practically all men and most women are brave when the occasion requires it. out there one sees many types of brave men. there are few cases of cowardice in the face of the enemy, though in all the armies in this great conflict men have been shot for this crime. conscience may make cowards of us all, but war makes brave men of most of us. in this war the pampered few, as well as those who earned their bread by the sweat of their brow, have shown a courage unsurpassed in the so-called chivalrous ages that are gone.

death-dealing instruments have been multiplied and refined by the inventive resources of our times till they have reached a stage of perfection never even approached in the past. aeroplanes, zeppelins, artillery, various types of trench mortars, mining, machine-guns, poisonous gases, liquid fire, and the many other means of killing and disabling our enemies have rendered this war the most horrible and terrifying in history. yet it is rare at the front to see officers or men exhibit cowardice. with few exceptions all face death in its many forms with a smile on their lips, bearing at the same time indescribable hardships of mud, dirt, lice, work and weather with unbeatable stoicism. they are always ready to go forward with their faces to the foe, an irresistible army of citizen soldiers. the hardships are often more trying than the dangers, yet it is always an inspiration to hear gay peals of laughter at the discomforts and hardships borne by men accustomed to all the luxuries of comfortable homes and beloved families.

just at dark on a zero-cold winter's day our battalion arrived at some new frame huts on the edge of a wood. the huts had just been built; they knew not the meaning of bunks, stoves, or other comforts. the gray sky could be seen through many chinks in the war-contract lumber, and the frozen earth through cracks in the floor. after a cold supper of bully beef, bread, and jam, there lay down on the bare floor of the h.q. hut to sleep as best they could,—the colonel, a criminal lawyer of vancouver; the second in command, a lumber dealer of ottawa; an attached major, a lawyer of the same place; the adjutant, a broker of montreal; the paymaster, a banker of kingston; the signal officer, a bank clerk of edmonton; the scout officer, son of a well-known high court judge of quebec; and myself. not a complaint was heard, but jokes were bandied to and fro, and shortly the regular breathing of some and the snoring of others testified that man may quickly become accustomed to strange surroundings. in the morning the boots of all were frozen to the floor!

men are brave because of many motives. when they are standing shoulder to shoulder facing an enemy, few of them flinch, no matter how dark the outlook is at the moment. their pride in themselves, their loyalty to their native land, their love of their comrades, and their hatred for the enemy combine to prevent them from allowing fear to conquer them. fear, per se, is another matter. practically all men experience fear under fire at times, but they grit their teeth and press on. the quality that makes them do this is what we call courage. any man who could look into a hole in the ground into which you could drop a small house, and, knowing this hole was made by a large caliber shell, yet feel no fear on going through a barrage of such shells, is not a brave man; he's an imbecile. as kelly said:

"a man that's not afeard o' thim shells has more courage than sinse."

but even outside of that natural fear of shells there is no doubt that at certain moments during the multitudinous dangers of war all men really feel afraid. it cannot be avoided if a man sets any value whatever upon his life; 999 out of 1,000 conquer that impulse to fly, and carry on, the thousandth allows the impulse to conquer him. he is thereafter branded, "coward," unless he retrieves himself later. instinctively the brave man is recognized by his fellowmen. in a dangerous advance there are usually a few who drop behind, hide in a shellhole or dugout till the danger passes or lessens, and then rejoin their unit, claiming to have been lost or stunned by a shell. in this way they escape being accused of, and perhaps shot for, desertion. it may be that these men are more to be pitied than blamed. self preservation is the first law of nature, but it is a physical law, and the moral law that man must not be a coward overrules it. a few hours after the advance over vimy ridge, my corporal and i, while dressing wounded on the field, met a number of stragglers, all going toward the front lines. they gave various excuses for being behind their companies, and some no doubt told the truth, but it is also certain that a few had shirked.

