by Paul Almond
Field Marshal Roberts had decided that shortly, the regiment would march on to Pretoria, the capital of the Transvaal, a goodly distance of some three hundred miles. The regiment was gathering its strength: more supplies arrived from Cape Town, the food got gradually better, proper replacement uniforms were issued, but those who were sick remained sick. But still, this enforced inactivity prayed on the men, as it had earlier, but now they also witnessed, and could not be indifferent to, comrades down with enteric, or wounded, who were made to suffer in appalling conditions.
As he tended to the many diseased and wounded, Jack’s sense of injustice and his natural antipathy to combat began to grow. The battles that had been so eagerly anticipated (and he counted himself among those who’d been deceived) were now seen to be a devastation to both body and spirit.
He had a duty to do, but on the other hand, what about his duty to his Lord and King — who commanded all followers to live in peace. Forget the Old Testament God who wreaked vengeance on all who crossed him, Jesus had changed that. And here am I, he thought, doing what I am expressly forbidden to do, be a party to organized murder.
What would the Bishop say? And Canon Scott’s sermon expounding on the justice of their enterprise? But did those clergy back in Quebec really understand what conditions would be faced by young farm boys, by the incipient lawyers, clerks, and teachers here? Had they really looked ahead to the death and destruction this was bringing on our next young generation?
This wrestling with irreconcilable doubts was interrupted by an order to report to his commanding officer.
Chaplain Jack removed his helmet and was shown into the Colonel’s spacious office near the centre of town.
“At ease, Chaplain.”
“You asked for me, Sir?”
“I did, Chaplain. The regiment will be moving out the day after tomorrow, at dawn.” Otter waited for his reaction, which was minimal. “How is O’Leary doing?”
“It’s a long slow haul, sir. But I do believe he will recover.”
“We shall have to invalid him home, I think. Poor old soldier, he’s done his best. He has given his very finest to the regiment, but I think now,” Otter looked hard at Jack, “the burden will fall on you.”
“On me, sir?”
“Yes. We have a couple of British chaplains looking after our sick here. I’m giving you the chance you have waited for. You will come with us to the front, where there’ll be plenty of fighting, I can tell you.” He smiled. “Enough to satisfy everyone.”
Jack had some trouble finding his voice. “Thank you, Sir.”
Now what should he do? This was a direct command. Should he face the Colonel right away? Oh no, much too unprepared. Think about it overnight.
“You don’t look pleased.”
“Oh yes sir, very pleased. I’m just rather taken aback. This is, after all, just what I’ve come to do.”
“Right-oh then. That will be all, Chaplain.”
Jack, helmet under his arm, turned smartly and left the office.
* * *
That night Jack bedded down with the other two lieutenants, Robert Willis and Harry Burstall. They had grown friendly over time, now that Big George was gone and only three of them shared the tent. Willis was a wiry sort of fellow with short hair and a well-groomed moustache he took great care of every morning, shaving with a small hand mirror. Harry, six foot two, had a rather pudgy, almost baby face, which belied a fierce intelligence, great courage and an adherence to duty and rules that his troops found exemplary. He was certainly due for a promotion and everyone knew it, but he made no complaints. He led the men in fine fashion.
Most nights they would lie back as they were going to sleep and gossip about their homes, their families, and often complain of the conditions, all three of them topping each other with horrifying tales of neglect that they had heard about sloppy orderlies or stories of others on the wards who worked unbelievably hard and long into the night to make their patients better. During the day, no longer having endless drills, they were given lectures on tactics. The two officers saw to it that their privates were sharpening bayonets or practising their shooting and generally making themselves ready for the big push on Pretoria.
“I hear you were called in to the Colonel’s. Did he put you on the spot? More trouble?”
Harry and many others knew that Jack was not a favourite of the Colonel’s nor was he in turn esteemed by Jack. In fact, most of the regiment had grown to resent Otter, for they needed someone to blame for their lack of clothing, food, water, all the many shortages that this war had brought upon the Regiment, although most these problems had by now been rectified.
