, wild crowd that was, to be 
 
A MINSTREL IN FRANCE 145 
 
 sure ! They sang with me, and they cheered and 
 clapped until I thought that hut would be needing 
 a new roof! 
 
 I had to give over at last, for I was tired, and 
 needed sleep. We had our orders. The Rever- 
 end Harry Lauder, M.P., Tour was to start for 
 Vimy Ridge at six o'clock next morning! 
 
CHAPTER XIY 
 
 WE were up next morning before daybreak. 
 But I did not feel as if I were getting up 
 early. Indeed, it was quite the re- 
 verse. All about us was a scene of such activity 
 that I felt as if I had been lying in bed uncon- 
 sciously long — as if I were the laziest man in all 
 that busy town. Troops were setting out, board- 
 ing military trains. Cheery, jovial fellows they 
 were — the same lads, some of them, who had 
 crossed the Channel with me, and many others 
 who had come in later. Oh, it is a steady stream 
 of men and supplies, indeed, that goes across the 
 narrow sea to France ! 
 
 Motor trucks — they were calling them camions, 
 after the French fashion, because it was a shorter 
 and a simpler word — fairly swarmed in the 
 streets. Guns rolled ponderously along. It was 
 not military pomp we saw. Indeed, I saw little 
 enough of that in France. It was only the uni- 
 forms and the guns that made me realize that this 
 was war. The activity was more that of a busy, 
 bustling factory town. It was not English, and 
 it was not French. I think it made me think 
 more of an American city. War, I cannot tell you 
 often enough, is a great business, a vast industry, 
 
 146 
 
A MINSTREL IN FRANCE 147 
 
 in these days. Someone said, and he was right, 
 that they did not win victories any more — that 
 they manufactured them, as all sorts of goods are 
 manufactured. Digging, and building — that is 
 the great work of modern war. 
 
 Our preparations, being in the hands of Captain 
 Godfrey and the British army, were few and 
 easily made. Two great, fast army motor cars 
 had been put at the disposal of the Reverend 
 Harry Lauder, M.P., Tour, and when we went out 
 to get into them and make our start it was just 
 a problem of stowing away all we had to carry 
 with us. 
 
 The first car was a passenger car. Each motor 
 had a soldier as chauffeur. I and the Reverend 
 George Adam rode in the tonneau of the leading 
 car, and Captain Godfrey, our manager and guide, 
 sat with the driver, in front. That was where he 
 belonged, and where, being a British officer, he 
 naturally wanted to be. They have called our 
 officers reckless, and said that they risked their 
 lives too freely. "Weel — I dinna ken! I am no 
 soldier. But I know what a glorious tradition the 
 British officer has — and I know, too, how his men 
 follow him. They know, do the laddies in the 
 ranks, that their officers will never ask them to 
 go anywhere or do anything they would shirk 
 themselves — and that makes for a spirit that you 
 could not esteem too highly. 
 
 It was the second car that was our problem. 
 
148 A MINSTREL IN FRANCE 
 
 We put Johnson, my accompanist, in the tonneau 
 first, and then we covered him with cigarettes. It 
 was a problem to get them stowed away, and 
 when we had accomplished the task, finally, there 
 was not much of Johnson to be seen! He was 
 covered and surrounded with cigarettes, but he 
 was snug, and he looked happy and comfortable, 
 as he grinned at us — his face was about all of him 
 that we could see. Hogge rode in front with the 
 driver of that car, and had more room, so, than 
 he would have had in the tonneau, where, as a 
 passenger and a guest, he really belonged. The 
 wee bit piano was lashed to the grid of the second 
 car. And I give you my word it looked like a 
 gypsy's wagon more than like one of the neat 
 cars of the British army! 
 
 Weel, all was ready in due time, and it was just 
 six o'clock when we set off. There was a thing 
 I noted again and again. The army did things 
 on time in France. If we were to start at a cer- 
 tain time we always did. Nothing ever happened 
 to make us unpunctual. 
 
 It was a glorious morning! We went roaring 
 out of Boulogne on a road that was as hard and 
 smooth as a paved street in London despite all 
 the terrific traffic it had borne since the war made 
 Boulogne a British base. And there were no 
 speed limits here. So soon as the cars were tuned 
 up we went along at the highest speed of which 
 the cars were capable. Our soldier drivers knew 
 
A MINSTREL IN FRANCE 149 
 
 their business ; only the picked men were assigned 
 to the driving of these cars, and speed was one 
 of the things that was wanted of them. Much 
 may hang on the speed of a motor car in France. 
 
 But, fast as we traveled, we did not go too fast 
 for me to enjoy the drive and the sights and 
 sounds that were all about us. They were oddly 
 mixed. Some were homely and familiar, and 
 some were so strange that I could not give over 
 wondering at them. The motors made a great 
 noise, but it was not too loud for me to hear larks 
 singing in the early morning. All the world was 
 green with the early sun upon it, lighting up 
 every detail of a strange countryside. There was 
 a soft wind, a gentle, caressing wind, that stirred 
 the leaves of the trees along the road. 
 
 But not for long could we escape the touch of 
 war. That grim etcher was at work upon the road 
 and the whole countryside. As we went on we 
 were bound to move more slowly, because of the 
 congestion of the traffic. Never was Piccadilly or 
 Fifth Avenue more crowded with motors at the 
 busiest hour of the day than was that road. As 
 we passed through villages or came to cross roads 
 we saw military police, directing traffic, precisely 
 as they do at busy intersections of crowded streets 
 in London or New York. 
 
 But the traffic along that road was not the 
 traffic of the cities. Here were no ladies, gor- 
 geously clad, reclining in their luxurious, deeply 
 
150 A MINSTREL IN FRANCE 
 
 upholstered cars. Here were no footmen and 
 chauffeurs in livery. Ah, they wore a livery — 
 aye! But it was the livery of glory — the khaki 
 of the King! Generals and high officers passed 
 us, bowling along, lolling in their cars, taking 
 their few brief minutes or half hours of ease, 
 smoking and talking. They corresponded to the 
 limousines and landaulets of the cities. And 
 there were wagons from the shops — great trucks, 
 carrying supplies, going along at a pace that 
 racked their engines and their bodies, and that 
 boded disaster to whoever got in their way. But 
 no one did — there was no real confusion here, 
 despite the seeming madness of the welter of 
 traffic that we saw. 
 
 What a traffic that was! And it was all the 
 traffic of the carnage we were nearing. It was a 
 marvelous and an impressive panorama of force 
 and of destruction that we saw — it was being con- 
 stantly unrolled before my wondering eyes as we 
 traveled along the road out of old Boulogne. 
 
 At first all the traffic was going our way. Some- 
 times there came a warning shriek from behind, 
 and everything drew to one side to make room for 
 a dispatch rider on a motor cycle. These had the 
 right of way. Sir Douglas Haig himself, were he 
 driving along, would see his driver turn out to 
 make way for one of those shrieking motor bikes ! 
 The rule is absolute — everything makes way for 
 them. 
 
A MINSTREL IN FRANCE 151 
 
 But it was not long before a tide of traffic began 
 to meet us, flowing back toward Boulogne. There 
 was a double stream then, and I wondered how 
 collisions and traffic jams of all sorts could be 
 avoided. I do not know yet; I only know that 
 there is no trouble. Here were empty trucks, 
 speeding back for new loads. And some there 
 were that carried all sorts of wreckage — the flot- 
 sam and jetsam cast up on the safe shores behind 
 the front by the red tide of war. Nothing is 
 thrown away out there ; nothing is wasted. Great 
 piles of discarded shoes are brought back to be 
 made over. They are as good as new when they 
 come back from the factories where they are 
 worked over. Indeed, the men told me they were 
 better than new, because they were less trying to 
 their feet, and did not need so much breaking in. 
 
 Men go about, behind the front, and after a bat- 
 tle, picking up everything that has been thrown 
 away. Everything is sorted and gone over with 
 the utmost care. Rifles that have been thrown 
 away or dropped when men were wounded or 
 killed, bits of uniforms, bayonets — everything is 
 saved. Reclamation is the order of the day. 
 There is waste enough in war that cannot be 
 avoided; the British army sees to it that there 
 is none that is avoidable. 
 
 But it was not only that sort of wreckage, that 
 sort of driftwood that was being carried back to 
 be made over. Presently we began to see great 
 
152 A MINSTREL IN FRANCE 
 
 motor ambulances coming along, each with a Red 
 Cross painted glaringly on its side — though that 
 paint was wasted or worse, for there is no target 
 the Hun loves better, it would seem, than the great 
 red cross of mercy. And in them, as we knew, 
 there was the most pitiful wreckage of all — the 
 human wreckage of the war. 
 
 In the wee sma' hours of the morn they bear 
 the men back who have been hit the day before 
 and during the night. They go back to the field 
 dressing stations and the hospitals just behind the 
 front, to be sorted like the other wreckage. Some 
 there are who cannot be moved further, at first, 
 but must be cared for under fire, lest they die on 
 the way. But all whose wounds are such that they 
 can safely be moved go back in the ambulances, 
 first to the great base hospitals, and then, when 
 possible, on the hospital ships to England. 
 
 Sometimes, but not often, we passed troops 
 marching along the road. They swung along. 
 They marched easily, with the stride that could 
 carry them furthest with the least effort. They 
 did not look much like the troops I used to see in 
 London. They did not have the snap of the Cold- 
 stream Guards, marching through Green Park in 
 the old days. But they looked like business and 
 like war. They looked like men who had a job 
 of work to do and meant to see it through. 
 
 They had discipline, those laddies, but it was 
 not the old, stiff discipline of the old army. That 
 
A MINSTREL IN FRANCE 153 
 
 is a thing of a day that is dead and gone. Now, 
 as we passed along the side of the road that 
 marching troops always leave clear, there was 
 always a series of hails for me. 
 
 "Hello, Harry!" I would hear. 
 
 And I would look back, and see grinning Tom- 
 mies waving their hands to me. It was a flatter- 
 ing experience, I can tell you, to be recognized 
 like that along that road. It was like running into 
 old friends in a strange town where you have 
 come thinking you know no one at all. 
 
 We were about thirty miles out of Boulogne 
 when there was a sudden explosion underneath 
 the car, followed by a sibilant sound that I knew 
 only too well. 
 
 * ' Hello — a puncture ! ' ' said Godfrey, and smiled 
 as he turned around. We drew up to the side of 
 the road, and both chauffeurs jumped out and 
 went to work on the recalcitrant tire. The rest of 
 us sat still, and gazed around us at the fields. I 
 was glad to have a chance to look quietly about. 
 The fields stretched out, all emerald green, in all 
 directions to the distant horizon, sapphire blue 
 that glorious morning. And in the fields, here and 
 there, were the bent, stooped figures of old men 
 and women. They were carrying on, quietly. 
 Husbands and sons and brothers had gone to war ; 
 all the young men of France had gone. These 
 were left, and they were seeing to the perform- 
 ance of the endless cycle of duty. France would 
 
154* A MINSTREL IN FRANCE 
 
 survive ; the Hun could not crush her. Here was 
 a spirit made manifest — a spirit different in 
 degree but not in kind from the spirit of my ain 
 Britain. It brought a lump into my throat to see 
 them, the old men and the women, going so pa-' 
 tiently and quietly about their tasks. 
 
 It was very quiet. Faint sounds came to us; 
 there was a distant rumbling, like the muttering 
 of thunder on a summer's night, when the day 
 has been hot and there are low, black clouds lying 
 against the horizon, with the flashes of the light- 
 ning playing through them. But that I had come 
 already not to heed, though I knew full well, by 
 now, what it was and what it meant. For a little 
 space the busy road had become clear; there was 
 a long break in the traffic. 
 
 I turned to Adam and to Captain Godfrey. 
 
 "I'm thinking here's a fine chance for a bit of 
 a rehearsal in the open air," I said. "I'm not 
 used to singing so — mayhap it would be well to 
 try my voice and see will it carry as it should." 
 
 "Right oh!" said Godfrey. 
 
 And so we dug Johnson out from his snug bar- 
 ricade of cigarettes, that hid him as an emplace- 
 ment hides a gun, and we unstrapped my wee 
 piano, and set it up in the road. Johnson tried 
 the piano, and then we began. 
 
 I think I never sang with less restraint in all my 
 life than I did that quiet morning on the Boulogne 
 road. I raised my voice and let it have its will. 
 
A MINSTREL IN FRANCE 156 
 
 And I felt my spirits rising with the lilt of the 
 melody. My voice rang out, full and free, and 
 it must have carried far and wide across the 
 fields. 
 
 My audience was small at first — Captain God- 
 frey, Hogge, Adam, and the two chauffeurs, work- 
 ing away, and having more trouble with the tire 
 than they had thought at first they would — which 
 is the way of tires, as every man knows who owns 
 a car. But as they heard my songs the old men 
 and women in the fields straightened up to listen. 
 They stood wondering, at first, and then, slowly, 
 they gave over their work for a space, and came 
 to gather round me and to listen. 
 
 It must have seemed strange to them ! Indeed, 
 it must have seemed strange to anyone had they 
 seen and heard me ! There I was, with Johnson 
 at my piano, like some wayside tinker setting up 
 his cart and working at his trade ! But I did not 
 care for appearances — not a whit. For the mo- 
 ment I was care free, a wandering minstrel, like 
 some troubadour of old, care free and happy in 
 my song. I forgot the black shadow under which 
 we all lay in that smiling land, the black shadow 
 of war in which I sang. 
 
 It delighted me to see those old peasants and 
 to study their faces, and to try to win them with 
 my song. They could not understand a word I 
 sang, and yet I saw the smiles breaking out over 
 their wrinkled faces, and it made me proud and 
 
156 A MINSTREL IN FRANCE 
 
 happy. For it was plain that I was reaching 
 them — that I was able to throw a bridge over the 
 gap of a strange tongue and an alien race. When 
 I had done and it was plain I meant to sing no 
 more they clapped me. 
 
 ** There's a hand for yon, Harry," said Adam, 
 
 ''Aye — and I'm proud of it!" I told him for 
 reply. 
 
 I was almost sorry when I saw that the two 
 chauffeurs had finished their repairs and were 
 ready to go on. But I told them to lash the piano 
 back in its place, and Johnson prepared to climb 
 gingerly back among his cigarettes. But just then 
 something happened that I had not expected. 
 
 There was a turn in the road just beyond us 
 that hid its continuation from us. And around the 
 bend now there came a company of soldiers. Not 
 neat and well-appointed soldiers these. Ah, no! 
 They were fresh from the trenches, on their way 
 back to rest. The mud and grime of the trenches 
 were upon them. They were tired and weary, and 
 they carried all their accoutrements and packs 
 with them. Their boots were heavy with mud. 
 And they looked bad, and many of them shaky. 
 Most of these men, Godfrey told me after a glance 
 at them, had been ordered back to hospital for 
 minor ailments. They were able to march, but not 
 much more. 
 
 They were the first men I had seen in such a 
 case. They looked bad enough, but Godfrey said 
 
A MINSTREL IN FRANCE 157 
 
 they were happy enough. Some of them would 
 get leave for Blighty, and be home, in a few days, 
 to see their families and their girls. And they 
 eame swinging along in fine style, sick and tired 
 as they were, for the thought of where they were 
 going cheered them and helped to keep them 
 going. 
 
 A British soldier, equipped for the trenches, on 
 his way in or out, has quite a load to carry. He 
 has his pack, and his emergency ration, and his 
 entrenching tools, and extra clothing that he needs 
 in bad weather in the trenches, to say nothing of 
 his ever-present rifle. And the sight of them 
 made me realize for the first time the truth that 
 lay behind the jest in a story that is one of 
 Tommy's favorites. 
 
 A child saw a soldier in heavy marching order. 
 She gazed at him in wide-eyed wonder. He was 
 not her idea of what a soldier should look like. 
 
 ''Mother," she asked, '' what is a soldier for?" 
 
 The mother gazed at the man. And then she 
 smiled. 
 
 ''A soldier," she answered, ''is to hang things 
 on." 
 
 They eyed me very curiously as they came 
 along, those sick laddies. They couldn't seem to 
 understand what I was doing there, but their dis- 
 cipline held them. They were in charge of a 
 young lieutenant with one star — a second lieu- 
 tenant. I learned later that he was a long way 
 
158 A MINSTREL IN FRANCE 
 
 from being a well man himself. So I stopped him. 
 
 ''Would your men like to hear a few songs, 
 lieutenant?" I asked him. 
 
 He hesitated. He didn't quite understand, and 
 he wasn't a bit sure what his duty was in the cir- 
 cumstances. He glanced at Godfrey, and Godfrey 
 smiled at him as if in encouragement. 
 
 **It's very good of you, I'm sure," he said, 
 slowly. "Fallout!" 
 
 So the men fell out, and squatted there, along 
 the wayside. At once discipline was relaxed. 
 Their faces were a study as the wee piano was 
 set up again, and Johnson, in uniform, of course 
 sat down and trued a chord or two. And then 
 suddenly something happened that broke the ice. 
 Just as I stood up to sing a loud voice broke the 
 silence. 
 
 *'Lor' love us!" one of the men cried, *'if it 
 ain't old 'Arry Lauder!" 
 
 There was a stir of interest at once. I spotted 
 the owner of the voice. It was a shriveled up lit- 
 tle chap, with a weazened face that looked like a 
 sun-dried apple. He was showing all his teeth in 
 a grin at me, and he was a typical little cockney 
 of the sort all Londoners know well. 
 
 *'Go it, 'Arry!" he shouted, shrilly. **Many*s 
 the time h' I've 'eard you at the old Shoreditch!" 
 
 So I went it as well as I could, and I never did 
 have a more appreciative audience. My little 
 cockney friend seemed to take a particular per- 
 
A MINSTREL IN FRANCE 159 
 
 sonal pride in me. I think he thought he had 
 found me, and that he was, in an odd way, respon- 
 sible for my success with his mates. And so he 
 was especially glad when they cheered me and 
 thanked me as they did. 
 
 My concert didn't last long, for we had to be 
 getting on, and the company of sick men had just 
 so much time, too, to reach their destination — 
 Boulogne, whence we had set out. When it was 
 over I said good-by to the men, and shook hands 
 with particular warmth with the little cockney. 
 It wasn't every day I was likely to meet a man 
 who had often heard me at the old Shoreditch! 
 After we had stowed Johnson and the piano away 
 again, with a few less cigarettes, now, to get in 
 Johnson's way, we started, and as long as we 
 were in sight the little cockney and I were wav- 
 ing to one another. 
 
 I took some of the cigarettes into the car I was 
 in now. And as we sped along we were again in 
 the thick of the great British war machine. Motor 
 trucks and ambulances were more frequent than 
 ever, and it was a common occurrence now to pass 
 soldiers, marching in both directions — to the 
 front and away from it. There was always some- 
 one to recognize me and start a volley of *^ Hello, 
 Harrys" coming my way, and I answered every 
 greeting, you may be sure, and threw cigarettes 
 to go with my ''Helios." 
 
 Aye, I was glad I had brought the cigarettes ! 
 
160 A MINSTREL IN FRANCE 
 
 They seemed to be even more welcome than I had 
 hoped they would be, and I only wondered how 
 long the supply would hold out, and if I would be 
 able to get more if it did not. So Johnson, little 
 by little, was getting more room, as I called for 
 more and more of the cigarettes that walled him 
 in in his tonneau. 
 
 About noon, as we drove through a little town, 
 I saw, for the first time, a whole flock of airplanes 
 riding the sky. They were swooping about like 
 lazy hawks, and a bonnie sight they were. I drew 
 a long breath when I saw them, and turned to my 
 friend Adam. 
 
 ''Well," I said, *'I think we're coming to it, 
 now!" 
 
 I meant the front — the real, British front. 
 Suddenly, at a sharp order from Captain God- 
 frey, our cars stopped. He turned around to us, 
 and grinned, very cheerfully. 
 
 "Gentlemen," he said, very calmly, "we'll stop 
 here long enough to put on our steel helmets. ' ' 
 
 He said it just as he might have said: "Well, 
 here's where we will stop for tea." 
 
 It meant no more than that to him. But for me 
 it meant many things. It meant that at last I was 
 really to be under fire; that I was going into 
 danger. I was not really frightened yet ; you have 
 to see danger, and know just what it is, and appre- 
 ciate exactly its character, before you can be 
 frightened. But I had imagination enough to 
 
A MINSTREL IN FRANCE 161' 
 
 know what that order meant, and to have a queer 
 feeling as I donned the steel helmet. It was less 
 uncomfortable than I had expected it to be — 
 lighter, and easier to wear. The British trench 
 helmets are beautifully made, now; as in every 
 other phase of the war and its work they repre- 
 sent a constant study for improvement, lightening. 
 
 But, even had it not been for the warning that 
 was implied in Captain Godfrey's order, I should 
 soon have understood that we had come into a new 
 region. For a long time now the noise of the guns 
 had been different. Instead of being like distant 
 thunder it was a much nearer and louder sound. 
 It was a steady, throbbing roar now. 
 
 And, at intervals, there came a different sound; 
 a sound more individual, that stood out from the 
 steady roar. It was as if the air were being 
 cracked apart by the blow of some giant hammer. 
 I knew what it was. Aye, I knew. You need no 
 man to tell you what it is — the explosion of a 
 great shell not so far from you ! 
 
 Nor was it our ears alone that told us what was 
 going on. Ever and anon, now, ahead of us, as 
 we looked at the fields, we saw a cloud of dirt rise 
 up. That was where a shell struck. And in the 
 fields about us, now, we could see holes, full of 
 water, as a rule, and mounds of dirt that did not 
 look as if shovels and picks had raised them. 
 
 It surprised me to see that the peasants were 
 still at work, I spoke to Godfrey about that. 
 
162 A MINSTREL IN FRANCE 
 
 ''The Frencli peasants don't seem to know what 
 it is to be afraid of shell-fire," he said. "They 
 go only when we make them. It is the same on 
 the French front. They will cling to a farm- 
 house in the zone of fire until they are ordered 
 out, no matter how heavily it may be shelled. 
 They are splendid folk ! The Germans can never 
 beat a race that has such folk as that behind its 
 battle line." 
 
 I could well believe him. I have seen no sight 
 along the whole front more quietly impressive 
 than the calm, impassive courage of those French 
 peasants. They know they are right! It is no 
 Kaiser, no war lord, who gives them courage. It 
 is the knowledge and the consciousness that they 
 are suffering in a holy cause, and that, in the end, 
 the right and the truth must prevail. Their own 
 fate, whatever may befall them, does not matter. 
 France must go on and shall, and they do their 
 humble part to see that she does and shall. 
 
 Solemn thoughts moved me as we drove on. 
 Here there had been real war and fighting. Now 
 I saw a country blasted by shell-fire and wrecked 
 by the contention of great armies. And I knew 
 that I was coming to soil watered by British 
 blood; to rows of British graves; to soil that shall 
 be forever sacred to the memory of the Britons, 
 from Britain and from over the seas, who died 
 and fought upon it to redeem it from the Hun. 
 
 I had no mind to talk, to ask questions. For 
 
A MINSTREL IN FRANCE 163 
 
 the time I was content to be with my own thoughts, 
 that were evoked by the historic ground through 
 which we passed. My heart was heavy with grief 
 and with the memories of my boy that came flood- 
 ing it, but it was lightened, too, by other thoughts. 
 And always, as we sped on, there was the 
 thunder of the guns. Always there were the 
 bursting shells, and the old bent peasants paying 
 no heed to them. Always there were the circling 
 airplanes, far above us, like hawks against the 
 deep blue of the sky. And always we came nearer 
 and nearer to Vimy Ridge — that deathless name 
 in the history of Britain. 
 
CHAPTER XV 
 
 NOW Captain Godfrey leaned back and 
 smiled at us. 
 "There's Vimy Ridge,*' he said. And 
 he pointed. 
 
 "Yon?" I asked, in astonishment. 
 
 I was almost disappointed. We had heard so 
 much, in Britain and in Scotland, of Vimy Ridge. 
 The name of that famous hill had been written im- 
 perishably in history. But to look at it first, to 
 see it as I saw it, it was no hill at all ! My eyes 
 were used to the mountains of my ain Scotland, 
 and this great ridge was but a tiny thing beside 
 them. But then I began to picture the scene as it 
 had been the day the Canadians stormed it and 
 won for themselves the glory of all the ages. I 
 pictured it blotted from sight by the hell of shells 
 bursting over it, and raking its slopes as the Cana- 
 dians charged upward. I pictured it crowned by 
 defenses and lined by such of the Huns as had sur- 
 vived the artillery battering, spitting death and 
 destruction from their machine guns. And then I 
 saw it as I should, and I breathed deep at the 
 thought of the men who had faced death and hell 
 to win that height and plant the flag of Britain 
 upon it. Aye, and the Stars and Stripes of 
 America, too ! 
 
 164 
 
A MINSTREL IN FRANCE 165 
 
 Ye ken that tale! There was an American who 
 had enlisted, like so many of his fellow countrymen 
 before America was in the war, in the Canadian 
 forces. The British army was full of men who 
 had told a white lie to don the King's uniform. 
 Men there are in the British army who winked as 
 they enlisted and were told: ''You'll be a Cana- 
 dian?" 
 
 "Aye, aye, I'm a Canadian," they'd say. 
 
 * ' From what province ? " 
 
 "The province of Kentucky — or New York — 
 or California!" 
 
 Well, there was a lad, one of them, was in the 
 first wave at Vimy Ridge that April day in 1917. 
 'Twas but a few days before that a wave of the 
 wildest cheering ever heard had run along the 
 whole Western front, so that Fritz in his trenches 
 wondered what was up the noo. Well, he has 
 learned, since then! He has learned, despite his 
 Kaiser and his officers, and his lying newspapers, 
 that that cheer went up when the news came that 
 America had declared war upon Germany. And 
 so, it was a few days after that cheer was heard 
 that the Canadians leaped over the top and went 
 for Vimy Ridge, and this young fellow from 
 America had a wee silken flag. He spoke to his 
 officer. 
 
 "Now that my own country's in the war, sir," 
 he said, "I'd like to carry her flag with me when 
 we go over the top. Wrapped around me, sir " 
 
166 A MINSTREL IN FRANCE 
 
 ''Go it!" said the officer. 
 
 And so he did. And he was one of those who 
 won through and reached the top. There he was 
 wounded, but he had carried the Stars and Stripes 
 with him to the crest. 
 
 Vimy Ridge ! I could see it. And above it, and 
 beyond it, now, for the front had been carried on, 
 far beyond, within what used to be the lines of the 
 Hun, the airplanes circled. Very quiet and lazy 
 they seemed, for all I knew of their endless activ- 
 ity and the precious work that they were doing. 
 I could see how the Huns were shelling them. 
 You would see an airplane hovering, and then, 
 close by, suddenly, a ball of cottony white smoke. 
 Shrapnel that was, bursting, as Fritz tried to get 
 the range with an anti-aircraft gun — an Archie, 
 as the Tommies call them. But the plane would 
 pay no heed, except, maybe, to dip a bit or climb 
 a little higher to make it harder for the Hun. It 
 made me think of a man shrugging his shoulders, 
 calmly and imperturbably, in the face of some 
 great peril, and I wanted to cheer. I had some 
 wild idea that maybe he would hear me, and know 
 that someone saw him, and appreciated what he 
 was doing — someone to whom it was not an old 
 story ! But then I smiled at my own thought. 
 
 Now it was time for us to leave the cars and 
 get some exercise. Our steel helmets were on, 
 and glad we were of them, for shrapnel was 
 bursting nearby sometimes, although most of the 
 
A MINSTREL IN FRANCE 167 
 
 shells were big fellows, that buried themselves in 
 the ground and then exploded. Fritz wasn't 
 doing much casual shelling the noo, though. He 
 was saving his fire until his observers gave him a 
 real target to aim at. But that was no so often, 
 for our airplanes were in command of the air then, 
 and his flyers got precious little chance to guide 
 his shooting. Most of his hits were due to 
 luck. 
 
 "Spread out a bit as you go along here," said 
 Captain Godfrey. " If a crump lands close by 
 there 's no need of all of us going ! If we 're spread 
 out a bit, you see, a shell might get one and leave 
 the rest of us." 
 
 It sounded cold blooded, but it was not. To men 
 who have lived at the front everything comes to 
 be taken as a matter of course. Men can get used 
 to anything — this war has proved that again, if 
 there was need of proving it. And I came to 
 understand that, and to listen to things I heard 
 with different ears. But those are things no one 
 can tell you of; you must have been at the front 
 yourself to understand all that goes on there, both 
 in action and in the minds of men. 
 
 We obeyed Captain Godfrey readily enough, as 
 you can guess. And so I was alone as I walked 
 toward Vimy Ridge. It looked just like a lumpy 
 excrescence on the landscape; at hame we would 
 not even think of it as a foothill. But as I neared 
 it, and as I rememered all it stood for, I thought 
 
168 A MINSTREL IN FRANCE 
 
 that in the atlas of history it would loom higher 
 than the highest peak of the great Himalaya 
 range. 
 
 Beyond the ridge, beyond the actual line of the 
 trenches, miles away, indeed, were the German 
 batteries from which the shells we heard and saw 
 as they burst were coming. I was glad of my hel- 
 met, and of the cool assurance of Captain God- 
 frey. I felt that we were as safe, in his hands, as 
 men could be in such a spot. 
 
 It was not more than a mile we had to cover, 
 but it was rough going, bad going. Here war had 
 had its grim way without interruption. The face 
 of the earth had been cut to pieces. Its surface 
 had been smashed to a pulpy mass. The ground 
 had been plowed, over and over, by a rain of 
 shells — German and British. What a planting 
 there had been that spring, and what a plowing! 
 A harvest of death it had been that had been sown 
 — and the reaper had not waited for summer to 
 come, and the Harvest moon. He had passed that 
 way with his scythe, and where we passed now he 
 had taken his terrible, his horrid, toll. 
 
 At the foot of the ridge I saw men fighting for 
 the first time — actually fighting, seeking to hurt 
 an enemy. It was a Canadian battery we saw, and 
 it was firing, steadily and methodically, at the 
 Huns. Up to now I had seen only the vast indus- 
 trial side of war, its business and its labor. Now 
 I was, for the first time, in touch with actual fight- 
 
A MINSTREL IN FRANCE 169 
 
 ing. I saw the guns belching death and destruc- 
 tion, destined for men miles away. It was high 
 angle fire, of course, directed by observers in the 
 air. 
 
 But even that seemed part of the sheer, factory- 
 like industry of war. There was no passion, no 
 coming to grips in hot blood, here. Orders were 
 given by the battery commander and the other 
 officers as the foreman in a machine shop might 
 give them. And the busy artillerymen worked like 
 laborers, too, clearing their guns after a salvo, 
 loading them, bringing up fresh supplies of am- 
 munition. It was all methodical, all a matter of 
 routine. 
 
 ' ' Good artillery work is like that, ' ' said Captain 
 Godfrey, when I spoke to him about it. ''It's a 
 science. It's all a matter of the higher mathe- 
 matics. Everything is worked out to half a dozen 
 places of decimals. We've eliminated chance and 
 guesswork just as far as possible from modern 
 artillery actions." 
 