there is a legitimate nervousness, named "shell shock." the real cases of this condition, when they are extreme, are sad to see. an officer or tommy, who has previously been an excellent soldier, suddenly develops "nerves" to such an extent as to be uncontrollable. he trembles violently, his heart may be disorderly in rhythm, he has a terrified air, the slightest noise makes him jump and even occasionally run at top speed to a supposed place of safety. he is the personification of terror, at times crying out or weeping like a child. he is unfit for duty, and will require rest for an extended time. some cases are not so extreme as this and may simply display sufficient nervousness to prevent their going on.

shell shock is brought about by the effects of severe shelling; by being buried by an explosion of shell or mine; or by the killing beside the sufferer of a companion. in short, these cases are due to the subjection of the nervous system to a strain which it is unable to withstand, making it collapse instead of resiliency rebounding. the extreme cases are pitiable to observe, and are just as ill as if they were suffering from insanity, or delirium tremens. it is doubtful if the man who has suffered from a severe attack of this malady is ever again fit to serve in the firing line. only time can tell whether or not any permanent weakness will be left in the nervous system as its result. these are not cases of cowardice, though to a superficial observer they might appear so. some of them six months later, after that full period of rest and care, still show marked tremor, a fast or irregular heart, are "jumpy" on the slightest sharp sound, and are generally unfit for service.

it is interesting to study the psychology of the coward, but it is more interesting and infinitely more inspiring to study that of the brave man. brave men and courageous women are so common, as this war has amply proven, that we may find plenty of material for this study. the women—god bless them, and sustain them—have to show more courage than the men; for they have to endure in patience the life-sapping tedium of staying at home, while their loved ones go into danger—and perhaps to death. they have not, as their men have, the variety of change, the interest of novelty, or the excitement of battle to sustain them and occupy their minds. their duty is to wait, wait, wait—praying and hoping that a good and merciful god will spare their loved ones. oh, you wives, and mothers, and sweethearts, who wait, the world owes to you much more of honor and thanks than it owes to the men at the front! you, in your sublime unselfishness, prefer to see your beloved men-folks get the honors and praise, while you are content and happy to accept the reflected glory!

every country in the world believes that it has the fairest women and the bravest men, and, to make an irishism, each is right in believing it. it is only natural that each country should have a national pride in the deeds of its heroes, and this war will give to most countries enough acts of bravery and of chivalry to inspire their youth for a few generations.

————

capt. gammil was a handsome, dashing chap whose love of fine clothes, bright colors, silk pajamas—which he wore even in the lines, while the rest of us slept in our uniforms, according to orders—and immaculate cleanliness, gained for him the sobriquet, beau brummel. his farcical gayety was continuous, and rarely did he appear serious, even though a serious mien would have been more appropriate. his extremes of style made him a daily cause of humorous remarks on the part of his comrades; and yet his courage was unquestioned. i have seen him coolly walking along, daintily smoking his special brand of cigarette, apparently as much at ease as if he were in his own smoking room, with the shells at the same time bursting all about him. good stories were told of his careless fearlessness at the somme and elsewhere, as he carried out his duties in tight corners with the sang-froid of a veteran. here was a fellow one would take to be the lightest of the light, a poseur, a farceur, a dandy of the ladies, who could be as gay and light in danger as in london. he is the type of chap who was, no doubt, "a sissy" in the opinion of his fellow-schoolboys, but is in reality of the stuff that men are made.

major billbower, an english bank-clerk who had lived some years in canada, was rather the reverse of the above. he took life more seriously, and hardly a day went by that he did not put into the orderly room a complaint, great or small, until he got the name, "the grouser." usually his complaints were on behalf of his men whom he seemed to think were always getting discriminated against by someone. because he was of the rather extreme, unmixable, aristocratic type his men respected him rather than loved him (though he was a very likable chap to those who really knew him) but they would unhesitatingly follow him through hell-fire, for in danger his handsomely-chiseled features wore a scornful smile as he strode along, gayly swinging his cane, with the same air that he had worn in more peaceful days in hyde park. he had been decorated for conspicuous bravery, and well deserved it. on one occasion a large caliber dud shell struck in the doorway of a superficial dugout in which he was writing, and rolled to his feet. without more than a glance at it, he coolly pushed it to one side with his foot, and continued writing.

