rd. He
had always in the past shown me much kindness in supplying me with
means of locomotion. Colonel Brutenell was an old country Frenchman
with the most courteous manners. When I first discovered that he was
the possessor of side-cars, I used to obtain them by going over to him
and saying, "Colonel, if you will give me a side-car I will recite you
one of my poems." He was too polite at first to decline to enter into
the bargain, but, as time went on, I found that the price I offered
began to lose its value, and sometimes the side-cars were not
forthcoming. It then became necessary to change my plan of campaign,
so I hit upon another device. I used to walk into the orderly room and
say in a raucous voice, "Colonel, if you _don't_ give me a side-car I
will recite one of my poems." I found that in the long run this was
the most effectual method. On the present occasion, therefore, the
side-car was sent to me, and I made my way to Wippenhoek and from
thence up to the dressing station at Vlamertinghe. Here our wounded
were pouring in. Once again Canada was reddening the soil of the
Salient with her best blood. It was indeed an anxious time. That
evening, however, a telegram was received by the O.C. of the Ambulance
saying that the British fleet had sunk twenty or thirty German
vessels, and implying that what we had thought was a naval reverse was
really a magnificent naval victory. I do not know who sent the
telegram, or on what foundation in fact it was based. I think that
somebody in authority considered it would be well to cheer up our men
with a piece of good news. At any rate all who were at the dressing
station believed it, and I determined to carry a copy of the telegram
with me up to the men in the line. I started off on one of the
ambulances for Railway Dugouts. Those ambulance journeys through the
town of Ypres after midnight were things to be remembered. The desolate
ruins of the city stood up black and grim. The road was crowded with men,
lorries, ambulances, transports and motorcycles. Every now and then the
scene of desolation would be lit up by gun flashes. Occasionally the
crash of a shell would shake the already sorely smitten city. I can
never cease to admire the pluck of those ambulance drivers, who night
after night, backwards and forwards, threaded their way in the (p. 131)
darkness through the ghost-haunted streets. One night when the enemy's
guns were particularly active, I was being driven by a