 But there was something about it all that wac 
 disappointing, at first sight. It let you down a bit. 
 Only the guns themselves kept up the tradition. 
 Only they were acting as they should, and show- 
 ing a proper passion and excitement. I could hear 
 them growling ominously, like dogs locked in their 
 kennel when they would be loose and about, and 
 hunting. And then they would spit, angrily. They 
 inflamed my imagination, did those guns; they 
 
170 A MINSTREL IN FRANCE 
 
 satisfied me and my old-fashioned conception of 
 war and fighting, more than anything else that I 
 had seen had done. And it seemed to me that 
 after they had spit out their deadly charge they 
 wiped their muzzles with red tongues of flame, 
 satisfied beyond all words or measure with what 
 they had done. 
 
 We were rising now, as we walked, and getting 
 a better view of the country that lay beyond. 
 And so I came to understand a little better the 
 value of a height even so low and insignificant as 
 Vimy Ridge in that flat country. While the Ger- 
 mans held it they could overlook all our positions, 
 and all the advantage of natural placing had been 
 to them. Now, thanks to the Canadians, it was 
 our turn, and we were looking down. 
 
 Weel, I was under fire. There was no doubt 
 about it. There was a droning over us now, like 
 the noise bees make, or many flies in a small room 
 on a hot summer's day. That was the drone of 
 the German shells. There was a little freshening 
 of the artillery activity on both sides, Captain 
 Godfrey said, as if in my honor. When one side 
 increased its fire the other always answered — 
 played copy cat. There was no telling, ye ken, 
 when such an increase of fire might not be the 
 first sign of an attack. And neither side took 
 more chances than it must. 
 
 I had known, before I left Britain, that I would 
 come under fire. And I had wondered what it 
 
A MINSTREL IN FRANCE 171 
 
 would be like. I had expected to be afraid, nerv- 
 ous. Brave men had told me, one after another, 
 that every man is afraid when he first comes under 
 fire. And so I had wondered how I would be, and 
 I had expected to be badly scared and extremely 
 nervous. Now I could hear that constant dron- 
 ing of shells, and, in the distance, I could see, very 
 often, powdery squirts of smoke and dirt along 
 the ground, where our shells were striking, so 
 that I knew I had the Hun lines in sight. 
 
 And I can truthfully say that, that day, at least, 
 I felt no great fear or nervousness. Later I did, 
 as I shall tell you, but that day one overpowering 
 emotion mastered every other. It was a desire for 
 vengeance! Yon were the Huns — the men who 
 had killed my boy. They were almost within my 
 reach. And as I looked at them there in their 
 lines a savage desire possessed me, almost over- 
 whelmed me, indeed, that made me want to rush 
 to those guns and turn them to my own mad pur- 
 pose of vengeance. 
 
 It was all I could do, I tell you, to restrain 
 myself — to check that wild, almost ungovernable 
 impulse to rush to the guns and grapple with 
 them myself — myself fire them at the men who 
 had killed my boy. I wanted to fight ! I wanted 
 to fight with my two hands — to tear and rend, and 
 have the consciousness that I flash back, like a 
 telegraph message from my satiated hands to my 
 eager brain that was spurring me on. 
 
172 A MINSTREL IN FRANCE 
 
 But that was not to be. I knew it, and I grew 
 calmer, presently. The roughness of the going 
 helped me to do that, for it took all a man's wits 
 and faculties to grope his way along the path we 
 were following now. Indeed, it was no path at 
 all that led us to the Pimple — the topmost point 
 of Vimy Ridge, which changed hands half a dozen 
 times in the few minutes of bloody fighting that 
 had gone on here during the great attack. 
 
 The ground was absolutely riddled with shell 
 holes here. There must have been a mine of metal 
 underneath us. What path there was zigzagged 
 around. It had been worn to such smoothness as 
 it possessed since the battle, and it evaded the 
 worst craters by going around them. My mad- 
 ness was passed now, and a great sadness had 
 taken its place. For here, where I was walking, 
 men had stumbled up with bullets and shells rain- 
 ing about them. At every step I trod ground that 
 must have been the last resting-place of some 
 Canadian soldier, who had died that I might climb 
 this ridge in a safety so immeasurably greater 
 than his had been. 
 
 If it was hard for us to make this climb, if we 
 stumbled as we walked, what had it been for them? 
 Our breath came hard and fast — how had it been 
 with them? Yet they had done it! They had 
 stormed the ridge the Huns had proudly called 
 impregnable. They had taken, in a swift rush, 
 that nothing could stay, a position the Kaiser '^ 
 
A MINSTREL IN FRANCE 173 
 
 generals had assured him would never be 
 lost — could never be reached by mortal 
 troops. 
 
 The Pimple, for which we were heading now, 
 was an observation post at that time. There there 
 was a detachment of soldiers, for it was an impor- 
 tant post, covering much of the Hun territory 
 beyond. A major of infantry was in command; 
 his headquarters were a large hole in the ground, 
 dug for him by a German shell — fired by German 
 gunners who had no thought further from their 
 minds than to do a favor for a British officer. 
 And he was sitting calmly in front of his head- 
 quarters, smoking a pipe, when we reached the 
 crest and came to the Pimple. 
 
 He was a very calm man, that major, given, I 
 should say, to the greatest repression. I think 
 nothing would have moved him from that phleg- 
 matic calm of his ! He watched us coming, climb- 
 ing and making hard going of it. If he was 
 amused he gave no sign, as he puffed at his pipe. 
 I, for one, was puffing, too — I was panting like a 
 grampus. I had thought myself in good condition, 
 but I found out at Vimy Ridge that I was soft 
 and flabby. 
 
 Not a sign did that major give until we reached 
 him. And then, as we stood looking at him, and 
 beyond him at the panorama of the trenches, he 
 took his pipe from his mouth. 
 
 ** Welcome to Vimy Ridge !" he said, in the man- 
 
114f A MINSTREL IN FRANCE 
 
 ner of a host greeting a party bidden for the week- 
 end. 
 
 I was determined that that major should not 
 outdo me. I had precious little wind left to 
 breathe with, much less to talk, but I called for 
 the last of it. 
 
 ** Thank you, major," I said. *'May I join you 
 in a smoke?'* 
 
 *'0f course you can!" he said, unsmiling. 
 "That is, if you've brought your pipe with you." 
 
 "Aye, I've my pipe," I told him. "I may for- 
 get to pay my debt, but I'll never forget my pipe." 
 
 And no more I will. 
 
 So I sat down beside him, and drew out my pipe, 
 and made a long business of filling it, and pushing 
 the tobacco down just so, since that gave me a 
 chance to get my wind. And when I was ready to 
 light up I felt better, and I was breathing right, 
 so that I could talk as I pleased without fighting 
 for breath. 
 
 My friend the major proved an entertaining 
 jhap, and a talkative one, too, for all his seeming 
 brusqueness. He pointed out the spots that had 
 been made famous in the battle, and explained to 
 me what it was the Canadians had done. And I 
 saw and understood better than ever before what 
 a great feat that had been, and how heavily it had 
 counted. He lent me his binoculars, too, and with 
 them I swept the whole valley toward Lens, where 
 the great French coal mines are, and where the 
 
A MINSTREL IN FRANCE 175 
 
 Germans have been under steady fire so long, and 
 have been hanging on by their eyelashes. 
 
 It was not the place I should choose, ordinarily, 
 to do a bit of sight-seeing. The German shells 
 were still humming through the air above us, 
 though not quite so often as they had. But there 
 were enough of them, and they seemed to me close 
 enough for me to feel the wind they raised as they 
 passed. I thought for sure one of them would 
 come along, presently, and clip my ears right off. 
 And sometimes I felt myself ducking my head — 
 as if that would do me any good ! But I did not 
 think about it ; I would feel myself doing it, with- 
 out having intended to do anything of the sort. 
 I was a bit nervous, I suppose, but no one could 
 be really scared or alarmed in the unplumbable 
 depths of calm in which that British major was 
 plunged ! 
 
 It was a grand view I had of the valley, but it 
 was not the sort of thing I had expected to see. I 
 knew there were thousands of men there, and I 
 think I had expected to see men really fighting. 
 But there was nothing of the sort. Not a man 
 could I see in all the valley. They were under 
 cover, of course. When I stopped to think about 
 it, that was what I should have expected, of 
 course. If I could have seen our laddies there 
 below, why, the Huns could have seen them too. 
 And that would never have done. 
 
 I could hear our guns, too, now, very well. 
 
176 A MINSTREL IN FRANCE 
 
 They were giving voice all around me, but never 
 a gun could I see, for all my peering and search- 
 ing around. Even the battery we had passed be- 
 low was out of sight now. And it was a weird 
 thing, and an uncanny thing to think of all that 
 riot of sound around, and not a sight to be had 
 of the batteries that were making it ! 
 
 Hogge came up while I was talking to the major. 
 
 *' Hello!" he said. "What have you done to 
 your knee, Lauder?" 
 
 I looked down and saw a trickle of blood run- 
 ning down, below my knee. It was bare, of course, 
 because I wore my kilt. 
 
 *'0h, that's nothing," I said. 
 
 I knew at once what it was. I remembered that, 
 as I stumbled up the hill, I had tripped over a bit 
 of barbed wire and scratched my leg. And so I 
 explained. 
 
 ''And I fell into a shell-hole, too," I said. ''A 
 wee one, as they go around here. ' ' But I laughed. 
 ** Still, I'll be able to say I was wounded on Vimy 
 Ridge." 
 
 I glanced at the major as I said that, and was 
 half sorry I had made the poor jest. And I saw 
 him smile, in one corner of his mouth, as I said I 
 had been ''wounded." It was the corner furthest 
 from me, but I saw it. And it was a dry smile, a 
 withered smile. I could guess his thought. 
 
 "Wounded!" he must have said to himself, 
 scornfully. And he must have remembered the 
 
A MINSTREL IN FRANCE 177 
 
 real wounds the Canadians had received on that 
 hillside. Aye, I could guess his thought. And I 
 shared it, although I did not tell him so. But I 
 think he understood. 
 
 He was still sitting there, puffing away at his 
 old pipe, as quiet and calm and imperturbable as 
 ever, when Captain Godfrey gathered us together 
 to go on. He gazed out over the valley. 
 
 He was a man to be remembered for a long 
 time, that major. I can see him now, in my mind's 
 eye, sitting there, brooding, staring out toward 
 Lens and the German lines. And I think that if 
 I were choosing a figure for some great sculptor 
 to immortalize, to typify and represent the superb, 
 the majestic imperturbability of the British Em- 
 pire in time of stress and storm, his would be the 
 one. I could think of no finer figure than his for 
 such a statue. You would see him, if the sculptor 
 followed my thought, sitting in front of his shell- 
 hole on Vimy Ridge, calm, dispassionate, devoted 
 to his duty and the day's work, quietly giving the 
 directions that guided the British guns in their 
 work of blasting the Hun out of the refuge he had 
 chosen when the Canadians had driven him from 
 the spot where the major sat. 
 
 It was easier going down Vimy Ridge than it 
 had been coming up, but it was hard going still. 
 We had to skirt great, gaping holes torn by mon- 
 strous shells — shells that had torn the very guts 
 out of the little hill. 
 
178 A MINSTREL IN FRANCE 
 
 ''We're going to visit another battery," said 
 Captain Godfrey. ''I'll tell you I think it's the 
 best hidden battery on the whole British front! 
 And that's saying a good deal, for we've learned 
 a thing or two about hiding our whereabouts from 
 Fritz. He's a curious one, Fritz is, but we try not 
 to gratify his curiosity any more than we must." 
 
 "I'll be glad to see more of the guns," I said. 
 
 "Well, here you'll see more than guns. The 
 major in command at this battery we're heading 
 for has a decoration that was given to him just 
 for the way he hid his guns. There 's much more 
 than fighting that a man has to do in this war if 
 he's to make good." 
 
 As we went along I kept my eyes open, trying 
 to get a peep at the guns before Godfrey should 
 point them out to me. I could hear firing going 
 on all around me, but there was so much noise 
 that my ears were not a guide. I was not a trained 
 observer, of course ; I would not know a gun posi- 
 tion at sight, as some soldier trained to the work 
 would be sure to do. And yet I thought I could 
 tell when I was coming to a great battery. I 
 thought so, I say! 
 
 Again, though I had that feeling of something 
 weird and uncanny. For now, as we walked along, 
 I did hear the guns, and I was sure, from the 
 nature of the sound, that we were coming close to 
 them. But, as I looked straight toward the spot 
 where my ears told me that they must be, I could 
 
A MINSTREL IN FRANCE 179 
 
 see nothing at all. I thought that per-haps God- 
 frey had lost his way, and that we were wander- 
 ing along the wrong path. It did not seem likely, 
 but it was possible. 
 
 And then, suddenly, when I was least expecting 
 it, we stopped. 
 
 "Well — here we are!" said the captain, and 
 grinned at our amazement. 
 
 And there we were indeed! We were right 
 among the guns of a Canadian battery, and the 
 artillerymen were shouting their welcome, for 
 they had heard that I was coming, and recognized 
 me as soon as they saw me. But — ^how had we 
 got here? I looked around me, in utter amaze- 
 ment. Even now that I had come to the battery 
 I could not understand how it was that I had been 
 deceived — ^how that battery had been so marvel- 
 ously concealed that, if one did not know of its 
 existence and of its exact location, one might liter- 
 ally stumble over it in broad daylight ! 
 
CHAPTER XVI 
 
 IT had turned very hot, now, at the full of the 
 day. Indeed, it was grilling weather, and 
 there in the battery, in a hollow, close down 
 beside a little run or stream, it was even hotter 
 than on the shell-swept bare top of the ridge. So 
 the Canadian gunners had stripped down for 
 comfort. Not a man had more than his under- 
 shirt on above his trousers, and many of them 
 were naked to the waist, with their hide tanned to 
 the color of old saddles. 
 
 These laddies reminded me of those in the first 
 battery I had seen. They were just as calm, and 
 just as dispassionate as they worked in their mill 
 — it might well have been a mill in which I saw 
 them working. Only they were no grinding corn, 
 but death — death for the Huns, who had brought 
 death to so many of their mates. But there was 
 no excitement, there were no cries of hatred and 
 anger. 
 
 They were hard at work. Their work, it seemed, 
 never came to an end or even to a pause. The 
 orders rang out, in a sort of sing-song voice. 
 After each shot a man who sat with a telephone 
 strapped about his head called out corrections of 
 the range, in figures that were just a meaningless 
 
 180 
 

 s 
 
 u 
 H 
 
 Eh 
 
 O 
 fa 
 
 < 
 
 o 
 O 
 
 Q 
 BS 
 
 a 
 
 <! 
 1-1 
 
 ;? 
 w 
 
 o 
 
 •-5 
 H 
 
 < 
 
A MINSTREL IN FRANCE 181 
 
 jumble to me, although they made sense to the 
 men who listened and changed the pointing of the 
 guns at each order. 
 
 Their faces, that, like their bare backs and 
 chests, looked like tanned leather, were all grimy 
 from their work among the smoke and the gases. 
 And through the grime the sweat had run down 
 like little rivers making courses for themselves in 
 the soft dirt of a hillside. They looked grotesque 
 enough, but there was nothing about them to make 
 me feel like laughing, I can tell you! And they 
 all grinned amiably when the amazed and discon- 
 certed Reverend Harry Lauder, M.P., Tour came 
 tumbling in among them. We all felt right at 
 hame at once — and I the more so when a chap I 
 had met and come to know well in Toronto during 
 one of my American tours came over and gripped 
 my hand. 
 
 *'Aye, but it's good to see your face, Harry!" 
 he said, as he made me welcome. 
 
 This battery had done great work ever since it 
 had come out. No battery in the whole army had 
 a finer record, I was told. And no one needed to 
 tell me the tale of its losses. Not far away there 
 was a little cemetery, filled with doleful little 
 crosses, set up over mounds that told their grim 
 story all too plainly and too eloquently. 
 
 The battery had gone through the Battle of 
 Vimy Ridge and made a great name for itself. 
 And now it was set down upon a spot that had 
 
182 A MINSTREL IN FRANCE 
 
 seen some of the very bloodiest of the fighting on 
 that day. I saw here, for the first time, some of 
 the most horrible things that the war holds. 
 There was a little stream, as I said, that ran 
 through the hollow in which the battery was 
 placed, and that stream had been filled with blood, 
 not water, on the day of the battle. 
 
 Everywhere, here, were whitened bones of men. 
 In the wild swirling of the battle, and the confu- 
 sion of digging in and meeting German counter 
 attacks that had followed it, it had not been pos- 
 sible to bury all the dead. And so the whitened 
 bones remained, though the elements had long 
 since stripped them bare. The elements — and the 
 hungry rats. These are not pretty things to tell, 
 but they are true, and the world should know what 
 war is to-day. 
 
 I almost trod upon one skeleton that remained 
 complete. It was that of a huge German soldier 
 — a veritable giant of a man, he must have been. 
 The bones of his feet were still encased in his 
 great boots, their soles heavily studded with nails. 
 Even a few shreds of his uniform remained. But 
 the flesh was all gone. The sun and the rats and 
 the birds had accounted for the last morsel of it. 
 
 Hundreds of years from now, I suppose, the 
 bones that were strewn along that ground will 
 still be being turned up by plows. The genera- 
 tions to come who live there will never lack relics 
 of the battle, and of the fighting that preceded and 
 
A MINSTREL IN FRANCE 183' 
 
 followed it. They will find bones, and shell cases, 
 and bits of metal of all sorts. Rusty bayonets will 
 be turned up by their plowshares; strange coins, 
 as puzzling as some of those of Roman times that 
 we in Britain have found, will puzzle them. Who 
 can tell how long it will be before the soil about 
 Vimy Ridge will cease to give up its relics? 
 
 That ground had been searched carefully for 
 everything that might conceivably be put to use 
 again, or be made fit for further service. The 
 British army searches every battlefield so in these 
 days. And yet, when I was there, many weeka 
 after the storm of fighting had passed on, and 
 when the scavengers had done their work, the 
 ground was still rather thickly strewTi with odds 
 and ends that interested me vastly. I might have 
 picked up much more than I did. But I could not 
 carry so very much, and, too, so many of the 
 things brought grisly thoughts to my mind ! God 
 knows I needed no reminders of the war ! I had 
 a reminder in my heart, that never left me. Still, 
 I took some few things, more for the sake of the 
 hame folks, who might not see, and would, surely, 
 be interested. I gathered some bayonets for my 
 collection — somehow they seemed the things I was 
 most willing to take along. One was British, one 
 German — two were French. 
 
 But the best souvenir of all I got at Vimy Ridge 
 I did not pick up. It was given to me by my 
 friend, the grave major — him of whom I would 
 
184. A MINSTREL IN FRANCE 
 
 like some famous sculptor to make a statue as he 
 sat at his work of ohservation. That was a club 
 — a wicked looking instrument. This club had a 
 great thick head, huge in proportion to its length 
 and size, and this head was studded with great, 
 sharp nails. A single blow from it would finish 
 the strongest man that ever lived. It was a fit 
 weapon for a murderer — and a murderer had 
 wielded it. The major had taken it from a Hun, 
 who had meant to use it — had, doubtless, used it ! 
 — to beat out the brains of wounded men, lying on 
 the ground. Many of those clubs were taken from 
 the Germans, all along the front, both by the Brit- 
 ish and the French, and the Germans had never 
 made any secret of the purpose for which they 
 were intended. Well, they picked poor men to try 
 such tactics on when they went against the Cana- 
 dians ! 
 
 The Canadians started no such work, but they 
 were quick to adopt a policy of give and take. It 
 was the Canadians who began the trench raids for 
 which the Germans have such a fierce distaste, and 
 after they had learned something of how Fritz 
 fought the Canadians took to paying him back in 
 some of his own coin. Not that they matched the 
 deeds of the Huns — only a Hun could do that. But 
 the Canadians were not eager to take prisoners. 
 They would bomb a dugout rather than take its 
 occupants back. And a dugout that has been 
 bombed yields few living men! 
 
A MINSTREL IN FRANCE 185 
 
 Who shall blame them! Not I — nor any other 
 man who knows what lessons in brutality and 
 treachery the Canadians have had from the Hun. 
 It was the Canadians, near Ypres, who went 
 through the first gas attack — that fearful day 
 when the Germans were closer to breaking through 
 than they ever were before or since. I shall not 
 set down here all the tales I heard of the atroci- 
 ties of the Huns. Others have done that. Men 
 have written of that who have first-hand knowl- 
 edge, as mine cannot be. I know only what has 
 been told to me, and there is little need of hearsay 
 evidence. There is evidence enough that any court 
 would accept as hanging proof. But this much 
 it is right to say — that no troops along the West- 
 ern front have more to revenge than have the 
 Canadians. 
 
 It is not the loss of comrades, dearly loved 
 though they be, that breeds hatred among the sol- 
 diers. That is a part of war, and always was. 
 The loss of friends and comrades may fire the 
 blood. It may lead men to risk their own lives in 
 a desperate charge to get even. But it is a pain 
 that does not rankle and that does not fester like 
 a sore that will not heal. It is the tales the Cana- 
 dians have to tell of sheer, depraved torture and 
 brutality that has inflamed them to the pitch of 
 hatred that they cherish. It has seemed as if the 
 Germans had a particular grudge against the 
 Canadians. And that, indeed, is known to be the 
 
186 A MINSTREL IN FRANCE 
 
 case. The Germans harbored many a fond illu- 
 sion before the war. They thought that Britain 
 would not fight, first of all. 
 
 And then, when Britain did declare war, they 
 thought they could speedily destroy her ''con- 
 temptible little army.'' Ah, weel — they did come 
 near to destroying it ! But not until it had helped 
 to balk them of their desire — ^not until it had 
 played its great and decisive part in ruining the 
 plans the Hun had been making and perfecting 
 for forty-four long years. And not until it had 
 served as a dyke behind which floods of men in 
 the khaki of King George had had time to arm 
 and drill to rush out to oppose the gray-green 
 floods that had swept through helpless Belgium. 
 
 They had other illusions, beside that major one 
 that helped to wreck them. They thought there 
 would be a rebellion and civil war in Ireland. 
 They took too seriously the troubles of the early 
 summer of 1914, when Ulster and the South of Ire- 
 land were snapping and snarling at each other's 
 throats. They looked for a new mutiny in India, 
 which should keep Britain's hands full. They 
 expected strikes at home. But, above all, they 
 were sure that the great, self-governing depend- 
 encies of Britain, that made up the mighty British 
 Empire, would take no part in the fight. 
 
 Canada, Australasia, South Africa — they never 
 reckoned upon having to cope with them. These 
 were separate nations, they thought, independent 
 
A MINSTREL IN FRANCE 187 
 
 in fact if not in name, which would seize the occa- 
 sion to separate themselves entirely from the 
 mother country. In South Africa they were sure 
 that there would be smoldering discontent enough 
 left from the days of the Boer war to break out 
 into a new flame of war and rebellion at this great 
 chance. 
 
 And so it drove them mad with fury when they 
 learned that Canada and all the rest had gone in, 
 heart and soul. And when even their poison gas 
 could not make the Canadians yield; when, later 
 still, they learned that the Canadians were their 
 match, and more than their match, in every phase 
 of the great game of war, their rage led them to 
 excesses against the men from overseas even more 
 damnable than those that were their general 
 practice. 
 
 These Canadians, who were now my hosts, had 
 located their guns in a pit triangular in shape. 
 The guns were mounted at the corners of the tri- 
 angle, and along its sides. And constantly, while 
 I was there they coughed their short, sharp coughs 
 and sent a spume of metal flying toward the Ger- 
 man lines. Never have I seen a busier spot. And, 
 remember — until I had almost fallen into that pit, 
 with its sputtering, busy guns, I had not beer able 
 to make even a good guess as to where they were ! 
 The very presence of this workshop of death was 
 hidden from all save those who had a right to know 
 of it. 
 
188 A MINSTREL IN FRANCE 
 
 It was a masterly piece of camouflage. I wish 
 I could explain to you how the effect was achieved. 
 It was all made plain to me; every step of the 
 process was explained, and I cried out in wonder 
 and in admiration at the clever simplicity of it. 
 But that is one of the things I may not tell. I saw 
 many things, during my time at the front, that the 
 Germans would give a pretty penny to know. But 
 none of the secrets that I learned would be more 
 valuable, even to-day, than that of that hidden bat- 
 tery. And so — I must leave you in ignorance as 
 to that. 
 
 The commanding officer was most kindly and 
 patient in explaining matters to me. 
 
 '*We can't see hide nor hair of our targets here, 
 of course," he said, "any more than Fritz can see 
 us. We get all our ranges and the records of all 
 our hits, from Normabell.'* 
 
 I looked a question, I suppose. 
 
 "You called on him, I think — up on the Pimple. 
 Major Normabell, D.S.O." 
 
 That was how I learned the name of the imper- 
 turbable major with whom I had smoked a pipe 
 on the crest of Vimy Ridge. I shall always re- 
 member his name and him. I saw no man in 
 France who made a livelier impression upon my 
 mind and my imagination. 
 
 "Aye," I said. "I remember. So that's his 
 name — Normabell, D.S.O. I'll make a note of 
 th^t," 
 
A MINSTREL IN FRANCE 189 
 
 My informant smiled. 
 
 "Normabell's one of our characters," he said. 
 *'Well, you see he commands a goodish bit of 
 country there where he sits. And when he needs 
 them he has aircraft observations to help him, 
 too. He's our pair of eyes. We're like moles 
 down here, we gunners — but he does all our seeing 
 for us. And he's in constant communication — he 
 or one of his officers. ' ' 
 
 I wondered where all the shells the battery was 
 firing were headed for. And I learned that just 
 then it was paying its respects particularly to a 
 big factory building just west of Lens. For some 
 reason that had been marked for destruction, but 
 it had been reinforced and strengthened so that 
 it was taking a lot of smashing and standing a 
 good deal more punishment than anyone had 
 thought it could — which was reason enough, in 
 itself, to stick to the job until that factory was 
 nothing more than a heap of dust and ruins. 
 
 The way the guns kept pounding away at it 
 made me think of firemen in a small town drench- 
 ing a local blaze with their hose. The gunners 
 were just so eager as that. And I could almost see 
 that factory, crumbling away. Major Normabell 
 had pointed it out to me, up on the ridge, and now 
 I knew why. I '11 venture to say that before night 
 the eight-inch howitzers of that battery had ut- 
 terly demolished it, and so ended whatever useful- 
 ness it had had for the Germans, 
 
190 A MINSTREL IN FRANCE 
 
 It was cruel business to be knocking the towns 
 and factories of our ally, France, to bits in the 
 fashion that we were doing that day — there and 
 at many another point along the front. The Huns 
 are fond of saying that much of the destruction in 
 Northern France has been the work of allied artil- 
 lery. True enough — but who made that inevit- 
 able? And it was not our guns that laid waste a 
 whole countryside before the German retreat in 
 the spring of 1917, when the Huns ran wild, root- 
 ing up fruit trees, cutting down every other tree 
 that could be found, and doing every other sort 
 of wanton damage and mischief their hands could 
 find to do. 
 
 ' ' Hard lines, ' ' said the battery commander. He 
 shrugged his shoulders. ''No use trying to spare 
 shells here, though, even on French towns. The 
 harder we smash them the sooner it'll be over. 
 Look here, sir." 
 
 He pointed out the men who sat, their telephone 
 receivers strapped over their ears. Each served 
 a gun. In all that hideous din it was of the utmost 
 importance that they should hear correctly every 
 word and figure that came to them over the wire 
 — a part of that marvelously complete telephone 
 and telegraph system that has been built for and 
 by the British army in France. 
 
 **They get corrections on every shot," he told 
 me. ''The guns are altered in elevation according 
 to what they hear. The range is changed, and the 
 
A MINSTREL IN FRANCE 191 
 
 pointing, too. We never see old Fritz — but we 
 know he's getting the visiting cards we send 
 him." 
 
 They were amazingly calm, those laddies at the 
 telephones. In all that hideous, never-ending din, 
 they never grew excited. Their voices were calm 
 and steady as they repeated the orders that came 
 to them. I have seen girls at hotel switchboards, 
 expert operators, working with conditions made 
 to their order, who grew infinitely more excited at 
 a busy time, when many calls were coming in and 
 going out. Those men might have been at home, 
 talking to a friend of their plans for an evening 's 
 diversion, for all the nervousness or fussiness they 
 showed. 
 
 Up there, on the Pimple, I had seen Normabell, 
 the eyes of the battery. Here I was watching its 
 ears. And, to finish the metaphor, to work it out, 
 I was listening to its voice. Its brazen tongues 
 were giving voice continually. The guns — after 
 all, everything else led up to them. They were the 
 reason for all the rest of the machinery of the bat- 
 tery, and it was they who said the last short 
 word. 
 
 There was a good deal of rough joking and 
 laughter in the battery. The Canadian gunners 
 took their task lightly enough, though their work 
 was of the hardest — and of the most dangerous, 
 too. But jokes ran from group to group, from 
 gun to gun. They were constantly kidding one 
 
192 A MINSTREL IN FRANCE 
 
 another, as an American would say, I think. If a 
 correction came for one gun that showed there had 
 been a mistake in sighting after the last orders — 
 if, that is, the gunners, and not the distant ob- 
 servers, were plainly at fault — there would be a 
 good-natured outburst of chafiQng from all the 
 others. 
 
 But, though such a spirit of lightness prevailed, 
 there was not a moment of loafing. These men 
 were engaged in a grim, deadly task, and every 
 once in a while I would catch a black, purposeful 
 look in a man's eyes that made me realize that, 
 under all the light talk and laughter there was a 
 perfect realization of the truth. They might not 
 show, on the surface, that they took life and their 
 work seriously. Ah, no! They preferred, after 
 the custom of their race, to joke with death. 
 
 And so they were doing quite literally. The 
 Germans knew perfectly well that there was a bat- 
 tery somewhere near the spot where I had found 
 my gunners. Only the exact location was hidden 
 from them, and they never ceased their efforts to 
 determine that. Fritz's airplanes were always 
 trying to sneak over to get a look. An airplane 
 was the only means of detection the Canadians 
 feared. No — I will not say they feared it! The 
 word fear did not exist for that battery! But it 
 was the only way in which there was a tolerable 
 chance, even, for Fritz to locate them, and, for the 
 sake of the whole operation at that point, as well 
 
A MINSTREL IN FRANCE 193 
 
 as for their own interest, they were eager to avoid 
 that. 
 
 German airplanes were always trying to sneak 
 over, I say, but nearly always our men of the 
 Royal Flying Corps drove them back. We came 
 as close, just then, to having command of the air 
 in that sector as any army does these days. You 
 cannot quite command or control the air. A few 
 hostile flyers can get through the heaviest barrage 
 and the staunchest air patrol. And so, every once 
 in a while, an alarm would sound, and all hands 
 would crane their necks upward to watch an air- 
 plane flying above with an iron cross painted upon 
 its wings. 
 
