Private Peat | Page 2

Bill had just declared
his intention rather positively, so I was a bit surprised when he replied
in his old familiar drawl:
"All right, but you'll have to pass the doctor first. I'm pretty sure I can
get by, but I'm not so certain about you."
Ken Mitchell looked up at that and, smiling at me, said, "I can imagine
almost anything in this world, but I can't imagine Peat a soldier."
"Well, we'll see about that, Ken," I replied, and with that the supper
came to an end.
That evening Bill and I went over to the One-Hundred-and-First
Barracks, but there was nothing doing, as word had just come from
Ottawa to stop recruiting. It was on the twenty-second of August, 1914,
before the office was opened again, and on that day we took another
shot at our luck.
The doctor gave me the "once over" while Bill stood outside.

"One inch too small around the chest," was the verdict.
"Oh, Doc, have a heart!"
"No," he said, "we have too many men now to be taking a little midget
like you." That was disappointment number two. I walked out and
reported to Bill, and I need not say that that loyal friend did not try to
pass without me.
That night--August twenty-second--I slept very little. I had made up my
mind that I was going to the war, and go I would, chest or no chest.
Before morning I had evolved many plans and adopted one. I counted
on my appearance to put me through. I am short and slight. I'm dark
and curly-haired. I can pass for a Frenchman, an American, a Belgian;
or at a pinch a Jew.
I had my story and my plan ready when the next day I set out to have
another try. At twelve-thirty I was seated on Major Farquarhson's
veranda where I would meet him and see him alone when he came
home to lunch.
"Excuse me, Doctor," I said when he appeared, "but I'm sure you would
pass me if you only knew my circumstances."
"Well?" snapped the major.
"You see, sir, my two brothers have been killed by the Germans in
Belgium, and my mother and sisters are over there. I must go over to
avenge them."
I shivered; I quaked in my shoes. Would the major speak to me in
French? I did not then know as much as Bon jour.
But luck was with me. To my great relief Major Farquarhson replied, as
he walked into the house, "Report to me this afternoon; I will pass
you."
August 28, 1914, saw old Bill--Bill Ravenscroft--and me enlisted for

the trouble.
A few days later Bill voiced the opinion of the majority of the soldiers
when he said, "Oh, this bloomin' war will be over in three months." Not
alone was this Bill's opinion, or that of the men only, but the opinion of
the people of Canada, the opinion of the people of the whole British
Empire.
And right here there lies a wrong that should be righted. From the days
of our childhood, in school and out, we are taught what WE can do, and
not what the other fellow can do. This belief in our own strength and
this ignorance of our neighbor's follows us through manhood, aye, and
to the grave.
It was this over-confidence which brought only thirty-three thousand
Canadian men to the mobilization camp at Valcartier, in answer to the
first call to arms, instead of the one hundred thousand there should
have been.
Not many days passed before we boarded the train at Edmonton for our
journey to Valcartier. The first feeling of pride came over me, and I am
sure over all the boys on that eventful Thursday night, August 27, 1914,
when thousands of people, friends and neighbors, lined the roadside as
we marched to the station.
Only one or two of us wore the khaki uniform; the rest were in their
oldest and poorest duds. A haphazard, motley, rummy crowd, we might
have been classed for anything but soldiers. At least, we gathered this
from remarks we overheard as we marched silently along to the waiting
troop-train.
Strangely enough no one was crying. Every one was cheered. Little did
hundreds of those women, those mothers, dream that this was the last
look they would have at their loved ones. Men were cheering; women
were waving. Weeping was yet to come.
On that same August night, not only from Edmonton, but from every
city and town in Canada men were marching on their way to Valcartier.

We traveled fast, and without event of importance. There were
enthusiastic receptions at each town that we passed through. There was
Melville and there was Rivers, and there was Waterous, where the
townsfolk declared the day