corporal pare, a red-headed irish boy, was for a long time my sanitary corporal in the lines and out. he had been serving in the lines for sixteen months at the time of which i write, and was tired of it. he frankly said he was afraid to do certain things, but when ordered to do them, he carried them out cheerfully and smilingly. at the somme he won great praise as a runner for carrying messages through heavy barrages, always appearing terrified at the prospect, but always getting through. many a time inspecting the trenches with me he would say, respectfully: "those pineapples are dropping in just ahead of us, sir. hadn't we better turn back?" perhaps to tease him, i would go on, telling him to "come along." "very good, sir," he would say with a cheerful smile on his red face, and he would trudge along like a faithful dog. he was "homely" in looks, red-headed, not clever, and said he was afraid, but no more faithful or more dependable soldier ever went to the front than corporal pare.

sergeant gascrain was a small, shriveled, sharp-tongued, five-foot-high, french canadian who assisted me for some time. he was cynical as to the illnesses of the men, and treated them usually like so many cattle, believing them all to be malingerers, till one day i reminded him that a man may often malinger, but that did not prevent him from occasionally getting sick. he apparently did not believe it, though he often cursed the rheumatism that afflicted his own joints. he said they all had "frigidity of the feet, with a big f." he was at times addicted to alcohol and every few months he lost his stripes because of intoxication. then he would labor incessantly till, by his good work, he won them back again. and when he did regain them he was as proud as if he had won his marshal's baton, until the next occasion when the great god bacchus put him back to the ranks with one fell swoop. with all his faults he had an absolute disregard of danger. i sincerely believe that he thought that if a shell should strike him—well, so much the worse for the shell. at the somme his cool, courageous work under heavy shell fire won for him, at the recommendation of a british colonel who had observed it, the military medal. but one deed he performed which i think deserved more praise than any other. while working on the field a lieutenant colonel was brought to him on a stretcher. the lieutenant colonel's wound was so slight as to cause a sneer to hover about the sergeant's lips as he dressed it. a stretcher squad carried the colonel to the rear, and another squad, under the sergeant's direction, carried a badly-wounded tommy. an ambulance came for them. the sergeant had the soldier put in first and then the colonel. but the colonel angrily protested against the tommy being allowed to go in the same ambulance with him.

"tres bien, monsieur," replied the sergeant in his quick, sharp tones, and turning to a stretcher squad, said, "remove the officer." it was quickly done, the colonel staring in angry astonishment, the sergeant coolly continuing his work while the officer awaited the coming of another ambulance. in my opinion this act of an n.c.o. was worthy of a v.c.

major peters.—this officer somehow impressed me as being without any semblance of nervousness under any conditions. he was always an interesting study. if a shell burst in our neighborhood, close enough to make most of us "duck," pete would go on serenely as if on church parade. rather slow thinking, he was sure in judgment. he never made haste to give his thoughts tongue, "nor any unproportioned thought his act." he had a quiet, dry humor, and generous, kindly nature. he was invariably late on parade, and probably improperly dressed. i have met him on one occasion wandering aimlessly across an area looking for his company, which he had somehow mislaid. if the orderly room gave out an order for some return to be made by company commanders by 8 a.m., his was never in before 10, and then only after he had been reminded of the order. after the battle of arras he forgot altogether to put in his recommendations for bravery on the part of any of his men, though by a rush movement he succeeded in getting them in on time.

but with all these faults he had the respect, trust and confidence of everyone. he had won the m.c. twice for coolness and bravery in action. if the holding of the front line was a particularly risky proposition at any time, he would probably be the man in charge of the task. he was never found wanting when cool, courageous action was needed, and all knew it. many are the good tales told of him in his early front line days. by night he would quietly wander off over the parapet by himself, and an hour or so later would come strolling back, after having had a good look into the german lines, and perhaps into some of their dugouts. in his slow voice he would give any valuable information, not wasting any words in doing it. on one of these trips, as he stepped back over the parapet he was met by a senior officer who, knowing his junior's characteristics, said,—

"well, pete, what have you found out this time?"

pete sat himself down on the firing step of the trench and gave him all the information that he had. suddenly the senior noticed that a pool of blood was collecting where major peters sat.