 Then, and, as a rule, then only, fire would cease 
 for a few minutes. There was far less chance of 
 detection when the guns were still. At the height 
 at which our archies — so the anti-aircraft guns 
 are called by Tommy Atkins — forced the Boche to 
 fly there was little chance of his observers picking 
 out this battery, at least, against the ground. If 
 the guns were giving voice that chance was 
 tripled — and so they stopped, at such times, until 
 a British flyer had had time to engage the Hun 
 and either bring him down or send him scurrying 
 for the safe shelter behind his own lines. 
 
 Fritz, in the air, liked to have the odds with 
 him, as a rule. It was exceptional to find a Ger- 
 man flyer like Boelke who really went in for 
 single-handed duels in the air. As a rule they pre- 
 
194. A MINSTREL IN FRANCE 
 
 ferred to attack a single plane with half a dozen, 
 and so make as sure as they could of victory at a 
 minimum of risk. But that policy did not always 
 work — sometimes the lone British flyer came out 
 ahead, despite the odds against him. 
 
 There was a good deal of firing on general 
 principles from Fritz. His shells came wandering 
 querulously about, striking on every side of the 
 battery. Occasionally, of course, there was a hit 
 that was direct, or nearly so. And then, as a rule, 
 a new mound or two would appear in the little 
 cemetery, and a new set of crosses that, for a few 
 days, you might easily enough have marked for 
 new because they would not be weathered yet. But 
 such hits were few and far between, and they were 
 lucky, casual shots, of which the Germans them- 
 selves did not have the satisfaction of knowing. 
 
 "Of course, if they get our range, really, and 
 find out all about us, we'll have to move," said 
 the officer in command. ''That would be a bore, 
 but it couldn't be helped. We're a fixed target, 
 you see, as soon as they know just where we are, 
 and they can turn loose a battery of heavy howitz- 
 ers against us and clear us out of here in no time. 
 But we're pretty quick movers when we have to 
 move! It's great sport, in a way too, sometimes. 
 We leave all the camouflage behind, and some- 
 times Fritz will spend a week shelling a position 
 that was moved away at the first shell that came 
 as if it meant they really were on to us." 
 
A MINSTREL IN FRANCE 195 
 
 I wondered how a battery commander would 
 determine the difference between a casual hit and 
 the first shell of a bombardment definitely planned 
 and accurately placed. 
 
 **You can tell, as a rule, if you know the game," / 
 he said. * ' There '11 be searching shells, you see. / 
 There'll be one too far, perhaps. And then, after 
 a pretty exact interval, there'll be another, maybe 
 a bit short. Then one to the left — and then to 
 the right. By that time we're off as a rule — ^we 
 don't wait for the one that will be scored a hit! 
 If you're quick, you see, you can beat Fritz to it 
 by keeping your eyes open, and being ready to 
 move in a hurry when he 's got a really good argu- S^ 
 ment to make you do it." 
 
 But while I was there, while Fritz was inquisi- 
 tive enough, his curiosity got him nowhere. There 
 were no casual hits, even, and there was nothing 
 to make the battery feel that it must be making 
 ready for a quick trek. 
 
 Was that no a weird, strange game of hide and 
 seek that I watched being played at Vimy Ridge? 
 It gave me the creeps, that idea of battling with 
 an enemy you could not see ! It must be hard, at 
 times, I think, for, the gunners to realize that they 
 are actually at war. But, no — there is always the 
 drone and the squawking of the German shells, 
 and the plop-plop, from time to time, as one finds 
 its mark in the mud nearby. But to think of 
 shooting always at an enemy you cannot see ! 
 
1% A MINSTREL IN FRANCE 
 
 It brought to my mind a tale I had heard at 
 hame in Scotland. There was a hospital in Glas- 
 gow, and there a man who had gone to see a friend 
 stopped, suddenly, in amazement, at the side of a 
 cot. He looked down at features that were famil- 
 iar to him. The man in the cot was not looking 
 at him, and the visitor stood gaping, staring at him 
 in the utmost astonishment and doubt. 
 
 *'I say, man," he asked, at last, ''are ye not 
 Tamson, the baker?" 
 
 The wounded man opened his eyes, and looked 
 up, weakly. 
 
 "Aye," he said. "I'm Tamson, the baker." 
 
 His voice was weak, and he looked tired. But 
 he looked puzzled, too. 
 
 "Weel, Tamson, man, what's the matter wi' 
 ye ? " asked the other. ' ' I didna hear that ye were 
 sick or hurt. How comes it ye are here? Can 
 it be that ye ha ' been to the war, man, and we not 
 hearing of it, at all!" 
 
 "Aye, I think so," said Tamson, still weakly, 
 but as if he were rather glad of a chance to talk, 
 at that. 
 
 "Ye think so?" asked his friend, in greater 
 astonishment than ever. "Man, if ye've been to 
 the war do ye not know it for sure and certain?" 
 
 "Well, I will tell ye how it is," said Tamson, 
 very slowly and wearily. "I was in the reserve, 
 do ye ken. And I was standin* in front of .my 
 hoose one day in August, thinMn' of nothin' at 
 
A MINSTREL IN FRANCE 197 
 
 all. I marked a man who was coming doon the 
 street, wi ' a blue paper in his hand, and studyin ' the 
 numbers on the doorplates. But I paid no great 
 heed to him until he stopped and spoke to me. 
 
 ''He had stopped outside my hoose and looked 
 at the number, and then at his blue paper. And 
 then he turned to me. 
 
 " 'Are ye Tamson, the baker T he asked me — 
 just as ye asked me that same question the noo. 
 
 "And I said to him, just as I said it to ye, 'Aye, 
 I'm Tamson, the baker.' 
 
 " 'Then it's Hamilton Barracks for ye, Tam- 
 son, ' he said, and handed me the blue paper. 
 
 ' ' Four hours from the time when he handed me 
 the blue paper in front of my hoose in Glasgow 
 I was at Hamilton Barracks. In twelve hours I 
 was in Southhampton. In twenty hours I was in 
 France. And aboot as soon as I got there I was 
 in a lot of shooting and running this way and that 
 that they ha' told me since was the Battle of the 
 Marne. 
 
 "And in twentj^-four hours more I was on my 
 way back to Glasgow! In forty-eight hours I 
 woke up in Stobe Hill Infirmary and the nurse was 
 saying in my ear : ' Ye 're all richt the noon, Tam- 
 son. We ha' only just amputated your leg!' 
 
 " So I think I ha ' been to the war, but I can only 
 say I think so. I only know what I was told — 
 that ha' never seen a damn German yet!" 
 
 That is a true story of Tamson the baker. And 
 
198 A MINSTREL IN FRANCE 
 
 his experience has actually been shared by many a 
 poor fellow — and by many another who might 
 have counted himself lucky if he had lost no more 
 than a leg, as Tamson did. 
 
 But the laddies of my battery, though they were 
 shooting now at Germans they could not see, had 
 had many a close up view of Fritz in the past, and 
 expected many another in the future. Maybe they 
 will get one, some time, after the fashion of the 
 company of which my boy John once told me. 
 
 The captain of this company — a Hieland com- 
 pany, it was, though not of John's regiment — had 
 spent must of his time in London before the war, 
 and belonged to several clubs, which, in those 
 days, employed many Germans as servants and 
 waiters. He was a big man, and he had a deep, 
 bass voice, so that he roared like the bull of Bas- 
 han when he had a mind to raise it for all to hear. 
 
 One day things were dull in his sector. The 
 front line trench was not far from that of the Ger- 
 mans, but there was no activity beyond that of the 
 snipers, and the Germans were being so cautious 
 that ours were getting mighty few shots. The 
 captain was bored, and so were the men. 
 
 ''How would you like a pot shot, lads?" he 
 asked. 
 
 ''Fine!" came the answer. "Fine, sir!" 
 
 "Very well," said the captain. "Get ready 
 with your rifles, and keep your eyes on yon 
 trench. ' ' 
 
A MINSTREL IN FRANCE 199 
 
 It was not more than thirty yards away — point- 
 blank range. The captain waited until they were 
 ready. And then his voice rang out in its loudest, 
 most commanding roar. 
 
 ''Waiter!" he shouted. 
 
 Forty helmets popped up over the German 
 parapet, and a storm of bullets swept them away ! 
 
CHAPTER XVII 
 
 IT was getting late — for men who had had so 
 early a breakfast as we had had to make to 
 get started in good time. And just as I was 
 beginning to feel hungry — odd, it seemed to me, 
 that such a thing as lunch should stay in my mind 
 in such surroundings and when so many vastly 
 more important things were afoot! — the major 
 looked at his wrist watch. 
 
 "By Jove!" he said, ''Lunch time! Gentle- 
 men — you'll accept such hospitality as we can 
 offer you at our officer's mess?" 
 
 There wasn't any question about acceptance! 
 We all said we were delighted, and we meant it. 
 I looked around for a hut or some such place, or 
 even for a tent, and, seeing nothing of the sort, 
 wondered where we might be going to eat. I soon 
 found out. The major led the way underground, 
 into a dugout. This was the mess. It was hard 
 by the guns, and in a hole that had been dug out, 
 quit literally. Here there was a certain degree 
 of safety. In these dugouts every phase of the 
 battery's life except the actual serving of the guns 
 went on. Officers and men alike ate and slept in 
 them. 
 
 They were much snugger within than you might 
 200 
 
A MINSTREL IN FRANCE 201 
 
 fancy. A lot of the men had given homelike 
 touches to their habitations. Pictures cut from 
 the illustrated papers at home, which are such 
 prime favorites with all the Tommies made up a 
 large part of the decorative scheme. Pictures of 
 actresses predominated; the Tommies didn't go 
 in for war pictures. Indeed, there is little disposi- 
 tion to hammer the war home at you in a dugout. 
 The men don't talk about it or think about, save as 
 they must ; you hear less talk about the war along 
 the front than you do at home. I heard a story 
 at Vimy Eidge of a Tommy who had come back 
 to the trenches after seeing Blighty for the first 
 time in months. 
 
 ''Hello, Bill," said one of his mates. "Back 
 again, are youl How's things in Blighty?" 
 
 ''Oh, all right," said Bill. 
 
 Then he looked around. He pricked his ears as 
 a shell whined above him. And he took out his 
 pipe and stuffed it full of tobacco, and lighted it, 
 and sat back. He sighed in the deepest content 
 as the smoke began to curl upward. 
 
 "Bli'me, Bill — I'd say, to look at you, you was 
 glad to be back here!" said his mate, astonished. 
 
 "Well, I ain't so sorry, and that's a fact," said 
 Bill. "I tell you how it is, Alf. Back there in 
 Blighty they don't talk about nothing but this 
 bloody war. I'm fair fed up with it, that I am! 
 I'm glad to be back here, where I don't have to 
 'ear about the war every bleedin' minute!" 
 
202 A MINSTREL IN FRANCE 
 
 That story sounds far fetched to you, perhaps, 
 but it isn't. War talk is shop talk to the men who 
 are fighting it and winning it, and it is perfectly 
 true and perfectly reasonable, too, that they like 
 to get away from it when they can, just as any man 
 likes to get away from the thought of his business 
 or his work when he isn't at the office or the fac- 
 tory or the shop. 
 
 Captain Godfrey explained to me, as we went 
 into the mess hall for lunch, that the dugouts were 
 really pretty safe. Of course there were dangers 
 — where are there not along that strip of land 
 that runs from the North Sea to Switzerland in 
 France and Belgium? 
 
 '*A direct hit from a big enough shell would 
 bury us all," he said. ''But that's not likely — 
 the chances are all against it. And, even then, 
 we'd have a chance. I've seen men dug out alive 
 from a hole like this after a shell from one of their 
 biggest howitzers had landed square upon it." 
 
 But I had no anxiety to form part of an experi- 
 ment to prove the truth or the falsity of that sug- 
 gestion ! I was glad to know that the chances of 
 a shell's coming along were pretty slim. 
 
 Conditions were primitive at that mess. The 
 refinements of life were lacking, to be sure — but 
 who cared 1 Certainly the hungry members of the 
 Reverend Harry Lauder, M.P., Tour did not! 
 We ate from a rough deal table, sitting on rude 
 benches that had a decidedly home-made look. 
 
A MINSTREL IN FRANCE 203 
 
 But — we had music with our meals, just like the 
 folks in London at the Savoy or in New York at 
 Sherry's! It was the incessant thunder of the 
 guns that served as the musical accompaniment of 
 our lunch, and I was already growing to love that 
 music. I could begin, now, to distinguish degrees 
 of sound and modulations of all sorts in the 
 mighty diapason of the cannon. It was as if a 
 conductor were leading an orchestra, and as if it 
 responded instantly to every suggestion of his 
 baton. 
 
 There was not much variety to the food, but 
 there was plenty of it, and it was good. There 
 was bully beef, of course ; that is the real staff of 
 life for the British army. And there were pota- 
 toes, in plentiful supply, and bread and butter, 
 and tea — there is always tea where Tommy or his 
 officers are about! There was a lack of table 
 ware; a dainty soul might not have liked the 
 thought of spreading his butter on his bread with 
 his thumb, as we had to do. But I was too hungry 
 to be fastidious, myself. 
 
 Because the mess had guests there was a special 
 dish in our honor. One of the men had gone over 
 — at considerable risk of his life, as I learned later 
 — to the heap of stones and dust that had once 
 been the village of Givenchy. There he had found 
 a lot of gooseberries. The French call them gros- 
 sets, as we in Scotland do, too — although the 
 pronunciation of the word is different in the two 
 
204. A MINSTREL IN FRANCE 
 
 languages, of course. There had been gardens 
 around the houses of Givenchy once, before the 
 place had been made into a desert of rubble and 
 brickdust. And, somehow, life had survived in 
 those bruised and battered gardens, and the deli- 
 cious mess of gooseberries that we had for dessert 
 stood as proof thereof. 
 
 The meal was seasoned by good talk. I love 
 to hear the young British officers talk. It is a 
 liberal education. They have grown so wise, those 
 boys! Those of them who come back when the 
 war is over will have the world at their feet, in- 
 deed. Nothing will be able to stop them or to 
 check them in their rise. They have learned every 
 great lesson that a man must learn if he is to suc- 
 ceed in the aifairs of life. Self control is theirs, 
 and an infinite patience, and a dogged determina- 
 tion that refuses to admit that there are any things 
 that a man cannot do if he only makes up his mind 
 that he must and will do them. For the British 
 army has accomplished the impossible, time after 
 time ; it has done things that men knew could not 
 be done. 
 
 And so we sat and talked, as we smoked, after 
 the meal, until the major rose, at last, and invited 
 me to walk around the battery again with him. I 
 could ask questions now, having seen the men at 
 work, and he explained many things I wanted to 
 know — and which Fritz would like to know, too, 
 to this day ! But above all I was fascinated by the 
 
A MINSTREL IN FRANCE 205 
 
 work of the gunners. I kept trying, in my mind's 
 eye, to follow the course of the shells that were 
 dispatched so calmly upon their errands of de- 
 struction. My imagination played with the 
 thought of what they were doing at the other end 
 of their swift voyage through the air. I pictured 
 the havoc that must be wrought when one made a 
 clean hit. 
 
 And, suddenly, I was swept by that same almost 
 irresistible desire to be fighting myself that had 
 come over me when I had seen the other battery. 
 If I could only play my part ! If I could fire even 
 a single shot — if I, with my own hands, could do 
 that much against those who had killed my boy! 
 And then, incredulously, I heard the words in my 
 ear. It was the major. 
 
 ''Would you like to try a shot, Harry?" he 
 asked me. 
 
 Would I? I stared at him. I couldn't believe 
 my ears. It was as if he had read my thoughts. 
 I gasped out some sort of an affirmative. My 
 blood was boiling at the very thought, and the 
 sweat started from my pores. 
 
 ''All right — nothing easier!" said the major, 
 smiling. "I had an idea you were wanting to 
 take a hand, Harry." 
 
 He led me toward one of the guns, where the 
 sweating crew was especially active, as it seemed 
 to me. They grinned at me as they saw me 
 coming. 
 
206 A MINSTREL IN FRANCE 
 
 "Here's old Harry Lauder come to take a crack 
 at them himself," I heard one man say to another. 
 
 "Good for him! The more the merrier!" an- 
 swered his mate. He was an American — would 
 ye no know it from his speech? 
 
 I was trembling Avith eagerness. I wondered if 
 my shot would tell. I tried to visualize its conse- 
 quences. It might strike some vital spot. It might 
 kill some man whose life was of the utmost value 
 to the enemy. It might — it might do anything! 
 And I knew that my shot would be watched ; Nor- 
 mabell, sitting up there on the Pimple in his little 
 observatory, would watch it, as he did all of that 
 battery's shots. Would be make a report? 
 
 Everything was made ready. The gun recoiled 
 from the previous shot; swiftly it was swabbed 
 out. A new shell was handed up ; I looked it over 
 tenderly. That was my shell! I watched the 
 men as they placed it and saw it disappear with a 
 jerk. Then came the swift sighting of the gun, 
 the almost inperceptible corrections of elevation 
 and position. 
 
 They showed me my place. After all, it was the 
 simplest of matters to fire even the biggest of 
 guns. I had but to pull a lever. All morning I 
 had been watching men do that. I knew it was 
 but a perfunctory act. But I could not feel that ! 
 I was thrilled and excited as I had never been in 
 all my life before. 
 
 "All ready! Fire!" 
 
A MINSTREL IN FRANCE 207 
 
 The order rang in my ears. And I pulled the 
 lever, as hard as I could. The great gun sprang 
 into life as I moved the lever. I heard the roar 
 of the explosion, and it seemed to me that it was 
 a louder bark than any gun I had heard had given ! 
 It was not, of course, and so, down in my heart, I 
 knew. There was no shade of variation between 
 that shot and all the others that had been fired. 
 But it pleased me to think so— it pleases me, some- 
 times, to think so even now. Just as it pleases me 
 to think that that long snouted engine of war pro- 
 pelled that shell, under my guiding hand, with 
 unwonted accuracy and effectiveness ! Perhaps I 
 was childish, to feel as I did; indeed, I have no 
 doubt that that was so. But I dinna care ! 
 
 There was no report by telephone from Norma- 
 bell about that particular shot; I hung about a 
 while, by the telephone listeners, hoping one would 
 come. And it disappointed me that no attention 
 was paid to that shot. 
 
 ''Probably simply means it went home," said 
 Godfrey. "A shot that acts just as it should 
 doesn't get reported." 
 
 But I was disappointed, just the same. And 
 yet the sensation is one I shall never forget, and 
 I shall never cease to be glad that the major gave 
 me my chance. The most thrilling moment was 
 that of the recoil of the great gun. I felt exactly 
 as one does when one dives into deep water from 
 a considerable height. 
 
208 A MINSTREL IN FRANCE 
 
 "Good work, Harry!" said the major, warmly, 
 when I had stepped down. " I '11 wager you wiped 
 out a bit of the German trenches with that shot! 
 I think I'll draft you and keep you here as a gun- 
 ner ! ' * 
 
 And the officers and men all spoke in the same 
 way, smiling as they did so. But I hae me doots ! 
 I'd like to think I did real damage with my one 
 shot, but I'm afraid my shell was just one of those 
 that turned up a bit of dirt and made one of those 
 small brown eruptions I had seen rising on all 
 sides along the German lines as I had sat and 
 smoked my pipe with Normabell earlier in the day. 
 
 "Well, anyway," I said, exultingly, "that's 
 that! I hope I got two for my one, at least!" 
 
 But my exultation did not last long. I re- 
 flected upon the inscrutability of war and of this 
 deadly fighting that was going on all about me. 
 How casual a matter was this sending out of a 
 shell that could, in a flash of time, obliterate all 
 that lived in a wide circle about where it chanced 
 to strike! The pulling of a lever — that was all 
 that I had done ! And at any moment a shell some 
 German gunner had sent winging its way through 
 the air in precisely that same, casual fashion 
 might come tearing into this quiet nook, guided by 
 some chance, lucky for him, and wipe out the 
 major, and all the pleasant boys with whom I had 
 broken bread just now, and the sweating gunners 
 who had cheered me on as I fired my shot ! 
 
A MINSTREL IN FRANCE 209 
 
 I was to give a concert for this battery, and I 
 felt that it was time, now, for it to begin. I could 
 see, too, that the men were growing a bit impatient. 
 And so I said that I was ready. 
 
 ''Then come along to our theater," said the 
 major, and grinned at my look of astonishment. 
 
 ''Oh, we've got a real amphitheater for you, 
 such as the Greeks used for the tragedies of 
 Sophocles!" he said. "There it is!" 
 
 He had not stretched the truth. It was a superb 
 theater — a great, crater-like hole in the ground. 
 Certainly it was as well ventilated a show house 
 as you could hope for, and I found, when the time 
 came, that the acoustics were splendid. I went 
 down into the middle of the hole, with Hogge and 
 Adam, who had become part of my company, and 
 the soldiers grouped themselves about its rim. 
 
 Before we left Boulogne a definite programme 
 had been laid out for the Reverend Harry Lauder, 
 M.P., Tour. We had decided that we would get 
 better results by adopting a programme and stick- 
 ing to it at all our meetings or concerts. So, at 
 all the assemblies that we gathered, Hogge opened 
 proceedings by talking to the men about pensions, 
 the subject in which he was so vitally interested, 
 and in which he had done and was doing such mag- 
 nificent work. Adam would follow him with a 
 talk about the war and its progress. 
 
 He was a splendid speaker, was Adam. He had 
 all the eloquence of the fine preacher that he was, 
 
210 A MINSTREL IN FRANCE 
 
 but he did not preach to the lads in the trenches — 
 not he! He told them about the war, and about 
 the way the folks at hame in Britain were backing 
 them up. He talked about war loans and food 
 conservation, and made them understand that it 
 was not they alone who were doing the fighting. 
 It was a cheering and an inspiring talk he gave 
 them, and he got good round applause wherever he 
 spoke. 
 
 They saved me up for the last, and when Adam 
 had finished speaking either he or Hogge would in- 
 troduce me, and my singing would begin. That 
 was the programme we had arranged for the Hole- 
 in-the-Ground Theater, as the Canadians called 
 their amphitheater. For this performance, of 
 course, I had no piano. Johnson and the w^ee 
 instrument were back where we had left the motor 
 cars, and so I just had to sing without an accom- 
 paniment — except that which the great booming 
 of the guns was to furnish me. 
 
 I was afraid at first that the guns would bother 
 me. But as I listened to Hogge and Adam I 
 ceased, gradually, to notice them at all, and I soon 
 felt that they would annoy me no more, when it 
 was my turn to go on, than the chatter of a bunch 
 of stage hands in the wings of a theater had so 
 often done. 
 
 When it was my turn I began with *'Roamin' In 
 the Gloamin'." The verse went well, and I s^vung 
 into the chorus. I had picked the song to open 
 
A MINSTREL IN FRANCE 211 
 
 with because I knew the soldiers were pretty sure 
 to know it, and so would join me in the chorus — 
 which is something I always want them to do. 
 And these were no exceptions to the general rule. 
 But, just as I got into the chorus, the tune of the 
 guns changed. They had been coughing and spit- 
 ting intermittently, but now, suddenly, it seemed 
 to me that it was as if someone had kicked the lid 
 off the fireworks factory and dropped a lighted 
 torch inside. 
 
 Every gun in the battery around the hole began 
 whanging away at once. I was jumpy and nerv- 
 ous, I'll admit, and it was all I could do to hold to 
 the pitch and not break the time. I thought all of 
 Von Hindenburg's army must be attacking us, 
 and, from the row and din, I judged he must have 
 brought up some of the German navy to help, in- 
 stead of letting it lie in the Kiel canal where the 
 British fleet could not get at it. I never heard 
 such a terrific racket in all my days. 
 
 I took the opportunity to look around at my 
 audience. They didn't seem to be a bit excited. 
 They all had their eyes fixed on me, and they 
 weren't listening to the guns — only to me and my 
 singing. And so, as they probably knew what was 
 afoot, and took it so quietly, I managed to keep 
 on singing as if I, too, were used to such a row, 
 and thought no more of it than of the ordinary 
 traffic noise of a London or a Glasgow street. But 
 if I really managed to look that way my appear- 
 
212 A MINSTREL IN FRANCE 
 
 ances were most deceptive, because I was nearer 
 to being scared than I had been at any time yet ! 
 But presently I began to get interested in the 
 noise of the guns. They developed a certain regu- 
 lar rhythm. I had to allow for it, and make it fit 
 the time of what I was singing. And as I realized 
 that probably this was just a part of the regular 
 day's work, a bit of ordinary strafing, and not a 
 feature of a grand attack, I took note of the 
 rhythm. It went something like this, as near as 
 I can gie it to you in print : 
 
 "Roamin' in the— PUH— LAH— gloamin'— BAM! 
 ''On the— WHUFF!— BOOM!— bonny— BR-R-R!— 
 banks o'— BIFF— Clyde— ZOW!" 
 
 And so it went all through the rest of the con- 
 cert. I had to adjust each song I sang to that odd 
 rhythm of the guns, and I don't know but what 
 it was just as well that Johnson wasn't there! 
 He'd have had trouble staying with me with his 
 wee bit piano, I'm thinkin' ! 
 
 And, do you ken, I got to see, after a bit, that it 
 was the gunners, all the time, havin' a bit of fun 
 with me ! For when I sang a verse the gmns be- 
 haved themselves, but every time I came to the 
 chorus they started up the same inferno of noise 
 again. I think they wanted to see, at first, if they 
 could no shake me enough to make me stop singing, 
 and they liked me the better when they found I 
 would no stop. The soldiers soon began to laugh. 
 
A MINSTREL IN FRANCE 213 
 
 but the joke was not all on me, and I could see that 
 they understood that, and were pleased. Indeed, 
 it was all as amusing to me as to them. 
 
 I doubt if ''Eoamin' in the Gloamin' " or any 
 other song was ever sung in such circumstances. 
 I sang several more songs — they called, as every 
 audience I have seems to do, for me to sing my 
 *'Wee Hoose Amang the Heather" — and then 
 Captain Godfrey brought the concert to an end. It 
 was getting along toward midafternoon, and he 
 explained that we had another call to make before 
 dark. 
 
 ''Good-by, Harry — good luck to you! Thanks 
 for the singing ! ' ' 
 
 Such cries rose from all sides, and the Canadians 
 came crowding around to shake my hand. It was 
 touching to see how pleased they were, and it made 
 me rejoice that I had been able to come. I had 
 thought, sometimes, that it might be a presump- 
 tuous thing, in a way, for mo to want to go so near 
 the front, but the way I had been able to cheer up 
 the lonely, dull routine of that battery went far 
 to justify me in coming, I thought. 
 
 I was sorry to be leaving the Canadians. And 
 I was glad to see that they seemed as sorry to 
 have me go as I was to be going. I have a very 
 great fondness for the Canadian soldier. He is 
 certainly one of the most picturesque and interest- 
 ing of all the men who are fighting under the flags 
 of the Allies, and it is certain that the world can 
 
214. A MINSTREL IN FRANCE 
 
 never forget the record he has made in this war — 
 a record of courage and heroism unexcelled by any 
 and equaled by few. 
 
 I stood around while we were getting ready to 
 start back to the cars, and one of the officers was 
 with me. 
 
 "How often do you get a shell right inside the 
 pit here I" I asked him. "A fair hit, I mean?" 
 
 "Oh, I don't know!" he said, slowly. He 
 looked around. "You know that hole you were 
 singing in just now ? ' ' 
 
 I nodded. I had guessed that it had been made 
 by a shell. 
 
 "Well, that's the result of a Boche shell," 
 he said. * ' If you 'd come yesterday we 'd have had 
 to find another place for your concert!" 
 
 "Oh— is that so!" I said. 
 
 "Aye," he said, and grinned. "We didn't tell 
 you before, Harry, because we didn't want you to 
 feel nervous, or anything like that, while you were 
 singing. But it was obliging of Fritz — now 
 wasn't it? Think of having him take all the 
 trouble to dig out a fine theater for us that way!" 
 
 "It was obliging of him, to be sure," I said, 
 rather dryly. 
 
 "That's what we said," said the officer. "Why, 
 as soon as I saw the hole that shell had made, I 
 said to Campbell: *By Jove — there's the very 
 place for Harry Lauder's concert to-morrow!' 
 And he agreed with me!" 
 
A MINSTREL IN FRANCE 215 
 
 Now it was time for handshaking and good-bys. 
 I said farewell all around, and wished good luck 
 to that brave battery, so cunningly hidden away 
 in its pit. There was a great deal of cheery shout- 
 ing and waving of hands as we went off. And in 
 two minutes the battery was out of sight — even 
 though we knew exactly where it was ! 
 
 We made our way slowly back, through the 
 lengthening shadows, over the shell-pitted ground. 
 The motor cars were waiting, and Johnson, too. 
 Everything was shipshape and ready for a new 
 start, and we climbed in. 
 
 As we drove off I looked back at Vimy Ridge. 
 And I continued to gaze at it for a long time. No 
 longer did it disappoint me. No longer did I re- 
 gard it as an insignificant hillock. All that feeling 
 that had come to me with my first sight of it had 
 been banished by my introduction to the famous 
 ridge itself. 
 
 It had spoken to me eloquently, despite the mute- 
 ness of the myriad tongues it had. It had graven 
 deep into my heart the realization of its true place 
 in history. 
 
 An excrescence in a flat country — a little hump 
 of ground! That is all there is to Vimy Ridge. 
 Aye ! It does not stand so high above the ground 
 of Flanders as would the books that will be writ- 
 ten about it in the future, were you to pile them 
 all up together when the last one of them is 
 printed! But what a monument it is to bravery 
 
216 A MINSTREL IN FRANCE 
 
 and to sacrifice — to all that is best in this human 
 race of ours ! 
 
 No human hands have ever reared such a monu- 
 ment as that ridge is and will be. There some of 
 the greatest deeds in history were done — some of 
 the noblest acts that there is record of performed. 
 There men lived and died gloriously in their brief 
 moment of climax — the moment for which, all un- 
 knowing, all their lives before that day of battle 
 had been lived. 
 
 I took off my cap as I looked back, with a ges- 
 ture and a thought of deep and solemn reverence. 
 And so I said good-by to Vimy Eidge, and to the 
 brave men I had known there — living and dead. 
 For I felt that I had come to know some of the dead 
 as well as the living. 
 
CHAPTER XVIII 
 
 *"V T'OU'LL see anotlier phase of the front now, 
 Y Harry," said Captain Godfrey, as I 
 turned my eyes to the front once more. 
 
 "What's the next stop?" I asked. 
 
 "We 're heading for a rest billet behind the lines. 
 There'll be lots of men there who are just out of 
 the trenches. It's a ghastly strain for even the 
 best and most seasoned troops — this work in the 
 trenches. So, after a battalion has been in for 
 a certain length of time, it's pulled out and sent 
 back to a rest billet." 
 
