I didn't even know what guns were used and, if informed,
shouldn't have had the least idea what an eighteen-pounder
was. Nevertheless, within seven months I was out in France, taking
part in an offensive which, up to that time, was the most ambitious of
the entire war.
From New York I went to Kingston in Ontario to present myself for
training; an officers' class had just started, in which I had been
ordered to enrol myself. It was the depth of winter--an unusually hard
winter even for that part of Canada. My first glimpse of the Tete du
Pont Barracks was of a square of low buildings, very much like the
square of a Hudson Bay Fort. The parade ground was ankle-deep in
trampled snow and mud. A bleak wind was blowing from off the
river. Squads of embryo officers were being drilled by hoarse-voiced
sergeants. The officers looked cold, and cowed, and foolish; the
sergeants employed ruthlessly the age-old army sarcasms and made no
effort to disguise their disgust for these officers and "temporary
gentlemen."
I was directed to an office where a captain sat writing at a desk,
while an orderly waited rigidly at attention. The captain looked up as
I entered, took in my spats and velour hat with an impatient glance,
and continued with his writing. When I got an opportunity I presented
my letter; he read it through irritably.
"Any previous military experience?"
"None at all."
"Then how d'you expect to pass out with this class? It's been going
for nearly two weeks already?"
Again, as though he had dismissed me from his mind, he returned to his
writing.
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