“No,” replied Jack. “He just told me we’re off the day after tomorrow.”
The other two sat up like bolts. “Did he now,” said Willis. “You’re sure?”
“That’s what he said. I think he was a bit disappointed.”
“Disappointed? By our going off to fight?”
“No, at the way I responded. You see, I’m having a bit of a battle with my conscience.” Jack went on quickly, “But it will pass. Now, I went in to say good-bye to Peter O’Leary, who’s being sent home tomorrow. He was sorry to leave you all, he told me to tell you that. But he’s still weak, and surely not up to any more battling. I’m sad to see him go.”
“Was he quite upset?”
“Not really. He can see that our main task is probably over. We’ve certainly given the Imperial Forces a hand up, and I doubt, apart from the next couple of weeks, we’ll have much more to do.”
Willis nodded. “Yes, but those next few weeks... I would have liked him there.”
“Not up to it, I’m afraid. As Otter says, he’s done far more than his duty.” Jack was pleased to have diverted them from discussing his own doubts. Would they really understand his problem with the rightness of the struggle and the many lives so needlessly taken?
“Well, Jack, the problem of being a Christian, and then going out and killing your fellow man...” Harry asked with acuity. “I’ve often wondered how you clergymen do it. As for us soldiers, when the government orders us into action, we do what we’re told. And we do our best to win for good Queen Victoria, and for the Canadian nation. That’s what we’re trained to do. But you, a clergyman taught to love your fellow man, no matter who he is — yes, I do see you might have a problem.”
A problem that Jack knew he had to resolve on his own.
Chapter Thirty
And resolve it he did. But not before his disturbed sleep was cut short by a definite call — a loud one, his name, he felt sure. But who was calling? All around, the regiment tossed in their tents, but no really intrusive sound broke the night stillness. Could it have been Kelsie? Should he dress and go see to her? Or was he, as usual, dreaming heavily. Yes, that was it, his nights had become so difficult, recently, with all the mayhem of his days.
At the first hint of light, Jack arose, dressed as a captain with his chaplain’s insignia, and walked out of the camp over a slight rise, down to a wooded area where burial plots of the various regiments had been laid out.
He was the first to arrive. He stood silently waiting among the piles of rocks and humps of freshly turned sand before their new wooden crosses and he reflected on that curious awakening in the night. He looked around at the haphazard array of death in this makeshift mortuary. How many young men from far-off lands had come to lie here in this bleak desert, cradled by foreign sand and shaded by trees never seen at home? He was interrupted in his thoughts by the Bugler who greeted Jack with a proper salute.
“Well, Private, I suppose this will be our last burial service for a time. Or are you staying behind when our boys leave?”
“I’m a staying, Sir. The Colonel decided to send off a new fella what came with the Second Contingent.” Canada had sent out another force in January, which had embarked from Halifax on the Laurentian along with two other steamers loaded with three batteries of field artillery, three squadrons of mounted ri
fles, and a squadron of specially selected scouts: 1,230 men in all and over a thousand horses, many of which died on the voyage. They had just joined Robert’s army in Bloemfontein.
“I expect that the Chaplain from the new regiment will stay to take care of any burials,” the Private said.
Jack nodded. This high desert, before the sun rose, was definitely chilly. They stamped their feet, swinging their arms to keep warm. Far over the flat horizon, the wide sky was brightening as it blackened bushes and silhouetted humps of anthills and distant kopjes. From the wood nearby came a diminished dawn chorus; the large ungainly vultures had not yet begun their daily circling.
He squatted against a stump to ruminate on his coming decision, when he heard the rattle of an oxcart and grinding of its heavy wheels. At the approach of the “hearse” he arose and opened his prayer book. Then he frowned. The Kaffir driver and burial detail of two were accompanied by a fourth, a tall, slim figure. As they approached, he could see that it was indeed Sister Georgine Pope, the head Canadian nurse. What on earth did that mean?