 "What do they do there?" I asked. 
 
 "Well, they don't loaf — there's none of that in 
 the British army, these days! But it's paradise, 
 after the trenches. For one thing there isn't the 
 constant danger there is up front. The men aren't 
 under steady fire. Of course, there's always the 
 chance of a bomb dropping raid by a Taube or a 
 Fokker. The men get a chance to clean up. They 
 get baths, and their clothes are cleaned and disin- 
 fected. They get rid of the cooties — you know 
 what they are?" 
 
 I could guess. The plague of vermin in the 
 trenches is one of the minor horrors of war. 
 
 "They do a lot of drilling," Godfrey went on. 
 "Except for those times in the rest billets, regi- 
 
 217 
 
218 A MINSTREL IN FRANCE 
 
 ments might get a bit slack. In the trenches, you 
 see, the routine is strict, but it's different. Men 
 are much more on their own. There aren't any 
 inspections of kit and all that sort of thing — not 
 for neatness, anyway. 
 
 ''And it's a good thing for soldiers to be neat. 
 It helps discipline. And discipline, in time of war, 
 isn't just a parade-ground matter. It means lives 
 — every time. Your disciplined man, who's 
 trained to do certain things automatically, is the 
 man you can depend on in any sort of emergency. 
 
 ''That's the thing that the Canadians and the 
 Australians have had to learn since they came out. 
 There never were any braver troops than those 
 in the world, but at first they didn't have the auto- 
 matic discipline they needed. That'll be the first 
 problem in training the new American armies, too. 
 It's a highly practical matter. And so, in the rest 
 billets, they drill the men a goodish bit. It keeps 
 up the morale, and makes them fitter and keener 
 for the work when they go back to the trenches." 
 
 "You don't make it sound much like a real rest 
 for them," I said. 
 
 "Oh, but it is, all right! They have a com- 
 fortable place to sleep. They get better food. 
 The men in the trenches get the best food it's 
 possible to give them, but it can't be cooked much, 
 for there aren't facilities. The diet gets pretty 
 monotonous. In the rest billets they get more 
 variety. And they have plenty of free time, and 
 
A MINSTREL IN FRANCE 219 
 
 there are hours when they can go to the estaminet 
 — there's always one handy, a sort of pub, you 
 know — and buy things for themselves. Oh, they 
 have a pretty good time, as you'll see, in a rest 
 billet." 
 
 I had to take his word for it. We went bowling 
 along at a good speed, but pretty soon we encoun- 
 tered a detaclmient of Somerset men. They 
 halted when they spied our caravan, and so did 
 we. As usual they recognized us. 
 
 ''You'm Harry Lauder!" said one of them, in 
 the broad accent of his country. ''Us has seen 
 'ee often!" 
 
 Johnson w^as out already, and he and the drivers 
 were uniimbering the wee piano. It didn't take 
 so long, now that we were getting used to the task, 
 to make ready for a roadside concert. While I 
 waited I talked to the men. They were on their 
 way to Ypres. Tommy can't get the name right, 
 and long ago ceased trying to do so. The French 
 and Belgians call it "Eepre" — that's as near as I 
 can give it to you in print, at least. But Tommy, 
 as all the world must know by now, calls it Wipers, 
 and that is another name that will live as long as 
 British history is told. 
 
 The Somerset men squatted in the road while 
 I sang my songs for them, and gave me their most 
 rapt attention. It was hugely gratifying and flat- 
 tering, the silence that always descended upon an 
 audience of soldiers when I sang. There were 
 
220 A MINSTREL IN FRANCE 
 
 never any interruptions. But at the end of a song, 
 and during the chorus, which they always wanted 
 to sing with me, as I wanted them to do, too, they 
 made up for their silence. 
 
 Soon the Eeverend Harry Lauder, M.P., Tour 
 was on its way again. The cheers of the Somerset 
 men sounded gayly in our ears, and the cars 
 quickly picked up speed and began to mop up the 
 miles at a great rate. And then, suddenly — whoa ! 
 We were in the midst of soldiers again. This 
 time it was a bunch of motor repair men. 
 
 They wandered along the roads, working on the 
 trucks and cars that were abandoned when they 
 got into trouble, and left along the side of the road. 
 We had seen scores of such wrecks that day, and I 
 had wondered if they were left there indefinitely. 
 Far from it, as I learned now. Squads like this 
 — there were two hundred men in this particular 
 party — were always at work. Many of the cars 
 they salvaged without difficulty — those that had 
 been abandoned because of comparatively minor 
 engine troubles or defects. Others had to be 
 towed to a repair shop, or loaded upon other trucks 
 for the journey, if their wheels were out of com- 
 mission. 
 
 Others still were beyond repair. They had been 
 utterly smashed in a collision, maybe, or as a re- 
 sult of skidding. Or they had burned. Some- 
 times they had been knocked off the road and gen- 
 erally demoralized by a shell. And in such cases, 
 
A MINSTREL IN FRANCE 221 
 
 often, all that men such as these we had met now 
 could do was to retrieve some parts to be used in 
 repairing other cars in a less hopeless state. 
 
 By this time Johnson and the two soldier 
 chauffeurs had reduced the business of setting our 
 stage to a fine point. It took us but a very few 
 minutes indeed to be ready for a concert, and from 
 the time when we sighted a potential audience to 
 the moment for the opening number w^as an almost 
 incredibly brief period. This time that was a 
 good thing, for it was growing late. And so, al- 
 though the repair men were loath to let me go, it 
 was but an abbreviated programme that I was able 
 to offer them. This was one of the most enthusi- 
 astic audiences I had had yet, for nearly every 
 man there, it turned out, had been what Americans 
 would call a Harry Lauder fan in the old days. 
 They had been wont to go again and again to hear 
 me. I wanted to stay and sing more songs for 
 them, but Captain Godfrey was in charge, and I 
 had to obey his orders, reluctant though I was 
 to go on. 
 
 Our destination was a town called Aubigny — 
 rather an old chateau just outside the town. 
 Aubigny was the billet of the Fifteenth Division, 
 then in rest. Many officers were quartered in the 
 chateau, as the guests of its French owners, who 
 remained in possession, having refused to clear 
 out, despite the nearness of the actual fighting 
 front. 
 
222 A MINSTREL IN FRANCE 
 
 This was a Scots division, I was glad to find. 
 I heard good Scots talk all around me when I 
 arrived, and it was Scottish hospitality, mingled 
 with French, that awaited us. I know no finer 
 combination, nor one more w^arming to the cockles 
 of a man's heart. 
 
 Here there was luxury, compared to what I had 
 seen that day. As Godfrey had warned me, the 
 idea of resting that the troops had was a bit more 
 strenuous than mine would be. There was no 
 lying and lolling about. Hot though the weather 
 was a deal of football was played, and there were 
 games of one sort and another going on nearly all 
 the time when the men were off duty. 
 
 This division, I learned, had seen some of the 
 hardest and bloodiest fighting of the whole war. 
 They had been through the great offensive that 
 had pivoted on Arras, and had been sorely knocked 
 about. They had well earned such rest as was 
 coming to them now, and they were getting ready, 
 in the most cheerful way you can imagine, for 
 their next tour of duty in the trenches. They 
 knew about how much time they w^ould have, and 
 they made the best use they could of it. 
 
 New drafts w^ere coming out daily from home to 
 fill up their sadly depleted ranks. The new men 
 were quickly drawn in and assimilated into or- 
 ganizations that had been reduced to mere skele- 
 tons. New officers were getting acquainted with 
 their men; that wonderful thing that is called 
 
A MINSTREL IN FRANCE 223 
 
 esprit de corps was being made all around me. It 
 is a great sight to watch it in the making ; it helps 
 you to understand the victories our laddies have 
 won. 
 
 I was glad to see the kilted men of the Scots 
 regiments all about me. It was them, after all, 
 that I had come to see. I wanted to talk to them, 
 and see them here, in France. I had seen them at 
 hame, jflocking to the recruiting offices. I had seen 
 them in their training camps. But this was differ- 
 ent. I love all the soldiers of the Empire, but it 
 is natural, is it no, that my warmest feeling should 
 be for the laddies who wear the kilt. 
 
 They were the most cheerful souls, as I saw them 
 when we reached their rest camp, that you could 
 imagine. They were laughing and joking all 
 about us, and when they heard that the Rev- 
 erend Harry Lauder, M.P., Tour had arrived they 
 crowded about us to see. They wanted to make 
 sure that I was there, and I was greeted in all sorts 
 of dialect that sounded enough, I'll be bound, to 
 Godfrey and some of the rest of our party. There 
 were even men who spoke to me in the Gaelic. 
 
 I saw a good deal, afterward, of these Scots 
 troops. My, how hard they did work while they 
 rested! And what chances they took of broken 
 bones and bruises in their play ! Ye would think, 
 would ye no, that they had enough of that in the 
 trenches, where they got lumps and bruises and 
 sorer hurts in the run of duty! But no. So soon 
 
224. A MINSTREL IN FRANCE 
 
 as they came back to their rest billets they must 
 begin to play by knocking the skin and the hair off 
 one another at sports of various sorts, of which 
 football was among the mildest, that are not by 
 any means to be recommended to those of a deli- 
 cate fiber. 
 
 Some of the men I met at Aubigny had been out 
 since Mons — some of the old kilted regiments of 
 the old regular army, they were. Away back in 
 those desperate days the Germans had dubbed 
 them the ladies from Hell, on account of their kilts. 
 Some of the Germans really thought they were 
 women ! That was learned from prisoners. Since 
 Mons they have been out, and auld Scotland has 
 poured out men by the scores of thousands, as fast 
 as they were needed, to fill the gaps the German 
 shells and bullets have torn in the Scots ranks. 
 Aye — since Mons, and they will be there at the 
 finish, when it comes, please God! 
 
 There have always been Scots regiments in the 
 British army, ever since the day when King Jamie 
 the Sixth, of Scotland, of the famous and unhappy 
 house of Stuart, became King James the First of 
 England. The kilted regiments, the Highlanders, 
 belonging to the immortal Highland Brigade, in- 
 clude the Gordon Highlanders, the Forty-second, 
 the world famous Black Watch, as it is better 
 known than by its numbered designation, the Sea- 
 forth Highlanders, and the Argyle and Sutherland 
 regiment, or the Princess Louise's Own. That 
 
A MINSTREL IN FRANCE 225 
 
 \vas the regiment to a territorial battalion of 
 which my boy John belonged at the outbreak 
 of the war, and with which he served until he 
 was killed. 
 
 Some of those old, famous regiments have been 
 wiped out half a dozen times, almost literally anni- 
 hilated, since Mons. New drafts, and the addition 
 of territorial battalions, have replenished them 
 and kept up their strength, and the continuity of 
 their tradition has never been broken. The men 
 who compose a regiment may be wiped out, but 
 the regiment survives. It is an Organization, an 
 entity, a creature with a soul as well as a body. 
 And the Germans have no discovered a way yet 
 of killing the soul ! They can do dreadful things 
 to the bodies of men and women, but their souls 
 are safe from them. 
 
 Of course there are Scots regiments that are not 
 kilted and that have naught to do with the Hie- 
 landers, who have given as fine and brave an ac- 
 count of themselves as any. There are the Scots 
 Guards, one of the regiments of the Guards 
 Brigade, the very pick and flower of the British 
 army. There are the King's Own Scottish Bor- 
 derers, with as fine a history and tradition as any 
 regiment in the army, and a record of service of 
 which any regiment might well be proud; the 
 Scots Fusiliers, the Eoyal Scots, the Scottish 
 Rifles, and the Scots Greys, of Crimean fame — 
 the only cavalry regiment from Scotland. 
 
226 A MINSTREL IN FRANCE 
 
 Since this war began other Highland regiments 
 have been raised beside those originally included 
 in the Highland Brigade. There are Scots from 
 Canada who wear the kilt and their own tartan and 
 cap. Every Highland regiment, of course, has its 
 own distinguishing tartan and cap. One of the 
 proudest moments of my life came when I heard 
 that the ninth battalion of the Highland Light 
 Infantry, which was raised in Glasgow, but has 
 its depot, where its recruits and new drafts are 
 trained, at Hamilton, was known as the Harry 
 Landers. That was because they had adopted the 
 Balmoral cap, with dice, that had become asso- 
 ciated with me because I had worn it so often and 
 so long on the stage in singing one of my 
 most famous and successful songs, *'I Love a 
 Lassie." 
 
 But in the trenches, of course, the Hieland 
 troops all look alike. They cling to their kilts — 
 or, rather, their kilts cling to them — but kilts and 
 jackets are all of khaki. If they wore the bright 
 plaids of the tartans they would be much too con- 
 spicuous a mark for the Germans, and so they have 
 to forswear their much loved colors when they are 
 actually at grips with Fritz. 
 
 I wear the kilt nearly always, myself, as I have 
 said. Partly I do so because it is my native cos- 
 tume, and I am proud of my Highland birth; 
 partly because I revel in the comfort of the cos- 
 tume. But it brings me some amusing experiences. 
 
A MINSTREL IN FRANCE 227 
 
 Very often I am asked a question that is, I pre- 
 sume, fired at many a Hieland soldier, intimate 
 though it is. 
 
 '*I say, Harry," someone will ask me, ''you 
 wear the kilt. Do you not wear anything under- 
 neath it?" 
 
 I do, myself. I wear a very short pair of 
 trunks, chiefly for reasons of modesty. So do 
 some of the soldiers. But if they do thej'^ must 
 provide it for themselves; no such garment is 
 served out to them with their uniform. And so 
 the vast majority of the men wear nothing but 
 their skins under the kilt. He is bare, that is, 
 from the waist to the hose — except for the kilt. 
 But that is garment enough! I'll tell ye so, and 
 I'm thinkin' I know ! 
 
 So clad the Highland soldier is a great deal more 
 comfortable and a great deal more sanely dressed, 
 I believe, than the city dweller who is trousered 
 and underweared within an inch of his life. I 
 think it is a matter of medical record, that can be 
 verified from the reports of the army surgeons, 
 that the kilted troops are among the healthiest in 
 the whole army. I knoAv that the Highland troops 
 are much less subject to abdominal troubles of all 
 sorts — colic and the like. The kilt lies snug and 
 warm around the stomach, in several thick layers, 
 and a more perfect protection from the cold has 
 never been devised for that highly delicate and 
 susceptible region of the human anatomy. 
 
228 A MINSTREL IN FRANCE 
 
 AVomen, particularly, are always asking me an- 
 other question. I have seen them eyeing me, in 
 cold weather, when I was walkin' around, comfort- 
 ably, in my kilt. And their eyes would wander to 
 my knees, and I would know before they opened 
 their mouths what it was that they were going to 
 say. 
 
 * ' Oh, Mr. Lauder, ' ' they would ask me. * ' Don 't 
 your poor knees get cold — ^with no coverings, ex- 
 posed to this bitter cold?" 
 
 Well, they never have ! That 's all I can tell you. 
 They have had the chance, in all sorts of bitter 
 weather. I am not thinking only of the compari- 
 tively mild mnters of Britain — although, up north, 
 in Scotland, we get some pretty severe winter 
 weather. But I have been in Western Canada, 
 and in the northwestern states of the United 
 States, Montana, North Dakota, Minnesota, where 
 the thermometer drops far below zero. And my 
 knees have never been cold yet. They do not 
 suffer from the cold any more than does my face, 
 which is as little covered and protected as they 
 — and for the same reason, I suppose. They are 
 used to the weather. 
 
 And w^hen it comes to the general question of 
 health, I am certain, from my own experience, that 
 the kilt is best. Several times, for one reason or 
 another, I have laid my kilts aside and put on 
 trousers. And each time I have been seized by 
 \dolent colds, and my life has been made wretched. 
 
A MINSTREL IN FRANCE 229 
 
 A good many soldiers of my acquaintance have 
 had the same experience. 
 
 Practical reasons aside, however, the Scots 
 soldier loves his kilt, and would fight like a steer 
 to keep from having it taken away from him, 
 should anyone be so foolish as to try such a per- 
 formance. He loves it, not only because it is warm 
 and comfortable, but because it is indistinguish- 
 ably associated in his rriind with some of the most 
 glorious pages of Scottish history. It is a sign 
 and symbol of his hameland to him. There have 
 been times, in Scotland, when all was not as peace- 
 ful in the country's relations with England as it 
 now is, when the loyal Scot who wore the kilt did 
 so knowing that he might be tried for his life for 
 doing so, since death had been the penalty ap- 
 pointed for that ''crime." 
 
 Aye, it is peace and friendship now between 
 Scot and Englishman. But that is not to say 
 that there is no a friendly rivalry between them 
 still. English regiments and Scots regiments 
 have a lot of fun with one another, and a bit rough 
 it gets, too, at times. But it is all in fun, and there 
 is no harm done. I have in mind a tale an officer 
 told me — though the men of whom he told it did 
 not know that an officer had any inkling of the 
 story. 
 
 The English soldiers are very fond of harping 
 on the old idea of the difficulty of making a Scots- 
 man see a joke. That is a base slander, I'll say, 
 
230 A MINSTREL IN FRANCE 
 
 but no matter. There were two regiments in rest 
 close to one another, one English and one Scots. 
 They met at the estaminet or pub in the nearby 
 town. And one day the Englishman put up a 
 great joke on some of the Scots, and did get a 
 little proof of that pet idea of theirs, for the Scots 
 were slow to see the joke. 
 
 Ah, weel, that was enough ! For days the Eng- 
 lish rang the changes on that joke, teasing the Hie- 
 landers and making sport of them. But at last, 
 when the worst of the tormentors were all assem- 
 bled together, two of the Scots came into the room 
 where they were havin' a wee drappie. 
 
 ''Mon, Sandy," said one of them, shaking his 
 head, ''I've been thinking what a sad thing that 
 would be! I hope it will no come to pass." 
 
 "Aye, that would be a sore business, indeed, 
 Tam," said Sandy, and he, too, shook his head. 
 
 And so they went on. The Englishmen stood it 
 as long as they could and then one turned to 
 Sandy. 
 
 ''What is it would be such a bad business!" he 
 asked. 
 
 ''Mon-mon," said Sandy. ''We've been think- 
 ing, Tam and I, what would become of England, 
 should Scotland make a separate peace?" 
 
 And it was generally conceded that the last 
 laugh was with the Scots in that affair! 
 
 My boy, John, had the same love for the kilt that 
 I had. He was proud and glad to wear the kilt, 
 
A MINSTREL IN FRANCE S31 
 
 and to lead men who did the same. While he was 
 in training at Bedford he organized a corps of 
 cyclists for dispatch-bearing work. He was a 
 crack cyclist himself, and it was a sport of which 
 he was passionately fond. So he took a great in- 
 terest in the corps, and it soon gained wide fame 
 for its efficiency. So true was that that the au- 
 thorities took note of the corps, and of John, who 
 was responsible for it, and he was asked to go to 
 France to take charge of organizing a similar 
 corps behind the front. But that would have in- 
 volved a transfer to a different branch of the 
 army, and detachment from his regiment. And — 
 it would have meant that he must doff his kilt. 
 Since he had the chance to decline — it was an offer, 
 not an order, that had come to him — he did, that 
 he might keep his kilt and stay with his own 
 men. 
 
 To my eyes there is no spectacle that begins to 
 be so imposing as the sight of a parade of Scottish 
 troops in full uniform. And it is the unanimous 
 testimony of German prisoners that this war has 
 brought them no more terrifying sight than the 
 charge of a kilted regiment. The Highlanders 
 come leaping forward, their bayonets gleaming, 
 shouting old battle cries that rang through the 
 glens years and centuries ago, and that have come 
 down to the descendants of the warriors of an 
 ancient time. The Highlanders love to use cold 
 steel ; the claymore was their old weapon, and the 
 
232 A MINSTREL IN FRANCE 
 
 bayonet is its nearest equivalent in modern war. 
 They are master hands with that, too — and the 
 bayonet is the one thing the Hun has no stomach 
 for at all. 
 
 Fritz is brave enough when he is under such 
 cover and shelter as the trenches give. And he 
 has shown a sort of stubborn courage when attack- 
 ing in massed formations — the Germans have 
 made terrible sacrifices, at times, in their offensive 
 efforts. But his blood turns to water in his veins 
 when he sees the big braw laddies from the Hie- 
 lands come swooping toward him, their kilts flap- 
 ping and their bayonets shining in whatever light 
 there is. Then he is mighty quick to throw up his 
 hands and shout: "Kamerad! Kamerad!" 
 
 I might go on all night telling you some of the 
 stories I heard along the front about the Scottish 
 soldiers. They illustrate and explain every phase 
 of his character. They exploit his humor, despite 
 that base slander to which I have already referred, 
 his courage, his stoicism. And, of course, a vast 
 fund of stories has sprung up that deals with the 
 proverbial thrift of the Scot ! There was one tale 
 that will bear repeating, perhaps. 
 
 Two Highlanders had captured a chicken — a live 
 chicken, not particularly fat, it may be, even a bit 
 scrawny, but still, a live chicken. That was a 
 prize, since the bird seemed to have no owner who 
 might get them into trouble with the military 
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A MINSTREL IN FRANCE 233 
 
 at once. But the other would have none of such a 
 summary plan. 
 
 ''No, no, Jimmy," he said, pleadingly, holding 
 the chicken protectingly. ''Let's keep her until 
 morning, and may be we will ha ' an egg as well ! ' ' 
 
 The other British soldiers call the Scots Jock, 
 invariably. The Englishman, or a soldier from 
 Wales or Ireland, as a rule, is called Tommy — 
 after the well-known M. Thomas Atkins. Some- 
 times, an Irishman will be Paddy and a Welsh- 
 man Taffy. But the Scot is always Jock. 
 
 Jock gave us a grand welcome at Aubigny. We 
 were all pretty tired, but when they told me I could 
 have an audience of seven thousand Scots soldiers 
 I forgot my weariness, and Hogge, Adam and I, 
 to say nothing of Johnson and the wee piano, 
 cleared for action, as you might say. The concert 
 was given in the picturesque grounds of the 
 chateau, which had been less harshly treated by 
 the war than many such beautiful old places. It 
 was a great experience to sing to so many men ; it 
 was far and away the largest house we had had 
 since we had landed at Boulogne. 
 
 After we left Aubigny, the chateau and that 
 great audience, we drove on as quickly as we could, 
 since it was now late, to the headquarters of Gen- 
 eral Mac , commanding the Fifteenth Division 
 
 — to which, of course, the men whom we had just 
 been entertaining belonged. I was to meet the 
 general upon my arrival. 
 
234 A MINSTREL IN FRANCE 
 
 That was a strange ride. It was pitch dark, and 
 we had some distance to go. There were mighty 
 few lights in evidence ; you do not advertise a road 
 to Fritz's airplanes when you are traveling roads 
 anywhere near the front, for he has guns of long 
 range, that can at times manage to strafe a road 
 that is supposed to be beyond the zone of fire with 
 a good deal of effect I have seldom seen a 
 blacker night than that. Objects along the side of 
 the road were nothing but shapeless lumps, and I 
 did not see how our drivers could manage at all to 
 find their way. 
 
 They seemed to have no difficulty, however, but 
 got along swimmingly. Indeed, they traveled 
 faster than they had in daylight. Perhaps that 
 was because we were not meeting troops to hold us 
 up along this road; I believe that, if we had, we 
 should have stopped and given them a concert, 
 even though Johnson could not have seen the keys 
 of his piano ! 
 
 It was just as well, however. I was delighted 
 at the reception that had been given to the Rever- 
 end Harry Lauder, M.P., Tour all through our 
 first day in France. But I was also extremely 
 tired, and the dinner and bed that loomed up ahead 
 of us, at the end of our long ride through the dark, 
 took on an aspect of enchantment as we neared 
 them. My voice, used as I was to doing a great 
 deal of singing, was fagged, and Hogge and Dr. 
 Adam were so hoarse that they could scarcely 
 
A MINSTREL IN FRANCE 235 
 
 speak at all. Even Jolmson was pretty well done 
 up ; he was still, theoretically, at least, on the sick 
 list, of course. And I ha' no doot that the wee 
 piano felt it was entitled to its rest, too ! 
 
 So we were all mighty glad when the cars 
 stopped at last. 
 
 "Well, here w^e are!" said Ca:ptain Godfrey, 
 who was the freshest of us all. ' * This is Trame- 
 court — General Headquarters for the Reverend 
 Harry Lauder, M.P., Tour while you are in 
 France, gentlemen. They have special facilities 
 for visitors here, and unless one of Fritz's air- 
 planes feels disposed to drop a bomb or two, you 
 won't be under fire, at night at least. Of course, 
 in the daytime " 
 
 He shrugged his shoulders. For our plans did 
 not involve a search for safe places. Still, it was 
 pleasant to know that we might sleep in fair com- 
 fort. 
 
 General Mac was waiting to welcome us, 
 
 and told us that dinner was ready and waiting, 
 which we were all glad to hear. It had been a 
 long, hard day, although the most interesting one, 
 by far, that I had ever spent. 
 
 We made short w^ork of dinner, and soon after- 
 ward they took us to our rooms. I don't know 
 what Hogge and Dr. Adam did, but I know I looked 
 happily at the comfortable bed that was in my 
 room. And I slept easily and without being 
 rocked to sleep that nicht ! 
 
CHAPTER XIX 
 
 THOUGH we were out of the zone of fire — 
 except for stray activities in which Boche 
 airplanes might indulge themselves, as our 
 hosts were frequently likely to remind us, lest we 
 fancy ourselves too secure, I suppose — we were 
 by no means out of hearing of the grim work that 
 was going on a few miles away. The big guns, 
 of course, are placed well behind the front line 
 trenches, and we could hear their sullen, constant 
 quarreling with Fritz and his artillery. The 
 rumble of the Hun guns came to us, too. But 
 that is a sound to which you soon get used, out 
 there in France. You pay no more heed to it 
 than you do to the noise the 'buses make in Lon- 
 don or the trams in Glasgow. 
 
 In the morning I got my first chance really to see 
 Tramecourt. The chateau is a lovely one, a fine 
 example of such places. It had not been knocked 
 about at all, and it looked much as it must have 
 done in times of peace. Practically all the old 
 furniture was still in the rooms, and there were 
 some fine old pictures on the walls that it gave me 
 great delight to see. Indeed, the rare old atmos- 
 phere of the chateau was restful and delightful in 
 a way that surprised me. 
 
 236 
 
A MINSTREL IN FRANCE 237 
 
 I had been in the presence of real war for just 
 one day. And yet I took pleasure in seeing again 
 the comforts and some of the luxuries of peace! 
 That gave me an idea of what this sort of place 
 must mean to men from the trenches. It must 
 seem like a bit of heaven to them to come back to 
 Aubigny or Tramecourt! Think of the contrast. 
 
 The chateau, which had been taken over by the 
 British army, belonged to the Comte de Chabot, or, 
 rather, to his wife, who had been Marquise de 
 Tramecourt, one of the French families of the old 
 regime. Although the old nobility of France has 
 ceased to have any legal existence under the Re- 
 public the old titles are still used as a matter of 
 courtesy, and they have a real meaning and value. 
 This was a pleasant place, this chateau of Trame- 
 court ; I should like to see it again in days of peace, 
 for then it must be even more delightful than it 
 was when I came to know it so well. 
 
 Tramecourt was to be our home, the headquar- 
 ters of the Reverend Harry Lauder, M.P., Tour, 
 during the rest of our stay at the front. We were 
 to start out each morning, in the cars, to cover 
 the ground appointed for that day, and to return' 
 at night. But it was understood that there would 
 be days when we would get too far away to return 
 at night, and other sleeping quarters would be 
 provided on such occasions. 
 
 I grew very fond of the place while I was there. 
 The steady pounding of the guns did not disturb 
 
238 A ]\riNSTREL IN FRANCE 
 
 my peace of nights, as a rule. But there was one 
 night Avhen I did lie awake for hours, listening. 
 Even to my unpracticed ear there w^as a different 
 quality in the sound of the cannon that night. It 
 had a fury, an intensity, that went beyond any- 
 thing I had heard. And later I learned that I 
 had made no mistake in thinking that there was 
 something unusual and portentous about the fire 
 that night. What I had listened to was the pre- 
 liminary drum fire and bombardment that pre- 
 pared the way for the great attack at Messines, 
 near Ypres — the most terrific bombardment re- 
 corded in all history, up to that time. 
 
 The fire that night was like a guttural chant. 
 It had a real rhythm ; the beat of the guns could 
 almost be counted. And at dawn there came the 
 terrific explosion of the great mine that had been 
 prepared, which was the signal for the charge. 
 Mr. Lloyd-George, I am told, knowing the exact 
 moment at which the mine was to be exploded, 
 was awake, at home in England, and heard it, 
 across the channel, and so did many folk who did 
 not have his exceptional sources of information. 
 I was one of them ! And I wondered greatly until 
 I was told what had been done. That was one of 
 the most brilliantly and successfully executed 
 attacks of the whole war, and vastly important in 
 its results, although it was, compared to the great 
 battles on the Somme and up north, near Arras, 
 only a small and minor operation. 
 
A MINSTREL IN FRANCE 239 
 
 We settled down, very quickly indeed, into a 
 regular routine. Captain Godfrey was, for all the 
 world, like the manager of a traveling company in 
 America. He mapped out our routes, and he took 
 care of all the details. No troupe, covering a long 
 route of one night stands in the Western or South- 
 ern United States, ever worked harder than did 
 Hogge, Adam and I — to say nothing of Godfrey 
 and our soldier chauffeurs. We did not lie abed 
 late in the mornings, but were up soon after day- 
 light. Breakfast out of the way, we would find 
 the cars waiting and be off. 
 
 We had, always, a definite route mapped out for 
 the day, but we never adhered to it exactly. I was 
 still particularly pleased with the idea of giving 
 a roadside concert whenever an audience ap- 
 peared, and there was no lack of willing listeners. 
 Soon after we had set out from Tramecourt, no 
 matter in which direction we happened to be 
 going, we were sure to run into some body of 
 soldiers. 
 
 There was no longer any need of orders. As 
 soon as the chauffeur of the leading car spied a 
 blotch of khaki against the road, on went his 
 brakes, and we would come sliding into the midst 
 of the troops and stop. Johnson would be out 
 before his car had fairly stopped, and at work 
 upon the lashings of the little piano, with me to 
 help him. And Hogge would already be clearing 
 his throat to begin his speech. ^ 
 
24<0 A MINSTREL IN FRANCE 
 
 The Reverend Harry Lauder, M.P., Tour, em- 
 ployed no press agent, and it could not boast of 
 a bill poster. No boardings were covered with 
 great colored sheets advertising its coming. And 
 yet the whole front seemed to know that we were 
 about. The soldiers we met along the roads wel- 
 comed us gladly, but they were no longer, after 
 the first day or two, surprised to see us. They 
 acted, rather, as if they had been expecting us. 
 Our advent was like that of a circus, coming to a 
 country town for a long heralded and advertised 
 engagement. Yet all the puffing that we got was 
 by word of mouth. 
 
