CAN’T KILL ME

“Hello, Central, give me Queen 4000.  Is that you, Burt?  You are going, aren’t you?”

Burt Young was one of my pals and I had just learned from the morning paper that enlistments for Canada’s first overseas contingent were being taken that day and I had called up to inquire if he were going.

“Sure, I am going.  Where will I meet you?”

We arranged to meet at the exhibition ground and, taking French leave of the office, I hastened to the camp where the recruiting was going on, picking up Burt on the way.

It was as if a baseball championship series were on; the crowd good-naturedly swayed and jammed as each man struggled to get to the door and signed up before the quota was full.  With only the loss of a hat and some slight disarrangement of my collar and tie, I was one of the lucky ones.

And we were lucky!  Although visions of lands to be seen and adventures to be had flitted rapidly through my mind, and although I believe none of us on that day dreamed of what we were getting into, yet, looking back over it all, I would not have missed my place in Canada’s First Division for anything I ever hope to have on earth.

In two hours I was in khaki and in another hour I had bade the folks farewell and was standing on the station platform waiting for the train that would take us to Valcartier, the greatest gathering place of soldiers that Canada has ever known.

Some idea of my knowledge of things military may be gleaned from the following:—­chatting with Burt, he suddenly espied a large car, with two girls, shooting up the street to the station, and called my attention to it.  One of the girls was my sister.  I immediately scented trouble.  I skipped across to the other side of the depot, intending to board the train from the other side when it came in; I was not going to have my soldiering interfered with if I could help it.  Standing in the shelter of a pillar, I did not notice two husky recruits in khaki behind me.  “Is your name Grant?” they asked.  “Yes.”  “The Colonel wants to see you at once,” they informed me, and they marched me back.

As I approached, my sister was talking earnestly and energetically to the Colonel and I could plainly see I was the object of the conversation.  I waited.

“How is this, Grant, this lady says you are not of age.  Is that so?” asked the Colonel.

“I am of age and—­”

“Stand to attention!” snapped the Colonel.  I straightened up and folded my arms respectfully across my chest.

“Stand to attention, damn you!  Don’t you know how to stand to attention?” I shifted my feet a little uneasily, wondering how he wanted me to stand.

“Put those heels together,” he snorted.  I did so.  “Keep your toes apart,” he half hissed and half shouted.  I spread my toes apart.  I still had my arms folded.  Almost purple in the face with his violence, he roared, “Put those damned hands of yours down!” and he grabbed my wrists and flopped them down.  “Young lady, you’ll have to take this matter up at Valcartier; there is no time to do anything now.  You can go,” this to me.  I turned on my heel.