The oxcart trundled forward with its Kaffir driver and stopped. The two soldiers on burial duty moved to the rear to remove their sombre burdens. Jack took his accustomed place by the grave, dug the previous night. The sun was just about to break over the horizon. Somehow, the burial cart always managed to get its timing right: military discipline, military orders, even in death.
The nurse detached herself from the others and came forward.
“Hello Sister,” Jack said. “To what do we owe this unexpected visit?”
“Ah, ’tis a sorry occasion, Chaplain, one that should never take place. I knew you hadn’t heard.” She paused, looked at the ground and then raised her big, dark eyes to meet Jack’s stare, steeling herself for her next sentence. With sombre mien and strangled sob, she spoke. “Sister Kelsie... In the night...”
“But... I was with her yesterday morning.” Jack’s brain whirled. “She looked... I even thought she was looking better. I thought, in fact, there might be a chance now, that she would come through.”
Sister Georgina shook her head. “Someone heard her cry out, and they summoned me. Of course, I called the doctor too. As I went into her ward, I saw her little form lurch up. She stared into the lamplight, and I heard her cry out, ‘He’s coming!’
“I looked for an orderly to get you, for it was probably you she wanted. But then I heard her gasp, ‘The brightness’... Her eyes wide, so wide, Chaplain. I went forward to shield them, for I feared she might be hurting herself. ‘The brightness’, she cried out again, and then as she sank back, she breathed, ‘How very, very bright’...” Jack bowed his head.“I didn’t have to feel her pulse. I knew there was none.”
Silence fell. The Bugler looked down, scuffing the ground with his foot.
Jack envisioned her lying on the cot, a wisp of the creature he had known, white face on white pillow, in the darkened lamplight.
“We tried to help. The doctor came, but it was no use.” The Sister shook her head sadly.
Jack just could not get this enormity into his brain. Every faculty refused to accept it. His Kelsie. Gone? Not possible.
The burial orderlies laid the two men’s bodies in the grave and went back to the cart. They lifted out their much lighter bundle. Jack looked sharply away, then turned his back. He bowed his head to say a prayer, held his eyes tightly shut and covered his face with his hands.
No, no time for tears! But how to stop his feelings winning out? Pull yourself together, he told himself: you do have a job to do. Mourn later.
Come along, he told himself more gently, just turn around, open your prayer book, and begin the service for your Kelsie. She would expect it. But this vision, and that sound of her cry, would stay with Jack through the long dreary months of duty that lay ahead.
He saw Sister Georgina looking at him with compassion; she too was holding back tears. The burial detail, having placed Kelsie’s enwrapped body gently in a separate grave, stood back and snapped to attention, eyes averted. They obviously knew what had transpired, and although used to burials, they too seemed affected by this passing of an unusually brave young nurse.
Jack began the Burial Service.
When he began to speak, he was afraid his voice would waver. But no, he sounded firm and pronounced the words, which of course by now he knew by heart. As he read the words with half his brain, the other half was tormented by vivid memories.
So he mingled fragments of the rite with a renewed determination to end once and for all his participation in the carnage.
I am the resurrection and the life, saith the Lord: he that believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live: and whosoever liveth and believeth in me shall never die. No, Kelsie, this is it. No more war for me! No more accompanying the troops, no more exhortations to victory. For he must reign, till he hath put all enemies under his feet. The last enemy that shall be destroyed is death. For he hath put all things under his feet. Yes, he conquered death, but you, Kelsie, can no longer see the sun rise over your Halifax hospital. No more will you help your little sister Orla with her homework. You will never walk back over the brow of the Hollow as we promised. I’m finished with war. I don’t care, what the outcome. This corruptible must put on incorruption, and this mortal must put on immortality. Yes, Kelsie, you shall put on His mantle... And so must I. I must turn away, no matter whether I’m shot for desertion, or clapped in the brig, I must go back to Canada with my blunt statement: war is wrong! Come, ye blessed children of my Father, receive the kingdom prepared for you from the beginning of the world...