 There were some wonderful choruses along 
 those war-worn roads wo traveled. "Eoamin' in 
 the Gloamin' " was still my featured song, and all 
 the soldiers seemed to know the tune and the 
 words, and to take a particular delight in coming 
 in mth me as I swung into the chorus. We never 
 passed a detachment of soldiers without stopping 
 to give them a concert, no matter how it disar- 
 ranged Captain Godfrey's plans. But he was en- 
 tirely willing. It was these men, on their way to 
 the trenches, or on the way out of them, bound 
 for rest billets, whom, of course, I was most 
 anxious to reach, since I felt that they were the 
 ones I was most likely to be able to help and 
 cheer up. 
 
 The scheduled concerts were practically all at 
 the various rest billets we visited. These were, 
 
A MINSTREL IN FRANCE 241 
 
 in the main, at chateaux. Always, at such a place, 
 I had a double audience. The soldiers would 
 make a great ring, as close to me as they could 
 get, and around them, again, in a sort of outer 
 circle, were French villagers and peasants, vastly 
 puzzled and mystified, but eager to be pleased, and 
 very ready with their applause. 
 
 It must have been hard for them to make up 
 their minds about me, if they gave me much 
 thought. My kilt confused them; most of them 
 thought I Avas a soldier from some regiment they 
 had not yet seen, wearing a new and strange 
 uniform. For my kilt, I need not say, was 
 not military, nor was the rest of my garb 
 warlike ! 
 
 I gave, during that time, as many as seven con- 
 certs in a day. I have sung as often as thirty-five 
 times in one day, and on such occasions I was 
 thankful that I had a strong and durable voice, 
 not easily worn out, as well as a stout physique. 
 Hogge and Dr. Adam appeared as often as I did, 
 but they didn't have to sing! 
 
 Nearly all the songs I gave them were ditties 
 they had known for a long time. The one excep- 
 tion was the tune that had been so popular in 
 ** Three Cheers" — the one called "The Laddies 
 Who Fought and Won." Few of the boys had 
 been home since I had been singing that song, but 
 it has a catching lilt, and they were soon able to 
 join in the chorus and send it thundering along. 
 
242 A MINSTREL IN FRANCE 
 
 They took to it, too — and well they might ! It was 
 of such as they that it was written. 
 
 We covered perhaps a hundred miles a day 
 during this period. That does not sound like a 
 great distance for high-powered motor cars, but 
 we did a good deal of stopping, you see, here and 
 there and everywhere. We were roaming around 
 in the backwater of war, you might say. We were 
 out of the main stream of carnage, but it was not 
 out of our minds and our hearts. Evidences of it 
 in plenty came to us each day. And each day we 
 were a little nearer to the front line trenches than 
 we had come the day before. We were working 
 gradually toward that climax that I had been 
 promised. 
 
 I was always eager to talk to officers and men, 
 and I found many chances to do so. It seemed to 
 me that I could never learn enough about the sol- 
 diers. I listened avidly to every story that was 
 told to me, and was always asking for more. The 
 younger officers, especially, it interested me to 
 talk with. One day I was talking to such a lieu- 
 tenant. 
 
 ''How is the spirit of your men?" I asked him. 
 
 I am going to teU you his answer, just as he 
 made it. 
 
 ' * Their spirit ? " he said, musingly. ' ' Well, just 
 before we came to this billet to rest we were in 
 a tightish corner on the Somme. One of my 
 youngest men was hit — a shell came near to tak- 
 
A MINSTREL IN FRANCE 243 
 
 ing his arm clean off, so that it was left just 
 hanging to his shoulders. He was only about 
 eighteen years old, poor chap. It was a bad 
 wound, but, as sometimes happens, it didn't make 
 him unconscious — then. And when he realized 
 what had happened to him, and saw his arm hang- 
 ing limp, so that he could know he was bound to 
 lose it, he began to cry. 
 
 '' 'What's the trouble T I asked him, hurrying 
 over to him. I was sorry enough for him, but 
 you've got to keep up the morale of your men. 
 * Soldiers don't cry when they're wounded, my 
 lad.' 
 
 '* 'I'm not crying because I'm wounded, sir!' 
 he fired back at me. And I won't say he was quite 
 as respectful as a private is supposed to be when 
 he's talking to an officer! 'Just take a look at 
 that, sir!' And he pointed to his wound. And 
 then he cried out : 
 
 " 'And I haven't killed a German yet!' he said, 
 bitterly. 'Isn't that hard lines, sir?' 
 
 "That is the spirit of my men!" 
 
 I made many good friends while I was roaming 
 around the country just behind the front. I won- 
 der how many of them I shall keep — how many of 
 them death will spare to shake my hand again 
 when peace is restored! There was a Gordon 
 Highlander, a fine young officer, of whom I be- 
 came particularly fond while I was at Trame- 
 court. I had a very long talk with him, and I 
 
244 A MINSTREL IN FRANCE 
 
 thought of him often, afterward, because he made 
 me think of John. He was just such a fine young 
 type of Briton as my boy had been. 
 
 Months later, when I was back in Britain, and 
 giving a performance at Manchester, there was a 
 knock at the door of my dressing-room. 
 
 ''Come in!" I called. 
 
 The door was pushed open and a man came in 
 with great blue glasses covering his eyes. He had 
 a stick, and he groped his way toward me. I did 
 not know him at all at first — and then, suddenly, 
 with a shock, I recognized him as my fine young 
 Gordon Highlander of the rest billet near Trame- 
 court. 
 
 "My God — it's you, Mac!" I said, deeply 
 shocked. 
 
 "Yes," he said, quietly. His voice had changed, 
 greatly. "Yes, it's I, Harry." 
 
 He was almost totally blind, and he did not 
 knoAV whether his eyes would get better or worse. 
 
 "Do you remember all the lads you met at the 
 billet where you came to sing for us the first time 
 I met you, Harry T' he asked me. "Well, they're 
 all gone — I'm the only one who's left — the only 
 one ! ' ' 
 
 There was grief in his voice. But there was 
 nothing like complaint, nor was there, nor self- 
 pity, either, when he told me about his eyes and 
 his doubts as to whether he would ever really see 
 again. He passed his own troubles off lightly, as 
 
A MINSTREL IN FRANCE 245 
 
 if they did not matter at all. He preferred to tell 
 me about those of his friends whom I had met, 
 and to give me the story of how this one and that 
 one had gone. And he is like many another. I 
 know a great many men who have been maimed 
 in the war, but I have still to hear one of them 
 complain. They were brave enough, God knows, 
 in battle, but I think they are far braver when 
 thej^ come home, shattered and smashed, and do 
 naught but smile at their troubles. 
 
 The only sort of complaining you hear from 
 British soldiers is over minor discomforts in the 
 field. Tommy and Jock will grouse when they 
 are so disposed. They will grow^l about the food 
 and about this trivial trouble and that. But it 
 is never about a really serious matter that you 
 hear them talking ! 
 
 I have never yet met a man who had been per- 
 manently disabled who was not grieving because 
 he could not go back. And it is strange but true 
 that men on leave get homesick for the trenches 
 sometimes. They miss the companionships they 
 have had in the trenches. I think it must be be- 
 cause all the best men in the world are in France 
 that they feel so. But it is true, I know, because 
 I have not heard it once, but a dozen times. 
 
 Men will dream of home and Blighty for weeks 
 and months. They will grouse because they can- 
 not get leave — though, half the time, they have 
 not even asked for it, because they feel that their 
 
246 A MINSTREL IN FRANCE 
 
 place is where the fighting is! And then, when 
 they do get that longed-for leave, they are half 
 sorry to go — and they come back like boys coming 
 home from school ! 
 
 A great reward awaits the men who fight 
 through this war and emerge alive and triumphant 
 at its end. They will dictate the conduct of the 
 world for many a year. The men who stayed at 
 home when they should have gone may as well 
 prepare to drop.their voices to a very low whisper 
 in the affairs of mankind. For the men who will 
 be heard, who will make themselves heard, are 
 out there in France. 
 
CHAPTER XX 
 
 IT was seven o 'clock in the morning of a Godly 
 and a beautiful day when we set out from 
 Tramecourt for Arras. Arras, that town so 
 famous now in British history and in the annals 
 of this war, had been one of our principal objec- 
 tives from the outset, but we had not known when 
 we were to see it. Arras had been the pivot of 
 the great northern drive in the spring — the drive 
 that Hindenburg had fondly supposed he had 
 spoiled by his ''strategic" retreat in the region of 
 the Somme, begun just before the British and the 
 French were ready to attack. 
 
 What a bonnie morning that was, to be sure I 
 The sun was out, after some rainy days, and glad 
 we all were to see it. The land waL sprayed with 
 silver light ; the air was as sweet and as soft and 
 as warm as a baby's breath. And the cars seemed 
 to leap forward, as if they, too, loved the day and 
 the air. They ate up the road. They seemed to 
 take hold of its long, smooth surface — they are 
 grand roads, over yon, in France — and reel it up 
 in underneath their wheels as if it were a tape. 
 
 This time we did little stopping, no matter how 
 good the reason looked. We went hurtling through 
 villages and towns we had not seen before. Our 
 
 247 
 
248 A MINSTREL IN FRANCE 
 
 horn and our siren shrieked a warning as we shot 
 through. And it seemed wrong. They looked so 
 peaceful and so quiet, did those French towns, on 
 that summer's morning! Peaceful, aye, and lan- 
 guorous, after all the bustle and haste we had 
 been seeing. The houses were set in pretty en- 
 casements of bright foliage and they looked as 
 though they had been painted against the back- 
 ground of the landscape with water colors. 
 
 It was hard to believe that war had passed that 
 way. It had ; there were traces everywhere of its 
 grim visitation. But here its heavy hand had 
 been laid lightly upon town and village. It was 
 as if a wave of poison gas of the sort the Germans 
 brought into war had been turned aside by a 
 friendly breeze, arising in the very nick of time. 
 Little harm had been done along the road we trav- 
 eled. But the thunder of the guns was always in 
 our ears; we could hear the steady, throbbing 
 rhythm of the cannon, muttering away to the 
 north and east. 
 
 It was very warm, and so, after a time, as we 
 passed through a village, someone — Hogge, I 
 think — suggested that a bottle of ginger beer all 
 around would not be amiss. The idea seemed to 
 be regarded as an excellent one, so Godfrey spoke 
 to the chauffeur beside him, and we stopped. We 
 had not known, at first, that there were troops in 
 town. But there were — Highlanders. And they 
 came swarming out. I was recognized at once. 
 
A MINSTREL IN FRANCE 249 
 
 *'Well, here's old Harry Lauder!" cried one 
 braw laddie. 
 
 ''Come on, Harry — gie us a song!" they 
 shouted. "Let's have 'Roamin' in the Gloamin', 
 Harry! Gie us the Bonnie Lassie! We ha' na' 
 heard 'The Laddies Who Fought and Won,' 
 Harry. They tell us that's a braw song!" 
 
 We were not really supposed to give any road- 
 side concerts that day, but how was I to resist 
 them! So we pulled up into a tiny side street, 
 just off the market square, and I sang several 
 songs for them. We saved time by not unlimber- 
 ing the wee piano, and I sang, without accompani- 
 ment, standing up in the car. But they seemed 
 to be as well pleased as though I had had the 
 orchestra of a big theater to support me, and all 
 the accompaniments and trappings of the stage. 
 They were very loath to let me go, and I don't 
 know how much time we really saved by not giv- 
 ing our full and regular programme. For, before 
 I had done, they had me telling stories, too. 
 Captain Godfrey was smiling, but he was glanc- 
 ing at his watch too, and he nudged me, at last, 
 and made me realize that it was time for us to 
 go on, no matter how interesting it might be to 
 stay. 
 
 "I'll be good," I promised, with a grin, as we 
 drove on. "We shall go straight on to Arras 
 now ! ' ' 
 
 But we did not. We met a bunch of engineers 
 
250 A MINSTREL IN FRANCE 
 
 on the road, after a space, and they looked so 
 wistful when we told them we maun be getting 
 right along, without stopping to sing for them, 
 that I had not the heart to disappoint them. So 
 we got out the wee piano and I sang them a few 
 songs. It seemed to mean so much to those boys 
 along the roads! I think they enjoyed the con- 
 certs even more than did the great gatherings 
 that were assembled for me at the rest camps. A 
 concert was more of a surprise for them, more 
 of a treat. The other laddies liked them, too — 
 aye, they liked them fine. But they would have 
 been prepared, sometimes ; they would have been 
 looking forward to the fun. And the laddies 
 along the roads took them as a man takes a grand 
 bit of scenery, coming before his eyes, suddenly, 
 as he turns a bend in a road he does not ken. 
 
 As for myself, I felt that I was becoming quite 
 a proficient open-air performer by now. My 
 voice was standing the strain of singing under 
 such novel and difficult conditions much better 
 than I had thought it could. And I saw that I 
 must be at heart and by nature a minstrel! I 
 know I got more pleasure from those concerts 
 I gave as a minstrel wandering in France than 
 did the soldiers or any of those who heard me ! 
 
 I have been before the public for many years. 
 Applause has always been sweet to me. It is to 
 any artist, and when one tells you it is not you 
 may set it down in your hearts that he or she is 
 
A MINSTREL IN FRANCE 251 
 
 telling less than the truth. It is the breath of life 
 to us to know that folks are pleased by what we 
 do for them. Why else would we go on about our 
 tasks? I have had much applause. I have had 
 many honors. I have told you about that great 
 and overwhelming reception that greeted me when 
 I sailed into Sydney Harbor. In Britain, in 
 America, I have had greetings that have brought 
 tears into my eye and such a lump into my throat 
 that until it had gone down I could not sing or say 
 a word of thanks. 
 
 But never has applause sounded so sweet to 
 me as it did along those dusty roads in France, 
 with the poppies gleaming red and the corn- 
 flowers blue through the yellow fields of grain 
 beside the roads! They cheered me, do you ken 
 — those tired and dusty heroes of Britain along 
 the French roads ! They cheered as they squatted 
 down in a circle about us, me in my kilt, and 
 Johnson tinkling away as if his very life depended 
 upon it, at his wee piano! Ah, those wonderful, 
 wonderful soldiers! The tears come into my 
 eyes, and my heart is sore and heavy within me 
 when I think that mine was the last voice many 
 of them ever heard lifted in song ! They were on 
 their way to the trenches, so many of those lad- 
 dies who stopped for a song along the road. And 
 when men are going into the trenches they know, 
 and all who see them passing know, that some 
 there are who will never come out. 
 
252 A MINSTREL IN FRANCE 
 
 Despite all the interruptions, though, it was not 
 much after noon when we reached Blangy, Here, 
 in that suburb of Arras, were the headquarters 
 of the Ninth Division, and as I stepped out of the 
 car I thrilled to the knowledge that I was tread- 
 ing ground forever to be famous as the starting- 
 point of the Highland Brigade in the attack of 
 April 9, 1917. 
 
 And now I saw Arras, and, for the first time, 
 a town that had been systematically and ruth- 
 lessly shelled. There are no words in any tongue 
 I know to give you a fitting picture of the devasta- 
 tion of Arras. ''Awful" is a puny word, a thin 
 one, a feeble one. I pick impotently at the cover- 
 lid of my imagination when I try to frame lan- 
 guage to make you understand what it was I saw 
 when I came to Arras on that bright June day. 
 
 I think the old city of Arras should never be 
 rebuilt. I doubt if it can be rebuilt, indeed. But 
 I think that, whether or no, a golden fence should 
 be built around it, and it should forever and for 
 all time be preserved as a monument to the wan- 
 ton wickedness of the Hun. It should serve and 
 stand, in its stark desolation, as a tribute, dedi- 
 cated to the Kultur of Germany. No painter 
 could depict the frightfulness of that city of the 
 dead. No camera could make you see as it is. 
 Only your eyes can do that for you. And even 
 then you cannot realize it all at once. Your eyes 
 are more merciful than the truth and the Hun. 
 
A MINSTREL IN FRANCE 253 
 
 The Germans shelled Arras long after there 
 was any military reason for doing so. The sheer, 
 wanton love of destruction must have moved 
 them. They had destroyed its military useful- 
 ness, but still they poured shot and shell into the 
 town. I went through its streets — the Germans 
 had been pushed back so far by then that the city 
 was no longer under steady fire. But they had 
 done their work ! 
 
 Nobody was living in Arras. No one could 
 have lived there. The houses had been smashed 
 to pieces. The pavements were dust and rubble. 
 But there was life in the city. Through the ruins 
 our men moved as ceaselessly and as restlessly as 
 the tenants of an ant hill suddenly upturned by 
 a plowshare. Soldiers were every^vhere, and 
 guns — guns, guns ! For Arras had a new impor- 
 tance now. It was a center for many roads. 
 Some of the most important supply roads of this 
 sector of the front converged in Arras. 
 
 Trains of ammunition trucks, supply carts and 
 wagons of all sorts, great trucks laden with jam 
 and meat and flour, all were passing every mo- 
 ment. There was an incessant din of horses ' feet 
 and the steady crunch — crunch of heavy boots as 
 the soldiers marched through the rubble and the 
 brickdust. And I knew that all this had gone on 
 while the town was still under fire. Indeed, even 
 now, an occasional shell from some huge gun came 
 crashing into the to^vn, and there would be a new 
 
254 A MINSTREL IN FRANCE 
 
 cloud of dust arising to mark its landing, a new 
 collapse of some weakened wall. Warning signs 
 were everywhere about, bidding all who saw them 
 to beware of the imminent collapse of some heap 
 of masonry. 
 
 I saw what the Germans had left of the stately 
 old Cathedral, and of the famous Cloth Hall — one 
 of the very finest examples of the guild halls of 
 medieval times. Goths — Vandals — no, it is unfair 
 to seek such names for the Germans. They 
 have established themselves as the masters of all 
 time in brutality and in destruction. There is no 
 need to call them anything but Germans. The 
 Cloth Hall was almost human in its pitiful appeal 
 to the senses and the imagination. The German 
 fire had picked it to pieces, so that it stood in a 
 stark outline, like some carcase picked bare by a 
 vulture. 
 
 Our soldiers who were quartered nearby lived 
 outside the town in huts. They were the men of 
 the Highland Brigade, and the ones I had hoped 
 and wished, above all others, to meet when I came 
 to France. They received our party with the 
 greatest enthusiasm, and they were especially 
 flattering when they greeted me. One of the 
 Highland officers took me in hand immediately, 
 to show me the battlefield. 
 
 The ground over which we moved had literally 
 been churned by shell-fire. It was neither dirt 
 nor mud that we walked upon; it was a sort of 
 
A MINSTREL IN FRANCE S55 
 
 powder. The very soil had been decomposed into 
 a fine dust by the terrific pounding it had re- 
 ceived. The dust rose and got into our eyes and 
 mouths and nostrils. There was a lot of sneez- 
 ing among the members of the Reverend Harry 
 Lauder, M.P., Tour that day at Arras ! And the 
 wire! It was strewn in every direction, with 
 seeming aimlessness. Heavily barbed it was, and 
 bad stuff to get caught in. One of the great 
 reasons for the preliminary bombardment that 
 usually precedes an attack is to cut this wire. If 
 charging men are caught in a bad tangle of wire 
 they can be wiped out by machine gun-fire before 
 they can get clear. 
 
 I asked a Highlander, one day, how long he 
 thought the war would last. 
 
 "Forty years," he said, never batting an eye- 
 lid. "We'll be fighting another year, and then 
 it'll tak us thirty-nine years more to wind up all 
 the wire!" 
 
 Off to my right there was a network of steel 
 strands, and as I gazed at it I saAv a small dark 
 object hanging from it and fluttering in the 
 breeze. I was curious enough to go over, and I 
 picked my way carefully through the maze-like 
 network of wire to see wiiat it might be. When 
 I came close I saw it was a bit of cloth, and imme- 
 diately I recognized the tartan of the Black 
 Watch — the famous Forty-second. Mud and blood 
 held that bit of cloth fastened to the wire, as if 
 
256 A MINSTREL IN FRANCE 
 
 by a cement. Plainly, it had been torn from a 
 kilt. 
 
 I stood for a moment, looking do^vn at that bit 
 of tartan, flapping in the soft summer breeze. 
 And as I stood I could look out and over the 
 landscape, dotted with a very forest of little 
 wooden crosses, that marked the last resting-place 
 of the men who had charged across this maze of 
 wire and died within it. They rose, did those 
 rough crosses, like sheathed swords out of the 
 wild, luxurious jungle of grass that had grown up 
 in that blood-drenched soil. I wondered if the 
 owner of the bit of tartan were still safe or if he 
 lay under one of the crosses that I saw. 
 
 There was room for sad speculation here! 
 "Who had he been ? Had he swept on, leaving that 
 bit of his kilt as evidence of his passing? Had 
 he been one of those who had come through the 
 attack, gloriously, to victory, so that he could 
 look back upon that day so long as he lived? Or 
 was he dead — ^perhaps within a hundred yards of 
 where I stood and gazed down at that relic of 
 him? Had he folks at hame in Scotland who had 
 gone through days of anguish on his account — 
 such days of anguish as I had known? 
 
 I asked a soldier for some wire clippers, and I 
 cut the wire on either side of that bit of tartan, 
 and took it, just as it was. And as I put the wee 
 bit of a brave man's kilt away I kissed the blood- 
 

 
 
 u\ 
 
 :;'^<r'^ ^ 
 
 " 
 
 
 ■' 
 
 V 
 
 \ -— - 
 
 *:^t' 
 
 ! \ 
 
 Berlin struck off 
 this medal when the 
 "Lusitania"was siink : 
 on one side the brutal 
 catastrophe, on the 
 other the grinning 
 death's head Teuton- 
 ieally exultant. "And 
 so now I preach the 
 war on the Hun my 
 own way," says Harry 
 Lauder. 
 
 Harry Lauder 
 " Laird of Dunoon." 
 
A MINSTREL IN FRANCE 257 
 
 stained tartan, for Auld Lang Syne, and thought 
 of what a tale it could tell if it could only 
 speak! 
 
 *'Ha' ye seen a' the men frae the braes and the glen, 
 Ha' ye seen them a' marehin' awa'? 
 Ha' ye seen a' the men frae the wee but-an'-beu, 
 And the gallants frae mansion and ha'?" 
 
 I have said before that I do not want to tell 
 you of the tales of atrocities that I heard in 
 France. I heard plenty — aye^ and terrible they 
 were! But I dinna wish to harrow the feelings 
 of those who read more than I need, and I will 
 leave that task to those who saw for themselves 
 with their eyes, when I had but my ears to serve 
 me. Yet there was one blood-chilling story that 
 my boy John told to me, and that the finding of 
 that bit of Black Watch tartan brings to my mind. 
 He told it to me as we sat before the fire in my 
 wee hoose at Dunoon, just a few nights before he 
 went back to the front for the last time. We were 
 talking of the war — what else was there to talk 
 aboot? 
 
 It was seldom that John touched on the harsher 
 things he knew about the war. He preferred, as 
 a rule, to tell me stories of the courage and the 
 devotion of his men, and of the light way that 
 they turned things when there was so much chance 
 for grief and care. 
 
 **One night. Dad," he said, '*we had a battalion 
 
258 A MINSTREL IN FRANCE 
 
 of the Black Watch on our right, and they made a 
 pretty big raid on the German trenches. It devel- 
 oped into a sizable action for any other war, but 
 one trifling enough and unimportant in this one. 
 The Germans had been readier than the Black 
 Watch had supposed, and had reinforcements 
 ready, and sixty of the Highlanders were cap- 
 tured. The Germans took them back into their 
 trenches, and stripped them to the skin. Not a 
 stitch or a rag of clothing did they leave them, 
 and, though it was April, it was a bitter night, 
 with a wind to cut even a man warmly clad to the 
 bone. 
 
 "All night they kept them there, standing at 
 attention, stark naked, so that they were half- 
 frozen when the gray, cold light of the dawn be- 
 gan to show behind them in the east. And then the 
 Germans laughed, and told their prisoners to go. 
 
 " 'Go on — go back to your own trenches, as you 
 are!' they said. 
 
 ' ' The laddies of the Black Watch could scarcely 
 believe their ears. There was about seventy-five 
 yards between the two trench lines at that point, 
 and the No Man's Land was rough going — all 
 shell-pitted as it was. By that time, too, of 
 course, German repair parties had mended all the 
 wire before their trenches. So they faced a rough 
 journej^, all naked as they were. But they 
 started. 
 
 **They got through the wire, with the Germans 
 
A MINSTREL IN FRANCE 259 
 
 laughing fit to kill themselves at the sight of the 
 streaks of blood showing on their white skins as 
 the wire got in its work. They laughed at them, 
 Dad! And then, when they were halfway across 
 the No Man's Land they understood, at last, why 
 the Germans had let them go. For fire was 
 opened on them with machine guns. Everyone 
 was mowed down — everyone of those poor, naked, 
 bleeding lads was killed — murdered by that treach- 
 erous fire from behind! 
 
 "We heard all the details of that dirty bit of 
 treachery later. We captured some German pris- 
 oners from that very trench. Fritz is a decent 
 enough sort, sometimes, and there were men there 
 whose stomachs were turned by that sight, so that 
 they were glad to creep over, later, and surrender. 
 They told us, with tears in their eyes. But we 
 had known, before that. We had needed no wit- 
 nesses except the bodies of the boys. It had been 
 too dark for the men in our trenches to see what 
 was going on — and a burst of machine gun-fire, 
 along the trenches, is nothing to get curious or 
 excited about. But those naked bodies, lying 
 there in the No Man's Land, had told us a good 
 deal. 
 
 ' ' Dad — that was an awful sight ! I was in com- 
 mand of one of the burying parties we had to 
 send out." 
 
 That w^as the tale I thought of when I found 
 that bit of the Black Watch tartan. And I remem- 
 
260 A MINSTREL IN FRANCE 
 
 bered, too, that it was with the Black Watch that 
 John Poe, the famous American football player 
 from Princeton, met his death in a charge. He 
 had been offered a commission, but he preferred 
 to stay with the boys in the ranks. 
 
CHAPTER XXI 
 
 WE left our motor cars behind us in Arras, 
 for to-day we were to go to a front-line 
 trench, and the climax of my whole trip, 
 so far as I could foresee, was at hand. Johnson 
 and the wee piano had to stay behind, too — ^we 
 could not expect to carry even so tiny an instru- 
 ment as that into a front-line trench ! Once more 
 we had to don steel helmets, but there was a great 
 difference between these and the ones we had had 
 at Vimy Ridge. Mine fitted badly, and kept sliding 
 down over my ears, or else slipping way down to 
 the back of my head. It must have given me a 
 grotesque look, and it was most uncomfortable. 
 So I decided I would take it off and carry it for a 
 while. 
 
 ''You'd better keep it on, Harry," Captain 
 Godfrey ad^4sed me. ''This district is none too 
 safe, even right here, and it gets worse as we go 
 along. A whistling Percy may come along look- 
 ing for you any minute." 
 
 That is the name of a shell that is good enough 
 to advertise its coming by a whistling, shrieking 
 sound. I could hear Percies whistling all around, 
 and see them spattering up the ground as they 
 
 261 
 
262 A MINSTREL IN FRANCE 
 
 struck, not so far away, but they did not seem to 
 be coming in our direction. So I decided I would 
 take a chance. 
 
 ''Well," I said, as I took the steel hat off, ''I'll 
 just keep this bonnet handy and slip it on if I see 
 Percy coming." 
 
 But later I was mighty glad of even an ill-fitting 
 steel helmet ! 
 
 Several staff officers from the Highland Bri- 
 gade had joined the Reverend Harry Lauder, 
 M.P., Tour by now. Affable, pleasant gentlemen 
 they were, and very eager to show us all there 
 was to be seen. And they had more sights to show 
 their visitors than most hosts have ! 
 
 We were on ground now that had been held by 
 the Germans before the British had surged for- 
 ward all along this line in the April battle. Their 
 old trenches, abandoned now, ran like deep fis- 
 sures through the soil. They had been pretty 
 well blasted to pieces by the British bombard- 
 ment, but a good many of their deep, concrete 
 dugouts had survived. These were not being 
 used by the British here, but were saved in good 
 repair as show places, and the officers who were 
 our guides took us down into some of them. 
 
 Rarely comfortable they must have been, too! 
 They had been the homes of German officers, and 
 the Hun officers did themselves very well indeed 
 when they had the chance. They had electric 
 light in their cave houses. To be sure they had 
 
A MINSTREL IN FRANCE 263^ 
 
 used German wall paper, and atrociously ugly 
 stuff it was, too. But it pleased their taste, no 
 doubt. Mightily amazed some of Fritz's officers 
 must have been, back in April, as they sat and 
 took their ease in these luxurious quarters, to 
 have Jock come tumbling in upon them, a grenade 
 in each hand ! 
 
 Our men might have used these dugouts, and 
 been snug enough in them, but they preferred air 
 and ventilation, and lived in little huts above the 
 ground. I left our party and went around among 
 them and, to my great satisfaction, found, as I 
 had been pretty sure I would, a number of old 
 acquaintances and old admirers who came crowd- 
 ing around me to shake hands. I made a great 
 collection of souvenirs here, for they insisted on 
 pressing trophies upon me. 
 
 *'Tak them, Harry," said one after another. 
 "We can get plenty more where they came 
 from ! ' ' 
 
 One laddie gave me a helmet with a bullet hole 
 through the skip, and another presented me with 
 one of the most interesting souvenirs of all I car- 
 ried home from France. That was a German 
 sniper's outfit. It consisted of a suit of overalls, 
 waterproofed. If a man had it on he would be 
 completely covered, from head to foot, with just 
 a pair of slits for his eyes to peep out of, and 
 another for his mouth, so that he could breathe. 
 It was cleverly painted the color of a tree — part 
 
264 A MINSTREL IN FRANCE 
 
 of it like the bark, part green, like leaves sprout- 
 ing from it. 
 
 "Eh, Jock," I asked the laddie who gave it to 
 me. "A thing like yon's hard to be getting, I'm 
 thinking?" 
 
 ''Oh, not so very hard," he answered, care- 
 lessly. ''You've got to be a good shot." And he 
 wore medals that showed he was! "All you've 
 got to do, Harry, is to kill the chap inside it be- 
 fore he kills you! The fellow who used to own 
 that outfit you've got hid himself in the fork of 
 a tree, and, as you may guess, he looked like a 
 branch of the tree itself. He was pretty hard to 
 spot. But I got suspicious of him, from the way 
 bullets were coming over steadily, and I decided 
 that that tree hid a sniper. 
 
 "After that it was just a question of being pa- 
 tient. It was no so long before I was sure, and 
 then I waited — ^until I saw that branch move as 
 no branch of a tree ever did move. I fired then 
 — and got him! He was away outside of his lines, 
 and that nicht I slipped out and brought back this 
 outfit. I wanted to see how it was made." 
 
 An old, grizzled sergeant of the Black Watch 
 gave me a German revolver. 
 
 "How came you to get this?" I asked him. 
 
 "It was an acceedent, Harry," he said. "We 
 were raiding a trench, do you ken, and I was in 
 a sap when a German officer came along, and we 
 bumped into one another. He looked at me, and 
 
A MINSTREL IN FRANCE 265 
 
 I at him. I think he was goin' to say something, 
 but I dinna ken what it was he had on his mind. 
 That was his revolver you've got in your hand 
 now." 
 
 And then he thrust his hand into his pocket. 
 
 "Here's the watch he used to carry, too," he 
 said. It was a thick, fat-bellied affair, of solid 
 gold. "It's a bit too big, but it's a rare good 
 timekeeper." 
 
 Soon after that an officer gave me another 
 trophy that is, perhaps, even more interesting 
 than the sniper's suit. It is rarer, at least. It is 
 a small, sweet-toned bell that used to hang in a 
 wee church in the small village of Athies, on the 
 Scarpe, about a mile and a half from Arras. The 
 Germans wiped out church and village, but in 
 some odd way they found the bell and saved it. 
 They hung it in their trenches, and it was used 
 to sound a gas alarm. On both sides a signal is 
 given when the sentry sees that there is to be a 
 gas attack, in order that the men may have time 
 to don the clumsy gas masks that are the only 
 protection against the deadly fumes. The wee 
 bell is eight inches high, maybe, and I have never 
 heard a lovelier tone. 
 
 ' ' That bell has rung men to worship, and it has 
 rung them to death," said the officer who gave it 
 to me. 
 
 Presently I was called back to my party, after 
 I had spent some time with the lads in their huts. 
 
^Q6 A MINSTREL IN FRANCE 
 
 A general had joined the party now, and he told 
 me, with a smile, that I was to go up to the 
 trenches, if I cared to do so. I will not say I was 
 not a bit nervous, hut I was glad to go, for a ' that ! 
 It was the thing that had brought me to France, 
 after a'. 
 
 So we started, and by now I was glad to wear 
 my steel hat, fit or no fit. I was to give an enter- 
 tainment in the trenches, and so we set out. Pretty 
 soon I was climbing a steep railroad embank- 
 ment, and when we slid down on the other side we 
 found the trenches — ^wide, deep gaps in the earth, 
 and all alive with men. We got into the trenches 
 themselves by means of ladders, and the soldiers 
 came swarming about me with yells of ''Hello, 
 Harry! Welcome, Harry!" 
 
 They were told that I had come to sing for 
 them, and so, with no further preliminaries, I be- 
 gan my concert. I started with my favorite open- 
 ing song, as usual — "Eoamin' in the Gloamin','' 
 and then went on with the other old favorites. I 
 told a lot of stories, too, and then I came to "The 
 Laddies Who Fought and Won." None of the 
 men had heard it, but there were officers there who 
 had seen ' ' Three Cheers ' ' during the winter when 
 they had had a short leave to run over to London. 
 
 I got through the first verse all right, and was 
 just swinging into the first chorus when, without 
 the least warning, hell popped open in that trench. 
 A missile came in that some officer at once hailed 
 
A MINSTREL IN FRANCE 267 
 
 as a whizz bang. It is called that, for that is just 
 exactly the sound it makes. It is like a giant fire- 
 cracker, and it would be amusing if one did not 
 know it was deadly. These missiles are not fired 
 by the big guns behind the lines, but by the small 
 trench cannon — worked, as a rule, by compressed 
 air. The range is very short, but they are capable 
 of great execution at that range. 
 
 Was I frightened? I must have been! I know 
 I felt a good deal as I have done when I have been 
 seasick. And I began to think at once of all sorts 
 of places where I would rather have been than in 
 that trench ! I was standing on a slight elevation 
 at the back, or parados, of the trench, so that I 
 was raised a bit above my audience, and I had a 
 fine view of that deadly thing, wandering about, 
 spitting fire and metal parts. It traveled so that 
 the men could dodge it, but it was throwing off 
 slugs that you could neither see nor dodge, and 
 it was a poor place to be ! 
 
 Ajid the one whizz bang was not enough to suit 
 Fritz. It was followed immediately by a lot more, 
 that came popping in and making themselves as 
 unpleasant as you could imagine. I watched the 
 men about me, and they seemed to be uncon- 
 cerned, and to be thinking much more of me and 
 my singing than of the whizz bangs. So, no mat- 
 ter how I felt, there was nothing for me to do but 
 to keep on with my song. I decided that I must 
 really be safe enough, no matter how I felt. But 
 
268 A MINSTREL IN FRANCE 
 
 I had certain misgivings on the subject. Still, I 
 managed to go on with my song, and I think I 
 was calm enough to look at — though, if I was, my 
 appearance wholly belied my true inward feelings. 
 
 I struggled through to the end of the chorus — 
 and I think I sang pretty badly, although I don't 
 know. But I was pretty sure the end of the world 
 had come for me, and that these laddies were tak- 
 ing things as calmly as they were simply because 
 they were used to it, and it was all in the day's 
 work for them. The Germans were fairly sluicing 
 that trench by now. The whizz bangs were pop- 
 ping over us like giant fire-crackers, going off one 
 and two and three at a time. And the trench was 
 full of flying slugs and chunks of dirt, striking 
 against our faces and hurtling all about us. 
 
 There I was. I had a good "house." I wanted 
 to please my audience. Was it no a trying situa- 
 tion? I thought Fritz might have had manners 
 enough to wait until I had finished my concert, at 
 least! But the Hun has no manners, as all the 
 world knows. 
 
 Along that embankment we had climbed to 
 reach the trenches, and not very far from the bit 
 of trench in which I was singing, there was a rail- 
 road bridge of some strategic importance. And 
 now a shell hit that bridge — not a whizz bang, but 
 a real, big shell. It exploded with a hideous 
 screech, as if the bridge were some human thing 
 being struck, and screaming out its agony. The 
 
A MINSTREL IN FRANCE 269 
 
 soldiers looked at me, and I saw some of them 
 winking. They seemed to be mighty interested in 
 the way I was taking all this. I looked back at 
 them, and then at a Highland colonel who was 
 listening to my singing as quietly and as carefully 
 as if he had been at a stall in Covent Garden dur- 
 ing the opera season. He caught my glance. 
 
 '*I think they're coming it a bit thick, Lauder, 
 old chap," he remarked, quietly. 
 
 '*I quite agree with you, colonel," I said. I 
 tried to ape his voice and manner, but I wasn't 
 so quiet as he. 
 
 Now there came a ripping, tearing sound in the 
 air, and a veritable cloudburst of the damnable 
 whizz bangs broke over us. That settled matters. 
 There were no orders, but everyone turned, just 
 as if it were a meeting, and a motion to adjourn 
 had been put and carried unanimously. We all 
 ran for the safety holes or dugouts in the side of 
 the embankment. And I can tell ye that the Rev- 
 erend Harry Lauder, M.P., Tour were no the last 
 ones to reach those shelters ! No, we were by no 
 means the last! 
 
 I ha' no doot that I might have improved upon 
 the shelter that / found, had I had time to pick 
 and choose. But any shelter was good just then, 
 and I was glad of mine, and of a chance to catch 
 my breath. Afterward, I saw a picture by Cap- 
 tain Bairnsfather that made me laugh a good 
 deal, because it represented so exactly the way I 
 
270 A MINSTREL IN FRANCE 
 
 felt. He had made a drawing of two Tommies 
 in a wee bit of a hole in a field that was being 
 swept by shells and missiles of every sort. One 
 was grousing to his mate, and the other said to 
 him: 
 
 ' ' If you know a better 'ole go 'ide in it ! " 
 
 I said we all turned and ran for cover. But 
 there was one braw laddie who did nothing of the 
 sort. He would not run — such tricks were not for 
 him! 
 
 He was a big Hie 'land laddie, and he wore 
 naught but his kilt and his semmet — his under- 
 shirt. He had on his steel helmet, and it shaded 
 a face that had not been shaved or washed for 
 days. His great, brawny arms were folded across 
 his chest, and he was smoking his pipe. And he 
 stood there as quiet and unconcerned as if he 
 had been a village smith gazing down a quiet 
 country road. I watched him, and he saw me, and 
 grinned at me. And now and then he glanced at 
 me, quizzically. 
 
 "It's all right, Harry," he said, several times. 
 *'Dinna fash yoursel', man. I'll tell ye in time 
 for ye to duck if I see one coming your way ! ' ' 
 
 We crouched in our holes until there came a 
 brief lull in the bombardment. Probably the 
 Germans thought they had killed us all and 
 cleared the trench, or maybe it had been only that 
 they hadn't liked my singing, and had been satis- 
 fied when they had stopped it. So we came out, 
 
A MINSTREL IN FRANCE 271 
 
 but the firing was not over at all, as we found out 
 at once. So we went down a bit deeper, into con- 
 crete dugouts. 
 
 This trench had been a part of the intricate 
 German defensive system far back of their old 
 front line, and they had had the pains of building 
 and hollowing out the fine dugout into which I 
 now went for shelter. Here they had lived, deep 
 under the earth, like animals — and with animals, 
 too. For when I reached the bottom a dog came 
 to meet me, sticking out his red tongue to lick my 
 hand, and wagging his tail as friendly as you 
 please. 
 
 He was a German dog — one of the prisoners of 
 war taken in the great attack. His old masters 
 hadn't bothered to call him and take him with 
 them when the Highlanders came along, and so 
 he had stayed behind as part of the spoils of the 
 attack. 
 
 That wasn't much of a dog, as dogs go. He 
 was a mongrel-looking creature, but he couldn't 
 have been friendlier. The Highlanders had 
 adopted him and called him Fritz, and they were 
 very fond of him, and he of them. He had no 
 thought of war. He behaved just as dogs do at 
 hame. 
 
 But above us the horrid din was still going on, 
 and bits of shells were flying everywhere — any- 
 one of them enough to kill you, if it struck you in 
 the right spot. I was glad, I can tell ye, that I 
 
272 A MINSTREL IN FRANCE 
 
 was so snug and safe beneath the ground, and I 
 had no mind at all to go out until the bombard- 
 ment was well over. I knew now what it was 
 really to be under fire. The casual sort of shell- 
 ing I had had to fear at Vimy Eidge was nothing 
 to this. This was the real thing. 
 
 And then I thought that what I was experienc- 
 ing for a few minutes was the daily portion of 
 these laddies who were all aboot me — not for a 
 few minutes, but for days and weeks and months 
 at a time. And it came home to me again, and 
 stronger than ever, what they were doing for us 
 folks at hame, and how we ought to be feeling for 
 them. 
 
 The heavy firing went on for three-quarters of 
 an hour, at least. We could hear the chugging of 
 the big guns, and the sorrowful swishing of the 
 shells, as if they were mournful because they were 
 not wreaking more destruction than they were. 
 It all moved me greatly, but I could see that the 
 soldiers thought nothing of it, and were quite un- 
 perturbed by the fearful demonstration that was 
 going on above. They smoked and chatted, and 
 my own nerves grew calmer. 
 
 Finally there seemed to come a real lull in the 
 row above, and I turned to the general. 
 
 "Isn't it near time for me to be finishing my 
 concert, sir?" I asked him. 
 
 "Very good," he said, jumping up. "Just as 
 you say, Lauder." 
 
A MINSTREL IN FRANCE 273 
 
 So back we went to where I had begun to sing. 
 My audience reassembled, and I struck up "The 
 Laddies Who Fought and Won" again. It 
 seemed, somehow, the most appropriate song I 
 could have picked to sing in that spot ! I finished, 
 this time, but there was some discord in the clos- 
 ing bars, for the Germans were still at their shell- 
 ing, sporadically. 
 
 So I finished, and I said good-by to the men who 
 were to stay in the trench, guarding that bit of 
 Britain's far flung battleline. And then the Rev- 
 erend Harry Lauder, M.P., Tour was ready to go 
 back — not to safety, at once, but to a region far 
 less infested by the Hun than this one where we 
 had been such warmly received visitors ! 
 
CHAPTER XXII 
 
 I WAS sorry to be leaving the Highland laddies 
 in that trench. Aye! But for the trench 
 itself I had nae regrets — nae, none whatever ! 
 I know no spot on the surface of this earth, of all 
 that I have visited, and I have been in many 
 climes, that struck me as less salubrious than yon 
 bit ' trench. There were too many other visitors 
 there that day, along with the Reverend Harry 
 Lauder, M.P., Tour. They were braw laddies, 
 yon, but no what you might call over-particular 
 about the company they kept! I'd thank them, if 
 they'd be havin' me to veesit them again, to let 
 me come by my ain ! 
 
 Getting away was not the safest business in the 
 world, either, although it was better than staying 
 in yon trench. We had to make our way back to 
 the railway embankment, and along it for a space, 
 and the embankment was being heavily shelled. 
 It was really a trench line itself, full of dugouts, 
 and as we made our way along heads popped in 
 all directions, topped by steel helmets. I was 
 eager to be on the other side of yon embankment, 
 although I knew well enough that there was no 
 sanctuary on either side of it, nor for a long space 
 behind it. 
 
 874 
 
A MINSTREL IN FRANCE 275 
 
 That was what they called the Frenchy railway 
 cutting, and it overlooked the ruined village of 
 Athies. And not until after I had crossed it was 
 I breathing properly. I began, then, to feel more 
 like myself, and my heart and all my functions 
 began to be more normal. 
 
 All this region we had to cross now was still 
 under fire, but the fire was nothing to what it had 
 been. The evidences of the terrific bombardments 
 there had been were plainly to be seen. Every 
 scrap of exposed ground had been nicked by 
 shells ; the holes were as close together as those in 
 a honeycomb. I could not see how any living 
 thing had come through that hell of fire, but many 
 men had. Now the embankment fairly buzzed 
 with activity. The dugouts were everywhere, and 
 the way the helmeted heads popped out as we 
 passed, inquiringly, made me think of the prairie 
 dog towns I had seen in Canada and the western 
 United States. 
 
 The river Scarpe flowed close by. It was a nar- 
 row, sluggish stream, and it did not look to me 
 worthy of its famous name. But often, that 
 spring, its slow-moving waters had been flecked 
 by a bloody froth, and the bodies of brave men 
 had been hidden by them, and washed clean of the 
 trench mud. Now, uninviting as its aspect was, 
 and sinister as were the memories it must have 
 evoked in other hearts beside my own, it was 
 water. And on so hot a day water was a precious 
 
276 A MINSTREL IN FRANCE 
 
 thing to men who had been working as the laddies 
 hereabout had w^orked and labored. 
 
 So either bank was dotted with naked bodies, 
 and the stream itself showed head after head, and 
 flashing white arms as men went swimming. Some 
 were scrubbing themselves, taking a Briton's keen 
 delight in a bath, no matter what the circum- 
 stances in which he gets it; others were washing 
 their clothes, slapping and pounding the soaked 
 garments in a way to have wrung the hearts of 
 their wives, had they seen them at it. The British 
 soldier, in the field, does many things for himself 
 that folks at hame never think of! But many of 
 the men were just lying on the bank, sprawled out 
 and sunning themselves like alligators, basking in 
 the warm sunshine and soaking up rest and good 
 cheer. 
 
 It looked like a good place for a concert, and so 
 I quickly gathered an audience of about a thou- 
 sand men from the dugouts in the embankment 
 and obeyed their injunctions to "Go it, Harry! 
 Gie us a song, do now!" 
 
 As I finished my first song my audience ap- 
 plauded me and cheered me most heartily, and the 
 laddies along the banks of the Scarpe heard them, 
 and came running up to see what was afoot. There 
 were no ladies thereabout, and they did not stand 
 on a small matter like getting dressed ! Not they ! 
 They came running just as they were, and Adam, 
 garbed in his fig leaf, was fully clad compared to 
 
A MINSTREL IN FRANCE 277 
 
 most of them. It was the barest gallery I ever 
 saw, and the noisiest, too, and the most truly- 
 appreciative. 
 
 High up above us airplanes were circling, so 
 high that we could not tell from which side they 
 came, except when we saw some of them being 
 shelled, and so knew that they belonged to Fritz. 
 They looked like black pinheads against the blue 
 cushion of the sky, and no doubt that they were 
 vastly puzzled as to the reason of this gathering 
 of naked men. What new tricks were the damned 
 English up to now? So I have no doubt, they 
 were wondering! It was the business of their 
 observers, of course, to spot just such gatherings 
 as ours, although I did not think of that just then 
 — except to think that they might drop a bomb or 
 two, maybe. 
 
 But scouting airplanes, such as those were, do 
 not go in for bomb dropping. There are three 
 sorts of airplanes. First come the scouting planes 
 — fairly fast, good climbers, able to stay in the air 
 a long time. Their business is just to spy out the 
 lay of the land over the enemy's trenches — not 
 to fight or drop bombs. Then come the swift, 
 powerful bombing planes, which make raids, flying 
 long distances to do so. The Huns use such 
 planes to bomb unprotected towns and kill women 
 and babies; ours go in for bombing ammunition 
 dumps and trains and railway stations and other 
 places of military importance, although, by now, 
 
S78 A MINSTREL IN FRANCE 
 
 they may be indulging in reprisals for some of 
 Fritz's murderous raids, as so many folk at hame 
 in Britain have prayed they would. 
 
 Both scouting and bombing planes are protected 
 by the fastest flyers of all — the battle planes, as 
 they are called. These fight other planes in the 
 air, and it is the men who steer them and fight 
 their guns who perform the heroic exploits that 
 you may read of every day. But much of the 
 great work in the air is done by the scouting 
 planes, which take desperate chances, and find it 
 hard to fight back when they are attacked. And 
 it was scouts who were above us now — and, doubt- 
 less, sending word back by wireless of a new and 
 mysterious concentration of British forces along 
 the Scarpe, which it might be a good thing for 
 the Hun artillery to strafe a bit ! 
 
 So, before very long, a rude interruption came 
 to my songs, in the way of shells dropped unpleas- 
 antly close. The men so far above us had given 
 their guns the range, and so, although the gun- 
 ners could not see us, they could make their pres- 
 ence felt. 
 
 I have never been booed or hissed by an audi- 
 ence, since I have been on the stage. I under- 
 stand that it is a terrible and a disconcerting ex- 
 perience, and one calculated to play havoc with 
 the stoutest of nerves. It is an experience I am 
 by no means anxious to have, I can tell you ! But 
 I doubt if it could seem worse to me than the inter- 
 
A MINSTREL IN FRANCE 279 
 
 ruption of a shell. The Germans, that day, showed 
 no ear for music, and no appreciation of art — my 
 art, at least ! 
 
 And so it seemed well to me to cut my pro- 
 gramme, to a certain extent, at least, and bid fare- 
 well to my audience, dressed and undressed. It 
 was a performance at which it did not seem to me 
 a good idea to take any curtain calls. I did not 
 miss them, nor feel slighted because they were 
 absent. I was too glad to get away with a whole 
 skin! 
 
 The shelling became very furious now. Plainly 
 the Germans meant to take no chances. They 
 couldn't guess what the gathering their airplanes 
 had observed might portend, but, if they could, 
 they meant to defeat its object, whatever that 
 might be. Well, they did not succeed, but they 
 probably had the satisfaction of thinking that they 
 had, and I, for one, do not begrudge them that. 
 They forced the Eeverend Harry Lauder, M.P., 
 Tour to make a pretty wide detour, away from the 
 river, to get back to the main road. But they 
 fired a power of shells to do so ! 
 
 When we finally reached the road I heard a 
 mad sputtering behind. I looked around in alarm, 
 because it sounded, for all the w^orld, like one of 
 those infernal whizz bangs, chasing me. But it 
 was not. The noise came from a motor cycle, and 
 its rider dashed up to me and dropped one foot 
 to the ground. 
 
280 A MINSTREL IN FRANCE 
 
 *' Here's a letter for you, Harry," he said. 
 
 It was a package that he handed me. I was sur- 
 prised — I was not expecting to have a post deliv- 
 ered to me on the battlefield of Arras ! It turned 
 out that the package contained a couple of ugly- 
 looking bits of shell, and a letter from my friends 
 the Highlanders on the other side of the railway 
 embankment. They wrote to thank me for sing- 
 ing for them, and said they hoped I was none the 
 worse for the bombardment I had undergone. 
 
 ''These bits of metal are from the shell that was 
 closest to you when it burst," their spokesman 
 wrote. ''They nearly got you, and we thought 
 you'd like to have them to keep for souvenirs." 
 
 It seemed to me that that was a singularly calm 
 and phlegmatic letter! My nerves were a good 
 deal overwrought, as I can see now. 
 
 Now we made our way slowly back to division 
 headquarters, and there I found that preparations 
 had been made for very much the most ambitious 
 and pretentious concert that I had yet had a 
 chance to give in France. There was a very large 
 audience, and a stage or platform had been set 
 up, with plenty of room on it for Johnson and his 
 piano. It had been built in a great field, and all 
 around me, when I mounted it, I could see kilted 
 soldiers — almost as far as my eye could reach. 
 There were many thousands of them there — in- 
 deed, all of the Highland Brigade that was not 
 actually on duty at the moment was present, and 
 
A MINSTREL IN FRANCE 281 
 
 a good many other men beside, for good measure. 
 
 Here was a sight to make a Scots heart leap 
 with pride! Here, before me, was the flower of 
 Scottish manhood. These regiments had been 
 through a series of battles, not so long since, that 
 had sadly thinned their ranks. Many a Scottish 
 grave had been filled that spring; many a Scot- 
 tish heart at hame had been broken by sad news 
 from this spot. But there they were now, before 
 me — their ranks filled up again, splendid as they 
 stretched out, eager to welcome me and cheer me. 
 There were tears in my eyes as I looked around 
 at them. 
 
 Massed before me were all the best men Scot- 
 land had had to offer ! All these men had breathed 
 deep of the hellish air of war. All had marched 
 shoulder to shoulder and skirt to skirt with death. 
 All were of my country and my people. My heart 
 was big within me with pride of them, and that I 
 was of their race, as I stood up to sing for 
 them. 
 
 Johnson was waiting for me to be ready. Little 
 "Tinkle Tom," as we called the wee piano, was 
 not very large, but there were times w^hen he had 
 to be left behind. I think he was glad to have us 
 back again, and to be doing his part, instead of 
 leaving me to sing alone, without his stout help. 
 
 Many distinguished officers were in that great 
 assemblage. They all turned out to hear me, as 
 well as the men, and among them I saw many 
 
282 A MINSTREL IN FRANCE 
 
 familiar faces and old friends from hame. But 
 there were many faces, too, alas, that I did not 
 see. And when I inquired for them later I learned 
 that many of them I had seen for the last time. 
 Oh, the sad news I learned, day after day, oot 
 there in France ! Friend after friend of whom I 
 made inquiry was known, to be sure. They could 
 tell me where, and when, and how, they had been 
 killed. 
 
 Up above us, as I began to sing, our airplanes 
 were circling. No Boche planes were in sight now, 
 I had been told, but there were many of ours. And 
 sometimes one came swooping down, its occupants 
 curious, no doubt, as to what might be going on, 
 and the hum of its huge propeller would make me 
 falter a bit in my song. And once or twice one 
 flew so low and so close that I was almost afraid 
 it would strike me, and I would dodge in what I 
 think was mock alarm, much to the amusement of 
 the soldiers. 
 
 I had given them two songs when a big man 
 arose, far back in the crowd. He was a long way 
 from me, but his great voice carried to me easily, 
 so that I could hear every word he said. 
 
 * ' Harry, ' ' he shouted, ' ' sing us ' The Wee Hoose 
 Amang the Heather' and we'll a' join in the 
 chorus ! ' * 
 
 For a moment I could only stare out at them. 
 Between that sea of faces, upraised to mine, and 
 my eyes, there came another face — the smiling, 
 
A MINSTREL IN FRANCE 283 ' 
 
 bonnie face of my boy John, that I should never 
 see again with mortal eyes. That had been one 
 of his favorite songs for many years. I hesitated. 
 It was as if a gentle hand had plucked at my very 
 heart strings, and played upon them. Memory — 
 memories of my boy, swept over me in a flood. I 
 felt a choking in my throat, and the tears welled 
 into my eyes. 
 
 But then I began to sing, making a signal to 
 Johnson to let me sing alone. And when I came 
 to the chorus, true to the big Highlander's prom- 
 ise, they all did join in the chorus ! And what a 
 chorus that was ! Thousands of men were singing. 
 
 "There's a wee hoose amang the heather, 
 There's a wee hoose o'er the sea. 
 There 's a lassie in that wee hoose 
 Waiting patiently for me. 
 She's the picture of perfection — 
 I would na tell a lee 
 If ye saw her ye would love her 
 Just the same as me!" 
 
 My voice was very shaky when I came to the 
 end of that chorus, but the great wave of sound 
 from the 'kilted laddies rolled out, true and full, 
 unshaken, unbroken. They carried the air as 
 steadily as a ship is carried upon a rolling sea. 
 
 I could sing no more for them, and then, as I 
 made my way, unsteadily enough, from the plat- 
 form, music struck up that was the sweetest I 
 
284. A MINSTREL IN FRANCE 
 
 could have heard. Some pipers had come together, 
 from twa or three regiments, unknown to me, and 
 now, very softly, their pipes began to skirl. They 
 played the tune that I love best, ''The Drunken 
 Piper." I could scarcely see to pick my way, for 
 the tears that blinded me, but in my ears, as I 
 passed away from them, there came, gently wail- 
 ing on the pipes, the plaintive plea — 
 ''Will ye no come back again?" 
 
CHAPTER XXIII 
 
 NOW it was time to take to the motor cars 
 again, and I was glad of the thought that 
 we would have a bracing ride. I needed 
 something of the sort, I thought. My emotions 
 had been deeply stirred, in many ways, that day. 
 I felt tired and quite exhausted. This was by all 
 odds the most strenuous day the Reverend Harry 
 Lauder, M.P., Tour had put in yet in France. So 
 I welcomed the idea of sitting back comfortably 
 in the car and feeling the cool wind against my 
 cheeks. 
 
 First, however, the entertainers were to be 
 entertained. They took us, the officers of the divi- 
 sional staff, to a hut, where we were offered our 
 choice of tea or a wee hauf yin. There was good 
 Scots w^hisky there, but it was the tea I wanted. 
 It was very hot in the sun, and I had done a deal 
 of clambering about. So I was glad, after all, to 
 stay in the shade a while and rest my limbs. 
 
 Getting out through Arras turned out to be a 
 ticklish business. The Germans were verra waste- 
 ful ' their shells that day, considering how much 
 siller they cost ! They were pounding away, and 
 more shells, by a good many, were falling in Arras 
 than had been the case when we arrived at noon. 
 
 285 
 
286 A MINSTREL IN FRANCE 
 
 So I got a chance to see how the ruin that had been 
 wrought had been accomplished. 
 
 Arras is a wonderful sight, noble and impres- 
 sive even in its destruction. But it was a sight 
 that depressed me. It had angered me, at first, 
 but now I began to think, at each ruined house 
 that I saw : ' ' Suppose this were at hame in Scot- 
 land!" And when such thoughts came to me I 
 thanked God for the brave lads I had seen that 
 day who stood, out here, holding the line, and so 
 formed a bulwark between Scotland and such 
 black ruin as this. 
 
 We were to start for Tramecourt now, but on 
 the way we were to make a couple of stops. Our 
 way was to take us through St. Pol and Hesdin, 
 and, going so, we came to the town of Le Quesnoy. 
 Here some of the 11th Argyle and Sutherland 
 Highlanders were stationed. My heart leaped at 
 the sight of them. That had been my boy's regi- 
 ment, although he had belonged to a different bat- 
 talion, and it was with the best will in the world 
 that I called a halt and gave them a concert. 
 
 I gave two more concerts, both brief ones, on 
 the rest of the journey, and so it was quite dark 
 when we approached the chateau at Tramecourt. 
 As we came up I became aware of a great stir and 
 movement that was quite out of the ordinary 
 routine there. In the grounds I could see tiny 
 lights moving about, like fireflies — ^lights that 
 came, I thought, from electric torches, 
 
A MINSTREL IN FRANCE 287' 
 
 ''Something extraordinary must be going on 
 here," I remarked to Captain Godfrey. "I won- 
 der if General Haig has arrived, by any 
 chance 1 ' ' 
 
 "We'll soon know what it's all about," he said, 
 philosophically. But I expect he knew already. 
 
 Before the chateau there was a brilliant spot 
 of light, standing out vividly against the sur- 
 rounding darkness. I could not account for that 
 brilliantly lighted spot then. But we came into it 
 as the car stopped ; it was a sort of oasis of light 
 in an inky desert of surrounding gloom. And as 
 we came full into it and I stood up to descend from 
 the car, stretching my tired, stiff legs, the silence 
 and the darkness were split by three tremendous 
 cheers. 
 
 It wasn't General Haig who was arriving! It 
 was Harry Lauder ! 
 
 "What's the matter here?" I called, as loudly 
 as I could. 
 
 "Been waitin' for ye a couple of 'ours, 'Arry," 
 called a loud cockney voice in answer. "Go it 
 now! Get it off your chest!" Then came ex- 
 planations. It seemed that a lot of soldiers, about 
 four hundred strong, who were working on a big 
 road job about ten miles from Tramecourt, had 
 heard of my being there, and had decided to come 
 over in a body and beg for a concert. They got 
 to the chateau early, and were told it might be 
 eleven o 'clock before I got back. But they didn 't 
 
288 A MINSTREL IN FRANCE 
 
 care — they said they'd wait all night, if they had 
 to, to get a chance to hear me. And they made 
 some use of the time they had to wait. 
 
 They took three big acetylene headlights from 
 motor cars, and connected them up. There was 
 a little porch at the entrance of the chateau, with 
 a short flight of steps leading up to it, and then 
 we decided that that would make an excellent 
 makeshift theater. Since it would be dark they 
 decided they must have lights, so that they could 
 see me — just as in a regular theater at hame! 
 That was where the headlights they borrowed 
 from motor cars came in. They put one on each 
 side of the porch and one off in front, so that all 
 the light was centered right on the porch itself, 
 and it was bathed in as strong a glare as ever I 
 sang in on the stage. It was almost blinding, in- 
 deed, as I found when I turned to face them and 
 to sing for them. Needless to say, late though it 
 was and tired as I was, I never thought of refus- 
 ing to give them the concert they wanted ! 
 
 I should have liked to eat my dinner first, but I 
 couldn't think of suggesting it. These boys had 
 done a long, hard day's work. Then they had 
 marched ten miles, and, on top of all that, had 
 waited two hours for me and fixed up a stage and 
 a lighting system. They were quite as tired as I, 
 I decided — and they had done a lot more. And 
 so I told the faithful Johnson to bring wee Tinkle 
 Tom along, and get him up to the little stage. 
 
A MINSTREL IN FRANCE 289 
 
 and I faced my audience in the midst of a storm 
 of the ghostliest applause I ever hope to hear! 
 