* * *
Right after his painful breakfast and still trying to absorb Kelsie’s passing, Jack set off for the Colonel’s office. Face him he would, no matter what the consequences. His mind was made up.
As he passed out of the camp with firm tread, a voice called loudly, “Chaplain! Chaplain Jack! Wait!”
Jack stopped and turned.
Eamon! Seeming healthy and recovered, he hurried up, arm still in a sling but otherwise in fine shape.
“Why Eamon, good to see you! I thought you had been invalided back to Canada. Or at least sent down to Cape Town.”
“No sir, I’m going out with the regiment tomorrow morning. Into battle, yes, Chaplain. Very exciting. I made them pronounce me fit. Look.” He took his arm out of his sling, lifted it, moved it in different positions. “I’m as good as the next fella — probably better, because I’ve seen fighting, I know the battle, I’m a veteran, Chaplain, you can see that now, eh?”
Jack took in his new companion. “Eamon, you’re a hero. Coming back to fight again after being wounded once, well, we should all be proud of you. Yes sir.” And that, Jack did believe. He would salute bravery wherever it occurred. “I wish you well tomorrow, and onward into the fight, no question about it.”
“Well, you’re coming along, too. I heard that you saw the Colonel. He picked you out of all the other chaplains. You’re the bye as we sez.” Eamon broke into the sailor’s song:
“I’s the bye that builds the boat and I’s the bye that sails ’er,
I’se the bye that catches the fish and brings ’em home to Lizer.”
He seemed so pleased.
“I’m sorry, Eamon, but I’ve decided war is wrong. I spend my life burying poor lads who should be out pitching hay or teaching classes full of students. I’m determined to make a statement. I am not coming.”
What next struck Jack was the enormous hurt on Eamon’s face. “Jack... Chaplain Jack, you can’t.... You can’t mean that. You won’t let us all down? Would you? Let us fellas go off fighting without you near? You just can’t.” He finished weakly, despairingly.
“Just watch me.” As soon as Jack said that, he regretted it. He saw the astonishment in Eamon’s eyes. “But Chaplain, we’re going into battle — some of us’ll get wounded. We need someone like you. What if we... what if I get kilt? Who’ll bury me? I don’t want no stranger saying them rites over me
body. You gotta come.”
For the first time, Jack saw this tough young man, devastated, near tears. Eamon was begging him. Eamon was counting on him.
Chaplain Jack let the exchange sink in without speaking. And then, his mind swept over the many, many others who would feel just like Eamon. Was he, their chaplain, going to let them go off alone? To be struck by a Mauser, to be blasted by a dum-dum, while he sat comfortably in a railway car heading south?
“Aah,” said Eamon, “you was just kidding, wasn’t yez.” He relaxed somewhat.
Must have read my mind, thought Jack. “Yes, Eamon, of course I was kidding. Of course I’ll come with you. Of course, I’d never let you down. Of course, I shall do my duty, as is right and proper. You can count on me. I shall be with you all when you march out of camp tomorrow morning.”
And so, Chaplain Jack Alford went with his regiment into battle.
Chapter Thirty-One
Jack held services for the men on Good Friday and then on Easter Sunday, April 15th at nine o’clock. On April 21st, he marched off with the whole Regiment (which now numbered only 621 officers and men) eight miles to Springfield Farm to relieve the 19th Battalion. The men had left most of their possessions behind in Bloemfontein, not knowing that many were never to return. Roberts had assigned them to sweep the Boers from ridges and hills northeast of the city.
What now distinguished the marches was the right to sing, which had been withdrawn the men up till now by foolish orders from Otter. The columns resounded with: “We are the Soldiers of the Queen, my Lads”, “Home, sweet Home” and other favourites, which made the steps lighter and the journey more fun.