 I could hear them, do you ken, but I could no 
 see a face before me! In the theater, bright 
 though the footlights are, and greatly as they dim 
 what lies beyond them, you can still see the white 
 faces of your audience. At least, you do see some- 
 thing — your eyes help you to know the audience 
 is there, and, gradually, you can see perfectly, and 
 pick out a face, maybe, and sing to some one per- 
 son in the audience, that you may be sure of your 
 effects. 
 
 It was utter, Stygian darkness that lay beyond 
 the pool of blinding light in which I stood. Gradu- 
 ally I did make out a little of what lay beyond, 
 very close to me. I could see dim outlines of hu- 
 man bodies moving around. And now I was sure 
 there were fireflies about. But then they stayed 
 so still that I realized, suddenly, with a smile, just 
 what they were — the glowing ends of cigarettes, 
 of course ! 
 
 There were many tall poplar trees around the 
 chateau. I knew where to look for them, but that 
 night I could scarcely see them. I tried to find 
 them, for it was a strange, weird sensation to be 
 there as I was, and I wanted all the help fixed 
 objects could give me. I managed to pick out their 
 feathery lines in the black distance — the darkness 
 made them seem more remote than they were, 
 really. Their branches, when I found them, 
 
290 A MINSTREL IN FRANCE 
 
 waved like spirit arms, and I could hear the wind 
 whispering and sighing among the topmost 
 branches. 
 
 Now and then what we call in Scotland a ''batty- 
 bird" skimmed past my face, attracted, I suppose, 
 by the bright light. I suppose that bats that have 
 not been disturbed before for generations have 
 been aroused by the blast of war through all that 
 region and have come out of dark cavernous 
 hiding-places, as those that night must have done, 
 to see what it is all about, the tumult and the 
 shouting ! 
 
 They were verra disconcertin', those bats! 
 They bothered me almost as much as the whizz 
 bangs had done, earlier in the day ! They swished 
 suddenly out of the darkness against my face, and 
 I would start back, and hear a ripple of laughter 
 run through that unseen audience of mine. Aye, 
 it was verra funny for them, but I did not like 
 that part of it a bit ! No man likes to have a bat 
 touch his skin. And I had to duck quickly to 
 evade those winged cousins of the mouse — and 
 then hear a soft guffaw arising as I did it. 
 
 I have appeared, sometimes, in theaters in 
 which it was pretty difficult to find the audience. 
 And such audiences have been nearly impossible 
 to trace, later, in the box-office reports. But that 
 is the first time in my life, and, up to now, the 
 last, that I ever sang to a totally invisible audi- 
 dience ! I did not know then how many men there 
 
A MINSTREL IN FRANCE 291 
 
 were — there might have been forty, or four hun- 
 dred, or four thousand. And, save for the titters 
 that greeted my encounters with the bats, they 
 were amazingly quiet as they waited for me to 
 sing. 
 
 It was just about ten minutes before eleven 
 when I began to sing, and the concert wasn't over 
 until after midnight. I was distinctly nervous as 
 I began the verse of my first song. It was a great 
 relief when there was a round of applause; that 
 helped to place my audience and give me its meas- 
 ure, at once. 
 
 But I was almost as disconcerted a bit later as 
 I had been by the first incursion of the bats. I 
 came to the chorus, and suddenly, out of the dark- 
 ness, there came a perfect gale of sound. It was 
 the men taking up the chorus, thundering it out. 
 They took the song clean away from me — I could 
 only gasp and listen. The roar from that unseen 
 chorus almost took my feet from under me, so 
 amazing was it, and so unexpected, somehow, used 
 as I was to having soldiers join in a chorus with 
 me, and disappointed as I should have been had 
 they ever failed to do so. 
 
 But after that first song, when I knew what to 
 expect, I soon grew used to the strange surround- 
 ings. The weirdness and the mystery wore off, 
 and I began to enjoy myself tremendously. The 
 conditions were simply ideal; indeed, they were 
 perfect, for the sentimental songs that soldiers 
 
292 A MINSTREL IN FRANCE 
 
 always like best. Imagine how "Roamin' in the 
 Gloamin' " went that nicht! 
 
 I had meant to sing three or four songs. But 
 instead I sang nearly every song I knew. It was 
 one of the longest programmes I gave during the 
 whole tour, and I enjoyed the concert, myself, bet- 
 ter than any I had yet given. 
 
 My audience was growing all the time, although 
 I did not know that. The singing brought up 
 crowds from the French village, who gathered in 
 the outskirts of the throng to listen — and, I make 
 no doubt, to pass amazed comments on these queer 
 English ! 
 
 At last I was too tired to go on. And so I bade 
 the lads good-nicht, and they gave me a great 
 cheer, and faded away into the blackness. And I 
 went inside, rubbing my eyes, and wondering if 
 it was no all a dream ! 
 
 **It wasn't Sir Douglas Haig who arrived, was 
 it, Harry?" Godfrey said, slyly. 
 
CHAPTER XXIV 
 
 THE next morning I was tired, as you may be- 
 lieve. I ached in every limb when I went to 
 my room that night, but a hot bath and a 
 good sleep did wonders for me. No bombardment 
 could have kept me awake that nicht ! I would no 
 ha' cared had the Hun begun shelling Tramecourt 
 itself, so long as he did not shell me clear out of 
 my bed. 
 
 Still, in the morning, though I had not had so 
 much sleep as I would have liked, I was ready to 
 go when we got the word. We made about as 
 early a start as usual — breakfast soon after day- 
 light, and then out the motor cars and to wee 
 Tinkle Tom. Our destination that day, our first, 
 at least, was Albert — a town as badly smashed 
 and battered as Arras or Ypres. These towns 
 were long thinly held by the British — that is, they 
 were just within our lines, and the Hun could rake 
 them with his fire at his own evil will. 
 
 It did him no good to batter them to pieces as 
 he did. He wasted shells upon them that must 
 have been precious to him. His treatment of them 
 was but a part of his wicked, wanton spirit of 
 destructiveness. He could not see a place stand- 
 ing that he did not want to destroy, I think. It 
 
 293 
 
294 A MINSTREL IN FRANCE 
 
 was not war he made, as the world had known 
 war ; it was a savage raid against every sign and 
 evidence of civilization, and comfort and hap- 
 piness. But always, as I think I have said before, 
 one thing eluded him. It was the soul of that 
 which he destroyed. That was beyond his reach, 
 and sore it must have grieved him to come to know 
 it — for come to know it he has, in France, and in 
 Belgium, too. 
 
 We passed through a wee town called Doullens 
 on our way from Tramecourt to Albert. And 
 there, that morn, I saw an old French nun; an 
 aged woman, a woman old beyond all belief or 
 reckoning. I think she is still there, where I saw 
 her that day. Indeed, it has seemed to me, often, 
 as I have thought upon her, that she will always 
 be there, gliding silently through the deserted 
 streets of that wee toon, on through all the ages 
 that are to come, and always a cowled, veiled 
 figure of reproach and hatred for the German 
 race. 
 
 There is some life in that wee place now. There 
 are no more Germans, and no more shells come 
 there. The battle line has been carried on to the 
 East by the British; here they have redeemed a 
 bit of France from the German yoke. And so we 
 could stop there, in the heat of the morning, for 
 a bit of refreshment at a cafe that was once, I 
 suppose, quite a place in that sma' toon. It does 
 but little business now; passing soldiers bring it 
 
A MINSTREL IN FRANCE 295 
 
 some trade, but nothing like what it used to have. 
 For this is not a town much frequented by troops 
 — or was not, just at that time. 
 
 There was some trouble, too, with one of the 
 cars, so we went for a short walk through the 
 town. It was then that we met that old French 
 nun. Her face and her hands were withered, and 
 deeply graven with the lines of the years that had 
 bowed her head. Her back was bent, and she 
 walked slowly and with difficulty. But in her eyes 
 was a soft, young light that I have often seen in 
 the eyes of priests and nuns, and that their com- 
 forting religion gives them. But as we talked I 
 spoke of the Germans. 
 
 Gone from her eyes was all their softness. They 
 flashed a bitter and contemptuous hatred. 
 
 **The Germans!" she said. She spat upon the 
 ground, scornfully, and with a gesture of infinite 
 loathing. And every time she uttered that hated 
 word she spat again. It was a ceremony she 
 used ; she felt, I know, that her mouth was defiled 
 by that word, and she wished to cleanse it. It 
 was no affectation, as, with some folk, you might 
 have thought it. It was not a studied act. She 
 did it, I do believe, unconsciously. And it was a 
 gesture marvelously expressive. It spoke more 
 eloquently of her feelings than many words could 
 have done. 
 
 She had seen the Germans! Aye! She had 
 seen them come, in 1914, in the first days of the 
 
296 A MINSTREL IN FRANCE 
 
 war, rolling past in great, gray waves, for days 
 and days, as if the flood would never cease to roll. 
 She had seen them passing, with their guns, in 
 those first proud days of the war, when they had 
 reckoned themselves invincible, and been so sure 
 of victory. She knew what cruelties, what indigni- 
 ties, they had put upon the helpless people the 
 war had swept into their clutch. She knew the 
 defilements of which they had been guilty. 
 
 Nor was that the first time she had seen Ger- 
 mans. They had come before she was so old, 
 though even then she had not been a young girl — 
 in the war of 1870, when Europe left brave France 
 to her fate, because the German spirit and the 
 German plan were not appreciated or understood. 
 Thank God the world had learned its lesson by 
 1914, when the Hun challenged it again, so that 
 the challenge was met and taken up, and France 
 was not left alone to bear the brunt of German 
 greed and German hate. 
 
 She hated the Germans, that old French nun. 
 
 She was religious ; she knew the teachings of her 
 
 church. She knew that God says we must love 
 
 our enemies. But He could not expect us to love 
 
 * His enemies. 
 
 Albert, when we came to it, we found a ruin 
 indeed. The German guns had beaten upon it 
 until it was like a rubbish heap in the backyard 
 of hell. Their malice had wrought a ruin here 
 almost worse than that at Arras. Only one build- 
 
A MINSTREL IN FRANCE 297 
 
 ing had survived although it was crumbling to 
 ruin. That was a church, and, as we approached 
 it, we could see, from the great way off, a great 
 gilded figure of the Holy Virgin, holding in her 
 arms the infant Christ. 
 
 The figure leaned at such an angle, high up 
 against the tottering wall of the church, that it 
 seemed that it must fall at the next moment, even 
 as we stared at it. But — it does not fall. Every 
 breath of wind that comes sets it to swaying, 
 gently. When the wind rises to a storm it must 
 rock perilously indeed. But still it stays there, 
 hanging like an inspiration straight from Heaven 
 to all who see it. The peasants who gaze upon it 
 each day in reverent awe whisper to you, if you 
 ask them, that when it falls at last the war will 
 be over, and France will be victorious. 
 
 That is rank superstition, you say? Aye, it 
 may be ! But in the region of the front everyone 
 you meet has become superstitious, if that is the 
 word you choose. That is especially true of the 
 soldiers. Every man at the front, it seemed to me, 
 was a fatalist. What is to be will be, they say. It 
 is certain that this feeling has helped to make 
 them indifferent to danger, almost, indeed, con- 
 temptuous of it. And in France, I was told, al- 
 most everywhere there were shrines in which 
 figures of Christ or of His Mother had survived 
 the most furious shelling. All the world knows, 
 too, how, at Rheims, where the great Cathedral 
 
298 A MINSTREL IN FRANCE 
 
 has been shattered in the wickedest and most 
 wanton of all the crimes of that sort that the Ger- 
 mans have to their account, the statue of Jeanne 
 d'Arc, who saved France long ago, stands un- 
 touched. 
 
 How is a man to account for such things as that! 
 Is he to put them down to chance, to luck, to a 
 blind fate? I, for one, cannot do so, nor will I 
 try to learn to do it. 
 
 Fate, to be sure, is a strange thing, as my 
 friends the soldiers know so well. But there is 
 a difference between fate, or chance, and the sort 
 of force that preserves statues like those I have 
 named. A man never knows his luck; he does 
 well not to brood upon it. I remember the case 
 of a chap I knew, who was out for nearly three 
 years, taking part in great battles from Mons to 
 Arras. He was scratched once or twice, but was 
 never even really wounded badly enough to go to 
 hospital. He went to London, at last, on leave, 
 and within an hour of the time when he stepped 
 from his train at Charing Cross he was struck 
 by a 'bus and killed. And there was the strange 
 case of my friend, Tamson, the baker, of which 
 I told you earlier. No — a man never knows his 
 fate! 
 
 So it seemed to me, as we drove toward Arras, 
 and watched that mysterious figure, that God Him- 
 self had chosen to leave it there, as a sign and a 
 warning and » promise all at once. There was no 
 
A MINSTREL IN FRANCE 299 
 
 sign of life, at first, when we came into the town. 
 Silence brooded over the ruins. We stopped to 
 have a look around in that scene of desolation, 
 and as the motors throbbed beneath the hoods it 
 seemed to me the noise they made was close to 
 being blasphemous. We were right under that 
 hanging fig-ure of the Virgin and of Christ, and 
 to have left the silence unbroken would have been 
 more seemly. 
 
 But it was not long before the silence of the 
 town was broken by another sound. It was 
 marching men we heard, but they were scuffling 
 with their feet as they came; they had not the 
 rhythmic tread of most of the British troops we 
 had encountered. Nor were these men, when they 
 swung into sight, coming around a pile of ruins, 
 just like any British troops we had seen. I rec- 
 ognized them as once as Australians — Kangaroos, 
 as their mates in other divisions called them — by 
 the way their campaign hats were looped up at 
 one side. These were the first Australian troops 
 I had seen since I had sailed from Sydney, in the 
 early days of the war, nearly three years before. 
 Three years ! To think of it — and of what those 
 years had seen! 
 
 ''Here's a rare chance to give a concert!" I 
 said, and held up my hand to the officer in 
 command. 
 
 ''Halt!" he cried, and then: "Stand at ease!" 
 
 I was about to tell him why I had stopped them, 
 
300 A MINSTREL IN FRANCE 
 
 and make myself known to them when I saw a 
 grin rippling its way over all those bronzed faces 
 — a grin of recognition. And I saw that the officer 
 knew me, too, even before a loud voice cried out : 
 
 ' ' Good old Harry Lauder ! ' ' 
 
 That was a good Scots voice — even though its 
 owner wore the Australian uniform. 
 
 ''Would the boys like to hear a concert?" I 
 asked the officer. 
 
 "That they would! By all means!" he said. 
 ''Glad of the chance! And so'm I! I've heard 
 you just once before — in Sydney, away back in 
 the summer of 1914." 
 
 Then the big fellow who had called my name 
 spoke up again. 
 
 "Sing us 'Calligan,' " he begged. "Sing us 
 'Calligan,' Harry! I heard you sing it twenty- 
 three years agone, in Motherwell Toon Hall!" 
 
 "Calligan!" The request for that song took 
 me back indeed, through all the years that I have 
 been before the public. It must have been at least 
 twenty-three years since he had heard me sing 
 that song — all of twenty-three years. ' ' Calligan" 
 had been one of the very earliest of my successes 
 on the stage. I had not thought of the song, much 
 less sung it, for years and years. In fact, though 
 I racked my brains, I could not remember the 
 words. And so, much as I should have liked to 
 do so, I could not sing it for him. But if he was 
 disappointed, he took it in good part, and he 
 
A MINSTREL IN FRANCE 301 
 
 seemed to like some of the newer songs I had to 
 sing for them as well as he could ever have liked 
 old^'Calligan." 
 
 I sang for these Kangaroos a song I had not 
 sung before in France, because it seemed to be an 
 especially auspicious time to try it. I wrote it 
 while I was in Australia, with a view, particu- 
 larly, to pleasing Australian audiences, and so re- 
 paying them, in some measure, for the kindly way 
 in which they treated me while I was there. I 
 call it ''Australia Is the Land for Me," and this 
 is the way it goes : 
 
 There 's a land I 'd like to tell you all about 
 
 It's a land in the far South Sea. 
 It's a land where the sun shines nearly every day 
 
 It's the land for you and me. 
 It's the land for the man with the big strong arm 
 
 It's the land for big hearts, too. 
 It 's a land we '11 fight for, everything that 's right for 
 
 Australia is the real true blue! 
 
 Refrain : 
 
 It 's the land where the sun shines nearly every day 
 
 Where the skies are ever blue. 
 Where the folks are as happy as the day is long 
 
 And there's lots of work to do. 
 Where the soft winds blow and the gum trees grow 
 
 As far as the eye can see, 
 Where the magpie chaffs and the cuckoo-burra laughs 
 
 Australia is the land for me ! 
 
302 A MINSTREL IN FRANCE 
 
 Those Kangaroos took to that song as a duck 
 takes to water ! They raised the chorus wdth me 
 in a swelling roar as soon as they had heard it 
 once, to learn it, and their voices roared through 
 the ruins like vocal shrapnel. You could hear 
 them w^hoop ''Australia Is the Land for Me!" a 
 mile away. And if anything could have brought 
 down that tottering statue above us it would have 
 been the way they sang. They put body and soul, 
 as well as voice, into that final patriotic declara- 
 tion of the song. 
 
 We had thought — I speak for Hogge and Adam 
 and myself, and not for Godfrey, who did not have 
 to think and guess, but know^ — we had thought, 
 when we rolled into Albert, that it was a city of 
 the dead, utterly deserted and forlorn. But now, 
 as I went on singing, we found that that idea had 
 been all wrong. For as the Australians whooped 
 up their choruses other soldiers popped into sight. 
 They came pouring from all directions. 
 
 I have seen few sights more amazing. They 
 came from cracks and crevices, as it seemed ; from 
 under tumbled heaps of ruins, and dropping do^vn 
 from shells of houses where there were certainly 
 no stairs. As I live, before I had finished my 
 audience had been swollen to a great one of two 
 thousand men! When they were all roaring out 
 in a chorus you could scarce hear Johnson's wee 
 piano at all — it sounded only like a feeble tinkle 
 when there was a part for it alone. 
 
A MINSTREL IN FRANCE 303 
 
 I began shaking hands, when I had finished sing- 
 ing. That was a verrainjudeecious thing for me 
 to attempt there! I had not reckoned with the 
 strength of the grip of those laddies from the 
 underside of the world. But I had been there, 
 and I should have koown. 
 
 Soon came the order to the Kangaroos: "Fall 
 in!" 
 
 At once the habit of stern discipline prevailed. ' 
 They swung off again, and the last we saw of them 
 they were just brown men, disappearing along a 
 brown road, bound for the trenches. 
 
 Swiftly the mole-like dwellers in Albert melted 
 away, until only a few officers were left beside the 
 members of the Eeverend Harry Lauder, M.P., 
 Tour. And I grew grave and distraught myself. 
 
CHAPTER XXV 
 
 ONE of the officers at Albert was looking at 
 me in a curiously intent fashion. I noticed 
 that. And soon he came over to me. 
 
 "Where do you go next, Harry I" he asked me. 
 His voice was keenly sympathetic, and his eyes 
 and his manner were very grave. 
 
 "To a place called Ovilliers," I said. 
 
 "So I thought," he said. He put out his hand, 
 and I gripped it, hard. "I know, Harry. I know 
 exactly where you are going, and I will send a 
 man with you to act as your guide, who knows the 
 spot you want to reach." 
 
 I couldn 't answer him. I was too deeply moved. 
 For Ovilliers is the spot where my son, Captain 
 John Lauder, lies in his soldier's grave. That 
 grave had been, of course, from the very first, the 
 final, the ultimate objective of my journey. And 
 that morning, as we set out from Tramecourt, 
 Captain Godfrey had told me, with grave sym- 
 pathy, that at last we were coming to the spot that 
 had been so constantly in my thoughts ever since 
 we had sailed from Folkestone. 
 
 And so a private soldier joined our party as 
 guide, and we took to the road again. The 
 Bapaume road it was — a famous highway, bitterly 
 
 304 
 
A MINSTREL IN FRANCE 305 
 
 contested, savagely fought for. It was one of the 
 strategic roads of that whole region, and the Hun 
 had made a desperate fight to keep control of it. 
 But he had failed — as he has failed, and is failing 
 still, in all his major efforts in France. 
 
 There was no talking in our car, which, this 
 morning, was the second in the line. I certainly 
 was not disposed to chat, and I suppose that sym- 
 pathy for my feelings, and my glumness, stilled 
 the tongues of my companions. And, at any rate, 
 we had not traveled far when the car ahead of us 
 stopped, and the soldier from Albert stepped into 
 the road and waited for me. I got out when our 
 car stopped, and joined him. 
 
 "I will show you the place now, Mr. Lauder," 
 he said, quietly. So we left the cars standing in 
 the road, and set out across a field that, like all 
 the fields in that vicinity, had been ripped and 
 torn by shell-fire. All about us, as we crossed that 
 tragic field, there were little brown mounds, each 
 with a white wooden cross upon it. June was out 
 that day in full bloom. All over the valley, 
 thickly sown with those white crosses, wild flowers 
 in rare profusion, and thickly matted, luxuriant 
 grasses, and all the little shrubs that God Himself 
 looks after were growing bravely in the sunlight, 
 as though they were trying to hide the work of 
 the Hun. 
 
 It was a mournful journey, but, in some strange 
 way, the peaceful beauty of the day brought com- 
 
306 A MINSTREL IN FRANCE 
 
 fort to me. And my own grief was altered by the 
 vision of the grief that had come to so many 
 others. Those crosses, stretching away as far as 
 my eye could reach, attested to the fact that it was 
 not I alone who had suffered and lost and laid a 
 sacrifice upon the altar of my country. And, in 
 the presence of so many evidences of grief and 
 desolation a private grief sank into its true pro- 
 portions. It was no less keen, the agony of the 
 thought of my boy was as sharp as ever. But I 
 knew that he was only one, and that I was only 
 one father. And there were so many like him — 
 and so many like me, God help us all! Well, He 
 did help me, as I have told, and I hope and pray 
 that He has helped many another. I believe He 
 has ; indeed, I know it. 
 
 Hogge and Dr. Adam, my two good friends, 
 walked with me on that sad pilgrimage. I was 
 acutely conscious of their sympathy ; it was sweet 
 and precious to have it. But I do not think we 
 exchanged a word as we crossed that field. There 
 was no need of words. I knew, without speech 
 from them, how they felt, and they knew that I 
 knew. So we came, when we were, perhaps, half 
 a mile from the Bapaume road, to a slight 
 eminence, a tiny hill that rose from the field. A 
 little military cemetery crowned it. Here the 
 graves were set in ordered rows, and there was 
 a fence set around them, to keep them apart, and 
 to mark that spot as holy ground, until the end 
 
A MINSTREL IN FRANCE 307 
 
 of time. Five hundred British boys lie sleeping 
 in that small acre of silence, and among them is 
 my own laddie. There the fondest hopes of my 
 life, the hopes that sustained and cheered me 
 through many years, lie buried. 
 
 No one spoke. But the soldier pointed, silently 
 and eloquently, to one brown mound in a row of 
 brown mounds that looked alike, each like the 
 other. Then he drew away. And Hogge and 
 Adam stopped, and stood together, quiet and 
 grave. And so I went alone to my boy's grave, 
 and flung myself down upon the warm, friendly 
 earth. My memories of that moment are not very 
 clear, but I think that for a few minutes I was 
 utterly spent, that my collapse was complete. 
 
 He was such a good boy ! 
 
 I hope you will not think, those of you, my 
 friends, who may read what I am writing here, 
 that I am exalting my lad above all the other 
 Britons who died for King and country — or, and 
 aye, above the brave laddies of other races who 
 died to stop the Hun. But he was such a good 
 boy! 
 
 As I lay there on that brown mound, under the 
 June sun that day, all that he had been, and all 
 that he had meant to me and to his mother came 
 rushing back afresh to my memory, opening anew 
 my wounds of grief. I thought of him as a baby, 
 and as a wee laddie beginning to run around and 
 talk to us. I thought of him in every phase and 
 
308 A MINSTREL IN FRANCE 
 
 bit of his life, and of the friends that we had been, 
 he and I ! Such chums we were, always ! 
 
 And as I lay there, as I look back upon it now, 
 I can think of but the one desire that ruled and 
 moved me. I wanted to reach my arms down into 
 that dark grave, and clasp my boy tightly to my 
 breast, and kiss him. And I wanted to thank him 
 for what he had done for his country, and his 
 mother, and for me. 
 
 Again there came to me, as I lay there, the same 
 gracious solace that God had given me after I 
 heard of his glorious death. And I knew that this 
 dark grave, so sad and lonely and forlorn, was but 
 the temporary bivouac of my boy. I knew that it 
 was no more than a trench of refuge against the 
 storm of battle, in which he was resting until that 
 hour shall sound when we shall all be reunited be- 
 yond the shadowy borderland of Death. 
 
 How long did I lie there ? I do not know. And 
 how I found the strength at last to drag myself 
 to my feet and away from that spot, the dearest 
 and the saddest spot on earth to me, God only 
 knows. It was an hour of very great anguish for 
 me ; an hour of an anguish different, but only less 
 keen, than that which I had known when they had 
 told me first that I should never see my laddie in 
 the flesh again. But as I took up the melancholy 
 journey across that field, with its brown mounds 
 and its white crosses stretching so far away, they 
 seemed to bring me a sort of tragic consolation. 
 
A MINSTREL IN FRANCE 309 
 
 I thought of all the broken-hearted ones at home, 
 in Britain. How many were waiting, as I had 
 waited, until they, too, — they, too, — ^might come to 
 France, and cast themselves down, as I had done, 
 upon some brown mound, sacred in their thoughts ? 
 How many were praying for the day to come when 
 they might gaze upon a white cross, as I had done, 
 and from the brown mound out of which it rose 
 gather a few crumbs of that brown earth, to be 
 deposited in a sacred corner of a sacred place 
 yonder in Britain? 
 
 While I was in America, on my last tour, a 
 woman wrote to me from a town in the state of 
 Maine. She was a stranger to me when she sat 
 down to write that letter, but I count her now, al- 
 though I have never seen her, among my very 
 dearest friends. 
 
 "I have a friend in France," she wrote. *'He 
 is there with our American army, and we had a 
 letter from him the other day. I think you would 
 like to hear what he wrote to us. 
 
 " * I was walking in the gloaming here in France 
 the other evening,' he wrote. *You know, I have 
 always been very fond of that old song of Harry 
 Lauder's, 'Eoamin' in the Gloamin'.' 
 
 '' 'Well, I was roamin' in the gloamin' myself, 
 and as I went I hummed that very song, under my 
 breath. And I came, in my walk to a little ceme- 
 tery, on a tiny hill. There were many mounds 
 there and many small white crosses. About one 
 
310 A MINSTREL IN FRANCE 
 
 of them a Union Jack was wrapped so tightly that 
 I could not read the inscription upon it. And 
 something led me to unfurl that weather-worn 
 flag, so that I could read. And what do you think? 
 It was the grave of Harry Lauder's son, Captain 
 John Lauder, of the Argyle and Sutherland High- 
 landers, and his little family crest was upon the 
 cross. 
 
 '' *I stood there, looking down at that grave, 
 and I said a little prayer, all by myself. And then 
 I rewound the Union Jack about the cross. I 
 went over to some ruins nearby, and there I found 
 a red rose growing. I do believe it was the last 
 rose of summer. And I took it up, very carefully, 
 roots and all, and carried it over to Captain 
 Lauder's grave, and planted it there.' " 
 
 What a world of comfort those words brought 
 me! 
 
 It was about eight o'clock one morning that 
 Captain Lauder was killed, between Courcellete 
 and Poizieres, on the Ancre, in the region that is 
 known as the Somme battlefield. It was soon 
 after breakfast, and John was going about, seeing 
 to his men. His company was to be relieved that 
 day, and to go back from the trenches to rest bil- 
 lets, behind the lines. We had sent our laddie a 
 braw lot of Christmas packages not long before, 
 but he had had them kept at the rest billet, so that 
 he might have the pleasure of opening them when 
 he was out of the trenches, and had a little leisure. 
 
A MINSTREL IN FRANCE 311 
 
 even though it made his Christmas presents a wee 
 bit late. 
 
 There had been a little mist upon the ground, 
 as, at that damp and chilly season of the year, 
 there nearly always was along the river Ancre. 
 At that time, on that morning, it was just begin- 
 ning to rise as the sun grew strong enough to 
 banish it. I think John trusted too much to the 
 mist, perhaps. He stepped for just a moment into 
 the open; for just a moment he exposed himself, 
 as he had to do, no doubt, to do his duty. And 
 a German sniper, watching for just such 
 chances, caught a glimpse of him. His rifle 
 spoke; its bullet pierced John's brave and 
 gentle heart. 
 
 Tate, John's body-servant, a man from our own 
 town, was the first to reach him. Tate was never 
 far from John's side, and he was heart-broken 
 when he reached him that morning and found that 
 there was nothing he could do for him. 
 
 Many of the soldiers who served with John and 
 under him have written to me, and come to me. 
 And all of them have told me the same thing: 
 that there was not a man in his company who did 
 not feel his death as a personal loss and bereave- 
 ment. And his superior officers have told me the 
 same thing. In so far as such reports could com- 
 fort us his mother and I have taken solace in them. 
 All that we have heard of John's life in the 
 trenches, and of his death, was such a report as 
 
312 A MINSTREL IN FRANCE 
 
 we or any parents should want to have of their 
 boy. 
 
 John never lost his rare good nature. There 
 were times when things were going very badly 
 indeed, but at such times he could always be 
 counted upon to raise a laugh and uplift the 
 spirits of his men. He knew them all; he knew 
 them well. Nearly all of them came from his 
 home region near the Clyde, and so they were his 
 neighbors and his friends. 
 
 I have told you earlier that John was a good 
 musician. He played the piano rarely well, for an 
 amateur, and he had a grand singing voice. And 
 one of his fellow-officers told me that, after the 
 fight at Beaumont-Hamul, one of the phases of the 
 great Battle of the Somme, John's company found 
 itself, toward evening, near the ruins of an old 
 chateau. After that fight, by the way, dire news, 
 sad news, came to our village of the men of the 
 Argyle and Sutherland regiment, and there were 
 many stricken homes that mourned brave lads who 
 would never come home again. 
 
 John's men were near to exhaustion that night. 
 They had done terrible work that day, and their 
 losses had been heavy. Now that there was an 
 interlude they lay about, tired and bruised and 
 battered. Many had been killed; many had been 
 so badly wounded that they lay somewhere behind, 
 or had been picked up already by the Red Cross 
 men who followed them across the field of the at- 
 
A MINSTREL IN FRANCE 313 
 
 tack. But there were many more who had been 
 slightly hurt, and whose wounds began to pain 
 them grievously now. The spirit of the men was 
 dashed. 
 
 John's friend and fellow-officer told me of the 
 scene. 
 
 ''There we were, sir," he said. *'We were 
 pretty well done in, I can tell you. And then 
 Lauder came along. I suppose he was just as 
 tired and worn out as the rest of us — God knows 
 he had as much reason to be, and more ! But he 
 was as cocky as a little bantam. And he was smil- 
 ing. He looked about. 
 
 '* 'Here — this won't do!' he said. 'We've got 
 to get these lads feeling better ! ' He was talking 
 more to himself than to anyone else, I think. And 
 he went exploring around. He got into what was 
 left of that chateau — and I can tell you it wasn't 
 much ! The Germans had been using it as a point 
 d'appui — a sort of rallying-place, sir — and our 
 guns had smashed it up pretty thoroughly. I've 
 no doubt the Fritzies had taken a hack at it, too, 
 when they found they couldn't hold it any longer 
 — they usually did. 
 
 "But, by a sort of miracle, there was a piano 
 inside that had come through all the trouble. The 
 building and all the rest of the furniture had been 
 knocked to bits, but the piano was all right, al- 
 though, as I say, I don't know how that had hap- 
 pened. Lauder spied it, and went clambering over 
 
314 A MINSTREL IN FRANCE 
 
 all the debris and wreckage to reach it. He tried 
 the keys, and found that the action was all right. 
 So he began picking out a tune, and the rest of us 
 began to sit up a bit. And pretty soon he Hfted 
 his voice in a rollicking tune — one of your songs 
 it was, sir — and in no time the men were all sit- 
 ting up to listen to him. Then they joined in the 
 chorus — and pretty soon you'd never have known 
 they'd been tired or worn out! If there 'd been a 
 chance they'd have gone at Fritz and done the 
 day's work all over again!" 
 
 After John was killed his brother officers sent 
 us all his personal belongings. We have his field- 
 glasses, with the mud of the trenches dried upon 
 them. We have a little gold locket that he always 
 wore around his neck. His mother's picture is 
 in it, and that of the lassie he was to have married 
 had he come home, after New Year's. And we 
 have his rings, and his boots, and his watch, and 
 all the other small possessions that were a part of 
 his daily life out there in France. 
 
 Many soldiers and officers of the 'Argyle and 
 Sutherlanders pass the hoose at Dunoon on the 
 Clyde. None ever passes the hoose, though, with- 
 out dropping in, for a bite and sup if he has time 
 to stop, and to tell us stories of our beloved boy. 
 
 No, I would no have you think that I would exalt 
 my boy above all the others who have lived and 
 died in France in the way of duty. But he was 
 such a good boy! We have heard so many tales 
 
A MINSTREL IN FRANCE 315 
 
 like those I have told you, to make us proud of 
 him, and glad that he bore his part as a man 
 should. 
 
 He will stay there, in that small grave on that 
 tiny hill. I shall not bring his body back to rest 
 in Scotland, even if the time comes when I might 
 do so. It is a soldier's grave, and an honorable 
 place for him to be, and I feel it is there that he 
 would wish to lie, with his men lying close about 
 him, until the time comes for the great reunion. 
 
 But I am going back to France to visit again 
 and again that grave where he lies buried. So 
 long as I live myself that hill will be the shrine to 
 which my many pilgrimages will be directed. The 
 time will come again when I may take his mother 
 with me, and when we may kneel together at that 
 spot. 
 
 And meanwhile the wild flowers and the long 
 grasses and all the little shrubs will keep watch 
 and ward over him there, and over all the other 
 brave soldiers who lie hard by, who died for God 
 and for their flag. 
 
CHAPTER XXVI 
 
 SO, at last, I turned back toward the road, and 
 very slowly, with bowed head and shoulders 
 that felt very old, all at once, I walked back 
 toward the Bapaume highway. I was still silent, 
 and when we reached the road again, and the wait- 
 ing cars, I turned, and looked back, long and sor- 
 rowfully, at that tiny hill, and the grave it shel- 
 tered. Godfrey and Hogge and Adam, Johnson 
 and the soldiers of our party, followed my gaze. 
 But we looked in silence ; not one of us had a word 
 to say. There are moments, as I suppose we have 
 all had to learn, that are beyond words and 
 speech. 
 
 And then at last we stepped back into the cars, 
 and resumed our journey on the Bapaume road. 
 We started slowly, and I looked back until a turn 
 in the road hid that field with its mounds and its 
 crosses, and that tiny cemetery on the wee hill. 
 So I said good-by to my boy again, for a little 
 space. 
 
 Our road was by way of Poizieres, and this part 
 of our journey took us through an area of fearful 
 desolation. It was the country that was most bit- 
 terly fought over in the summer long battle of 
 the Somme in 1916, when the new armies of 
 
 316 
 
A MINSTREL IN FRANCE 317 
 
 Britain had their baptism of fire and sounded the 
 knell of doom for the Hun. It was then he learned 
 that Britain had had time, after all, to train troops 
 who, man for man, outmatched his best. 
 
 Here war had passed like a consuming flame, 
 leaving no living thing in its path. The trees were 
 mown down, clean to the ground. The very earth 
 was blasted out of all semblance to its normal 
 kindly look. The scene was like a picture of Hell 
 from Dante's Inferno; there is nothing upon this 
 earth that may be compared with it. Death and 
 pain and agony had ruled this whole countryside, 
 once so smiling and fair to see. 
 
 After we had driven for a space we came to 
 something that lay by the roadside that was a fit- 
 ting occupant of such a spot. It was like the 
 skeleton of some giant creature of a prehistoric 
 age, incredibly savage even in its stark, unlovely 
 death. It might have been the frame of some vast, 
 metallic tumble bug, that, crawling ominously 
 along this road of death, had come into the path 
 of a Colossus, and been stepped upon, and then 
 kicked aside from the road to die. 
 
 "That's what's left of one of our first tanks," 
 said Godfrey. ''We used them first in this battle 
 of the Somme, you remember. And that must 
 have been one of the very earliest ones. They've 
 been improved and perfected since that time." 
 
 ' ' How came it like this T ' I asked, gazing at it, 
 curiously. 
 
318 A MINSTREL IN FRANCE 
 
 ''A direct hit from a big German shell — a lucky 
 hit, of course. That's about the only thing 
 that could put even one of the first tanks out 
 of action that way. Ordinary shells from 
 field pieces, machine-gun fire, that sort of 
 thing, made no impression on the tanks. But, 
 of course " 
 
 I could see for myself. The in'ards of the 
 monster had been pretty thoroughly knocked out. 
 Well, that tank had done its bit, I have no doubt. 
 And, since its heyday, the brain of Mars has 
 spawned so many new ideas that this vast creature 
 would have been obsolete, and ready for the scrap 
 heap, even had the Hun not put it there before its 
 time. 
 
 At the Butte de Marlincourt, one of the most 
 bitterly contested bits of the battlefield, we passed 
 a huge mine crater, and I made an inspection of 
 it. It was like the crater of an old volcano, a huge 
 old mountain with a hole in its center. Here were 
 elaborate dugouts, too, and many graves. 
 
 Soon we came to Bapaume. Bapaume was one 
 of the objectives the British failed to reach in the 
 action of 1916. But early in 1917 the Germans, 
 seeing they had come to the end of their tether 
 there, retreated, and gave the town up. But what 
 a town they left! Bapaume was nearly as com- 
 plete a ruin as Arras and Albert. But it had not 
 been wrecked by shell-fire. The Hun had done 
 the work in cold blood. The houses had been 
 
A MINSTREL IN FRANCE 319 
 
 wrecked by human hands. Pictures still hung 
 crazily upon the walls. Grates were falling out 
 of fire-places. Beds stood on end. Tables and 
 chairs were wantonly smashed and there was 
 black ruin everywhere. 
 
 We drove on then to a small town where the 
 skirling of pipes heralded our coming. It was the 
 headquarters of General Willoughby and the For- 
 tieth Division. Highlanders came flocking around 
 to greet us warmly, and they all begged me to 
 sing to them. But the officer in command called 
 them to attention. 
 
 ''Men," he said, "Harry Lauder comes to us 
 fresh from the saddest mission of his life. We 
 have no right to expect him to sing for us to-day, 
 but if it is God's will that he should, nothing could 
 give us greater pleasure." 
 
 My heart was very heavy within me, and never, 
 even on the night when I went back to the Shaftes- 
 bury Theater, have I felt less like singing. But 
 I saw the warm sympathy on the faces of the boys. 
 "If you'll take me as I am," I told them, "I will 
 try to sing for you. I will do my best, anyway. 
 When a man is killed, or a battalion is killed, or 
 a regiment is killed, the war goes on, just the 
 same. And if it is possible for you to fight with 
 broken ranks, I'll try to sing for you with a broken 
 heart." 
 
 And so I did, and, although God knows it must 
 have been a feeble effort, the lads gave me a beau- 
 
320 A MINSTREL IN FRANCE 
 
 tiful reception. I sang my older songs for them — 
 the songs my own laddie had loved. 
 
 They gave us tea after I had sung for them, with 
 chocolate eclairs as a rare treat! We were sur- 
 prised to get such fare upon the battlefield, but 
 it was a welcome surprise. 
 
 We turned back from Bapaume, traveling along 
 another road on the return journey. And on the 
 way we met about two hundred German prisoners 
 — the first we had seen in any numbers. They 
 were working on the road, under guard of British 
 soldiers. They looked sleek and well-fed, and they 
 were not working very hard, certainly. Yet I 
 thought there was something about their expres- 
 sion like that of neglected animals. I got out of 
 the car and spoke to an intelligent-looking little 
 chap, perhaps about twenty-five years old — a 
 sergeant. He looked rather suspicious when I 
 spoke to him, but he saluted smartly, and stood at 
 attention while we talked, and he gave me ready 
 and civil answers. 
 
 ''You speak English?" I asked. "Fluently?" 
 
 "Yes, sir!" 
 
 "How do you like being a prisoner?" 
 
 "I don't like it. It's very degrading." 
 
 "Your companions look pretty happy. Any 
 complaints ? ' ' 
 
 "No, sir! None!" 
 
 "What are the Germans fighting for? What 
 do you hope to gain?" 
 
A MINSTREL IN FRANCE 321 
 
 *'The freedom of the seas!" 
 
 ' ' But you had that before the war broke out ! " 
 
 "We haven't got it now." 
 
 I laughed at that. 
 
 ''Certainly not," I said. ''Give us credit for 
 doing something! But how are you going to get 
 it again?" 
 
 "Our submarines will get it for us." 
 
 "Still," I said, "you must be fighting for some- 
 thing else, too ? ' ' 
 
 "No," he said, doggedly. "Just for the free- 
 dom of the seas." 
 
 I couldn't resist telling him a bit of news that 
 the censor was keeping very carefully from his 
 fellow-Germans at home. 
 
 "We sank seven of your submarines last week," 
 I said. 
 
 He probably didn't believe that. But his face 
 paled a bit, and his lips puckered, and he scowled. 
 Then, as I turned away, he whipped his hand to 
 his forehead in a stiff salute, but I felt that it was 
 not the most gracious salute I had ever seen! 
 Still, I didn 't blame him much ! 
 
 Captain Godfrey meant to show us another 
 village that day. 
 
 "Rather an interesting spot," he said. "They 
 differ, these French villages. They're not all 
 alike, by any means." 
 
 Then, before long, he began to look puzzled. 
 And finally he called a halt. 
 
322 A MINSTREL IN FRANCE 
 
 *'It ought to be right here," he said. ''It was, 
 not so long ago. ' ' 
 
 But there was no village ! The Hun had passed 
 that way. And the village for which Godfrey was 
 seeking had been utterly wiped off the face of the 
 earth! Not a trace of it remained. Where men 
 and women and little children had lived and 
 worked and played in quiet happiness the abomi- 
 nable desolation that is the work of the Hun had 
 come. There was nothing to show that they or 
 their village had ever been. 
 
 The Hun knows no mercy! 
 
CHAPTER XXVII 
 
 THERE had been, originally, a perfectly- 
 definite route for the Reverend Harry 
 Lauder, M.P., Tour — as definite a route as 
 is mapped out for me when I am touring the 
 United States. Our route had called for a fairly- 
 steady progress from Vimy Ridge to Peronne — 
 like Bapaume, one of the great unreached objec- 
 tives of the Somme offensive, and, again like 
 Bapaume, ruined and abandoned by the Germans 
 in the retreat of the spring of 1917. But we made 
 many side trips and gave many and many an un- 
 planned, extemporaneous roadside concert, as I 
 have told. 
 
 For all of us it had been a labor of love. I 
 will always believe that I sang a little better on 
 that tour than I have ever sung before or ever 
 shall again, and I am sure, too, that Hogge and 
 Dr. Adam spoke more eloquently to their soldier 
 hearers than they ever did in parliament or 
 church. My wee piano. Tinkle Tom, held out 
 staunchly. He never wavered in tune, though he 
 got some sad jouncings as he clung to the grid 
 of a swift-moving car. As for Johnson, my 
 Yorkshireman, he was as good an accompanist be- 
 fore the tour ended as I could ever want, and he 
 
 323 
 
324 A MINSTREL IN FRANCE 
 
 took the keenest interest and delight in his work, 
 from start to finish. 
 
 Captain Godfrey, our manager, must have been 
 proud indeed of the "business" his troupe did. 
 The weather was splendid; the "houses" every- 
 where were so big that if there had been Stand- 
 ing Room Only signs they would have been called 
 into use every day. And his company got a won- 
 derful reception wherever it showed! He had 
 everything a manager could have to make his 
 heart rejoice. And he did not, like many man- 
 agers, have to be continually trying to patch up 
 quarrels in the company! He had no petty pro- 
 fessional jealousies with which to contend; such 
 things were unknown in our troupe ! 
 
 All the time while I was singing in France I was 
 elaborating an idea that had for some time pos- 
 sessed me, and that was coming now to dominate 
 me utterly. I was thinking of the maimed sol- 
 diers, the boys who had not died, but had given 
 a leg, or an arm, or their sight to the cause, and 
 who were doomed to go through the rest of their 
 lives broken and shattered and incomplete. They 
 were never out of my thoughts. I had seen them 
 before I ever came to France, as I traveled the 
 length and breadth of the United Kingdom, sing- 
 ing for the men in the camps and the hospitals, 
 and doing what I could to help in the recruiting. 
 And I used to lie awake of nights, wondering what 
 would become of those poor broken laddies when 
 
A MINSTREL IN FRANCE 325 
 
 the war was over and we were all setting to work 
 again to rebuild our lives. 
 
 And especially I thought of the brave laddies of 
 my ain Scotland. They must have thought often 
 of their future. They must have wondered what 
 was to become of them, when they had to take up 
 the struggle with the world anew — no longer on 
 even terms with their mates, but handicapped by 
 grievous injuries that had come to them in the 
 noblest of ways. I remembered crippled soldiers, 
 victims of other wars, whom I had seen selling 
 papers and matches on street corners, objects of 
 charity, almost, to a generation that had forgotten 
 the service to the country that had put them in 
 the way of having to make their living so. And 
 I had made a great resolution that, if I could do 
 aught to prevent it, no man of Scotland who had 
 served in this war should ever have to seek a 
 livelihood in such a manner. 
 
 So I conceived the idea of raising a great fund 
 to be used for giving the maimed Scots soldiers a 
 fresh start in life. They would be pensioned by 
 the government. I knew that. But I knew, too, 
 that a pension is rarely more than enough to keep 
 body and soul together. What these crippled men 
 would need, I felt, was enough money to set them 
 up in some little business of their own, that they 
 could see to despite their wounds, or to enable 
 them to make a new start in some old business or 
 trade, if they could do so. 
 
326 A MINSTREL IN FRANCE 
 
 A man might need a hundred pounds, I thought, 
 or two hundred pounds, to get him started prop- 
 erly again. And I wanted to be able to hand a 
 man what money he might require. I did not want 
 to lend it to him, taking his note or his promise 
 to pay. Nor did I want to give it to him as 
 charity. I wanted to hand it to him as a free- 
 will offering, as a partial pajment of the debt 
 Scotland owed him for what he had done for 
 her. 
 
 And I thought, too, of men stricken by shell- 
 shock, or paralyzed in the war — there are pitifully 
 many of both sorts ! I did not want them to stay 
 in bare and cold and lonely institutions. I wanted 
 to take them out of such places, and back to their 
 homes; home to the village and the glen. I 
 wanted to get them a wheel-chair, with an old, 
 neighborly man or an old neighborly woman, 
 maybe, to take them for an airing in the forenoon, 
 and the afternoon, that they might breathe the 
 good Scots air, and see the wild flowers growing, 
 and hear the song of the birds. 
 
 That was the plan that had for a long time been 
 taking form in my mind. I had talked it over 
 with some of my friends, and the newspapers had 
 heard of it, somehow, and printed a few para- 
 graphs about it. It was still very much in embryo 
 when I went to France, but, to my surprise, the 
 Scots soldiers nearly always spoke of it when I 
 was talking with them. They had seen the para- 
 
A MINSTREL IN FRANCE 327 
 
 graphs in the papers, and I soon realized that it 
 loomed up as a great thing for them. 
 
 "Aye, it's a grand thing you're thinking of, 
 Harry," they said, again and again. "Now we 
 know we'll no be beggars in the street, now that 
 we've got a champion like you, Harry." 
 
 I heard such words as that first from a High- 
 lander at Arras, and from that moment I have 
 thought of little else. Many of the laddies told 
 me that the thought of being killed did not bother 
 them, but that they did worry a bit about their 
 future in case they went home maimed and 
 helpless. 
 
 "We're here to stay until there's no more work 
 to do, if it takes twenty years, Harry, ' ' they said. 
 "But it'll be a big relief to know we will be cared 
 for if we must go back crippled." 
 
 I set the sum I would have to raise to accom- 
 plish the work I had in mind at a million pounds 
 sterling — five million dollars. It may seem a 
 great sum to some, but to me, knowing the pur- 
 pose for which it is to be used, it seems small 
 enough. And my friends agree with me. When 
 I returned from France I talked to some Scots 
 friends, and a meeting was called, in Glasgow, of 
 the St. Andrews Society. I addressed it, and it 
 declared itself in cordial sympathy with the idea. 
 Then I went to Edinburgh, and down to London, 
 and back north to Manchester. Everywhere my 
 plan was greeted with the greatest enthusiasm, 
 
328 A MINSTREL IN FRANCE 
 
 and the real organization of the fund was begun 
 on September 17 and 18, 1917. 
 
 This fund of mine is known officially as ''The 
 Harry Lauder Million Pound Fund for Maimed 
 Men, Scottish Soldiers and Sailors." It does not 
 in any way conflict with nor overlap, any other 
 work already being done. I made sure of that, 
 because I talked to the Pension Minister, and his 
 colleagues, in London, before I went ahead with 
 my plans, and they fully and warmly approved 
 everything that I planned to do. 
 
 The Earl of Rosebery, former Prime Minister 
 of Britain, is Honorary President of the Fund, 
 and Lord Balfour of Burleigh is its treasurer. 
 And as I write we have raised an amount well 
 into six figures in pounds sterling. One of the 
 things that made me most willing to undertake 
 my last tour of America was my feeling that I 
 could secure the support and cooperation of the 
 Scottish people in America for my fund better by 
 personal appeals than in any other way. At the 
 end of every performance I gave during the tour, 
 I told my audience what I was doing and the 
 object of the fund, and, although I addressed 
 myself chiefly to the Scots, there has been a most 
 generous and touching response from Americans 
 as well. 
 
 We distributed little plaid-bordered envelopes, 
 in which folk were in\dted to send contributions to 
 the bank in New York that was the American 
 
A MINSTREL IN FRANCE 329 
 
 depository. And after each performance Mrs. 
 Lauder stood in the lobby and sold little envelopes 
 full of stamps, '* sticky backs," as she called 
 them, like the Red Cross seals that have been sold 
 so long in America at Christmas time. She sold 
 them for a quarter, or for whatever they would 
 bring, and all the money went to the fund. 
 
 I had a novel experience sometimes. Often I 
 would no sooner have explained what I was doing 
 than I would feel myself the target of a sort of 
 bombardment. At first I thought Germans were 
 shooting at me, but I soon learned that it was 
 money that was being thrown! And every day 
 my dressing-table would be piled high with checks 
 and money orders and paper money sent direct 
 to me instead of to the bank. But I had to ask 
 the guid folk to cease firing — the money was too 
 apt to be lost! 
 
 Folk of all races gave liberally. I was deeply 
 touched at Hot Springs, Arkansas, where the 
 stage hands gave me the money they had received 
 for their work during my engagement. 
 
CHAPTER XXVIII 
 
 1HAVE stopped for a wee digression about 
 my fund. I saw many interesting things in 
 France, and dreadful things. And it was 
 impressed upon me more and more that the Hun 
 knows no mercy. The wicked, wanton things he 
 did in France, and that I saw ! 
 
 There was Mont St. Quentin, one of the very 
 strongest of the positions out of which the British 
 turned him. There was a chateau there, a bonnie 
 place. And hard by was a wee cemetery. The 
 Hun had smashed its pretty monuments, and he 
 had reached into that sacred soil with his filthy 
 claws, and dragged out the dead from their 
 resting-place, and scattered their helpless bones 
 about. 
 
 He ruined Peronne in wanton fury because it 
 was passing from his grip. He wrecked its old 
 cathedral, once one of the loveliest sights in 
 France. He took away the old fleurs-de-lis from 
 the great gates of Peronne. He stole and carried 
 away the statues that used to stand in the old 
 square. He left the great statue of St. Peter, still 
 standing in the churchyard, but its thumb was 
 broken off. I found it, as I rummaged about idly 
 in the debris at the statue's foot. 
 
 330 
 
A MINSTREL IN FRANCE 331 
 
 It was no casual looting that the Huns did. 
 They did their work methodically, systematically. 
 It was a sight to make the angels weep. 
 
 As I left the ruined cathedral I met a couple of 
 French poilus, and tried to talk with them. But 
 they spoke "very leetle" English, and I fired all 
 my French words at them in one sentence. 
 
 "Oui, oui, madame," I said. "Encore pomme 
 du terre. Fini!" 
 
 They laughed, but we did no get far with our 
 talk ! Not in French. 
 
 "You can't love the Hun much, after this," I 
 said. 
 
 "Ze Hun? Ze bloody BocheT' cried one of 
 them. ' ' I keel heem all my life ! ' ' 
 
 I was glad to quit Peronne. The rape of that 
 lovely church saddened me more than almost any 
 sight I saw in France. I did not care to look at 
 it. So I was glad when we motored on to the 
 headquarters of the Fourth Army, where I had the 
 honor of meeting one of Britain's greatest sol- 
 diers, General Sir Henry Eawlinson, who greeted 
 us most cordially, and invited us to dinner. 
 
 After dinner we drove on toward Amiens. We 
 were swinging back now, toward Boulogne, and 
 were scheduled to sleep that night at Amiens — 
 which the Germans held for a few days, during 
 their first rush toward Paris, before the Marne, 
 but did not have time to destroy. 
 
 Adam knew Amiens, and was made welcome, 
 
332 A MINSTREL IN FRANCE 
 
 with the rest of us, at an excellent hotel. Von 
 Kluck had made its headquarters when he swung 
 that way from Brussels, and it was there he 
 planned the dinner he meant to eat in Paris with 
 the Kaiser. Von Kluck demanded an indemnity 
 of a million dollars from Amiens to spare its 
 famous old cathedral. 
 
 It was late when we arrived, but before I slept 
 I called for the boots and ordered a bottle of 
 ginger ale. I tried to get him to tell me about old 
 von Kluck and his stay but he couldn't talk Eng- 
 lish, and was busy, anyway, trying to open the 
 bottle without cutting the wire. Adam and Hogge 
 are fond, to this day, of telling how I shouted at 
 him, finally : 
 
 **Well, how do you expect to open that bottle 
 when you can't even talk the English language?" 
 
 Next day was Sunday, and we went to church 
 in the cathedral, which von Kluck didn't destroy, 
 after all. There were signs of war ; the windows 
 and the fine carved doors were banked with sand 
 bags as a measure of protection from bombing 
 airplanes. 
 
 I gave my last roadside concert on the road 
 from Amiens to Boulogne. It was at a little place 
 called Ouef, and we had some trouble in finding 
 it and more in pronouncing its name. Some of us 
 called it Off, some Owf ! I knew I had heard the 
 name somewhere, and I was racking my brains to 
 think as Johnson set up our wee piano and I began 
 
A MINSTREL IN FRANCE 333 
 
 to sing. Just as I finished my first song a rooster 
 set up a violent crowing, in competition with me, 
 and I remembered! 
 
 * * I know where I am ! " I cried. " I 'm at Egg ! ' ' 
 
 And that is what Oeuf means, in English ! 
 
 The soldiers were vastly amused. They were 
 Gordon Highlanders, and I found a lot of chaps 
 among them frae far awa' Aberdeen. Not many 
 of them are alive to-day! But that day they were 
 a gay lot and a bonnie lot. There was a big 
 Highlander who said to me, very gravely : 
 
 ''Harry, the only good thing I ever saw in a 
 German was a British bayonet ! If you ever hear 
 anyone at hame talking peace — cut off their 
 heads! Or send them out to us, and we'll show 
 them. There's a job to do here, and we'll 
 do it. 
 
 ''Look!" he said, sweeping his arm as if to 
 include all France. "Look at yon ruins! How 
 would you like old England or auld Scotland to 
 be looking like that? We're not only going to 
 break and scatter the Hun rule, Harry. If we do 
 no more than that, it will surely be reassembled 
 again. We're going to destroy it." 
 
 On the way from Oeuf to Boulogne we visited 
 a small, out of the way hospital, and I sang for 
 the lads there. And I was going around, after- 
 ward, talking to the boys on their cots, and came 
 to a young chap whose head and face were 
 swathed in bandages. 
 
334 A MINSTREL IN FRANCE 
 
 "How came you to be hurt, lad!" I asked. 
 
 ''Well, sir," he said, "we were attacking one 
 morning. I went over the parapet with the rest, 
 and got to the German trench all right. I wasn't 
 hurt. And I went down, thirty feet deep, into one 
 of their dugouts. You wouldn't think men could 
 live so — but, of course, they're not men — they're 
 animals! There was a lighted candle on a shelf, 
 and beside it a fountain pen. It was just an 
 ordinary-looking pen, and it was fair loot — I 
 thought some chap had meant to write a letter, 
 and forgotten his pen when our attack came. So 
 I slipped it in my pocket. 
 
 "Two days later I was going to write a few 
 lines to my mother and tell her I was all right, 
 so I thought I'd try my new pen. And when I 
 unscrewed the cap it exploded — and, well, you see 
 me, Harry ! It blew half of my face away ! ' ' 
 
 The Hun knows no mercy. 
 
 I was glad to see Boulogne again — the white 
 buildings on the white hills, and the harbor be- 
 yond. Here the itinerary of the Reverend Harry 
 Lauder, M.P., Tour, came to its formal end. But, 
 since there were many new arrivals in the hospi- 
 tals — the population of a base shifts quickly — we 
 were asked to give a couple more concerts in the 
 hospitals where we had first appeared on French 
 soil. 
 
 A good many thousand Canadians had just 
 come in, so I sang at Base Hospital No. 1, and 
 
A MINSTREL IN FRANCE 335 
 
 then gave another and farewell concert at the 
 great convalescent camp on the hill. And then we 
 said good-by to Captain Godfrey, and the chauf- 
 feurs, and to Johnson, my accompanist, ready to 
 go back to his regiment now. I told them all I 
 hoped that when I came to France again to sing 
 we could reassemble all the original cast, and I 
 pray that we may! 
 
 On Monday we took boat again for Folkestone. 
 The boat was crowded with men going home on 
 leave, and I wandered among them. I heard many 
 a tale of heroism and courage, of splendid sacri- 
 fice and suffering nobly borne. Destroyers, as be- 
 fore, circled about us, and there was no hint of 
 trouble from a Hun submarine. 
 
 On our boat was Lord Dalmeny, a King's Mes- 
 senger, carrying dispatches from the front. He 
 asked me how I had liked the "show." It is so 
 that nearly all British soldiers refer to the 
 war. 
 
 They had earned their rest, those laddies who 
 were going home to Britain. But some of them 
 were half sorry to be going! I talked to one of 
 them. 
 
 ''I don't know, Harry," he said. ''I was look- 
 ing forward to this leave for a long time. I've 
 been oot twa years. My heart jumped with joy 
 at first at the thought of seeing my mother and 
 the auld hame. But now that I'm started, and in 
 a fair way to get there, I'm no so happy. You 
 
336 A MINSTREL IN FRANCE 
 
 see — every young fellow frae my toon is awa'. 
 I'm the only one going back. Many are dead. It 
 won't be the same. I've a mind just to stay on 
 London till my leave is up, and then go back. If 
 I went home my mother would but burst out 
 greetin', an' I think I could no stand that." 
 
 But, as for me, I was glad, though I was sorry, 
 too, to be going home. I wanted to go back again. 
 But I wanted to hurry to my wife, and tell her 
 what I had seen at our boy's grave. And so I 
 did, so soon as I landed on British ground once 
 more. 
 
 I felt that I was bearing a message to her. A 
 message from our boy. I felt — and I still feel — 
 that I could tell her that all was well with him, and 
 with all the other soldiers of Britain, who sleep, 
 like him, in the land of the bleeding lily. They 
 died for humanity, and God will not forget. 
 
 And I think there is something for me to say to 
 all those who are to know a grief such as I knew. 
 Every mother and father who loves a son in this 
 war must have a strong, unbreakable faith in the 
 future life, in the world beyond, where you will 
 see your son again. Do not give way to grief. 
 Instead, keep your gaze and your faith firmly 
 fixed on the world beyond, and regard your boy's 
 absence as though he were but on a journey. By 
 keeping your faith you will help to win this war. 
 For if you lose it, the war and your personal self 
 are lost. 
 
A MINSTREL IN FRANCE 337 
 
 My whole perspective was changed by my visit 
 to the front. Never again shall I know those mo- 
 ments of black despair that used to come to me. 
 In my thoughts I shall never be far away from 
 the little cemetery hard by the Bapaume road. 
 And life would not be worth the living for me did 
 I not believe that each day brings me nearer to 
 seeing him again. 
 
 I found a belief among the soldiers in France 
 that was almost universal. I found it among all 
 classes of men at the front ; among men who had,, 
 before the war, been regularly religious, along 
 well-ordered lines, and among men who had lived 
 just according to their own lights. Before the 
 war, before the Hun went mad, the young men of 
 Britain thought little of death or what might come 
 after death. They were gay and careless, living 
 for to-day. Then war came, and with it death, 
 astride of every minute, every hour. And the 
 young men began to think of spiritual things and 
 of God. 
 
 Their faces, their deportments, may not have 
 showTi the change. But it was in their hearts. 
 They would not show it. Not they ! But I have 
 talked with hundreds of men along the front. And 
 it is my conviction that they believe, one and all, 
 that if they fall in battle they only pass on to 
 another. And what a comforting belief that is! 
 
 ''It is that belief that makes us indifferent to 
 danger and to death," a soldier said to me. *'We 
 
338 A MINSTREL IN FRANCE 
 
 fight in a righteous cause and a holy war. God 
 is not going to let everything end for us just be- 
 cause the mortal life quits the shell we call the 
 body. You may be sure of that." 
 And I am sure of it, indeed ! 
 
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