"are you wounded?" he cried.

"well, yes," peters answered slowly, "guess they got me that time," and he rose and strolled carelessly along to the r.a.p. where his wounds were found to be serious enough to put him out of action for a few weeks. the germans had thrown a bomb at him.

the major loved dearly going into dangerous zones, just wandering off to see what he could see. after we had taken vimy ridge, but not yet progressed beyond it, we had outposts on the german side of it, looking down on vimy and other german positions, 400 or 500 yards away. a good deal of sniping was going on against us, as our men were so much exposed on the side of the hill, where they had very little protection except an odd shellhole or a few feet of shallow trench here and there. our battalion was holding this line, and i, on the day vimy village was taken, april 13th, had occasion to make a hurried trip along this whole front, at one spot, where a trench two feet deep was the only protection from possible sniping or shell fire, major peters stood, leaning back against the parados, two-thirds of his body exposed, hands in pockets, gazing pensively across at the vimy ruins.

"what are you trying to do? get your bally head blown off?" i demanded.

without looking around, or otherwise changing his position, he replied in his slow voice:

"i don't think there's anyone there to blow my head off." this shows his judgment, for he was right, as it proved a little later when our scout officer, followed by a single platoon, entered it. but it showed also his carelessness as to danger, for at the moment he was only guessing, or surmising, that there was no one in vimy, and at any moment he might have found it out to his sorrow.

a few minutes after this the accidental explosion of a mills bomb killed one man, wounded two officers severely, and six men almost as severely, and i was kept busy for some time attending to them. having finished, i found major peters near me, looking longingly toward vimy, into the ruins of which our scout officer, lieutenant a——; our o.c. battalion, major e——; and a platoon in charge of ever-smiling lieutenant g—— had all disappeared. major peters was apparently impatient to go across, though he had no right to do so without orders. leaving the wounded to be evacuated by my always trustworthy and fearless assistants, corporal h—— and private b——, m.m., and their stretcher bearers, i joined him. though i had even less right to go across than he, we dared each other to go, and off we went. an odd shell was falling about and it was quite characteristic for pete to remark, slowly and seriously,—

"i don't mind dodging shells, but i do hate dodging that damned orderly room of ours."

but he was as joyously gay as if he were a schoolboy going on some forbidden picnic.

without encountering a boche we leisurely strolled through the ruined and deserted streets, passing here and there a dead german, and one canadian who must have got lost, and been killed while looking for his own lines. on the main road was a wagon of heavy shells with its wheels interlocked with those of another wagon—both apparently deserted in a hurry by the fleeing germans, for an officer's complete kit lay beside them. we passed the station and went on out 500 yards to where our platoon was "digging in." we joined them, and then wandered on for one hundred yards into what was to be the new no man's land, without ever having encountered a german. they had deserted the village by dark, and had not left even the proverbial corporal's guard behind. guided by the major through the streets which were now in the shadows of evening we unerringly found our way back whence we had come, for he had the path-finding instincts of the north american indian. on arrival we found that, while my absence had been unnoticed, poor pete's had been, and for some minutes in the orderly room he was in hot water explaining matters. his explanations ended, as they usually did, by being unsatisfactory, and our strict disciplinarian adjutant, major p——, turned aside to hide a smile, and murmur,—

"poor pete! always in trouble." no matter what breach he ever made in the rules, peters was always forgiven, for his sterling worth was too well known to allow anyone in authority to hold anger against him.

one of the best stories told of him is so droll, and yet so typical, that it is worth repeating: he was attending a course of instruction with a number of other officers on measures to be taken during a gas attack. the gas expert had shown carefully how the gas masks should be put on quickly and correctly, and the officers were applying them. they were instructed to take off the masks, and to see which of them could have his on in the shortest time. to the surprise of all present the slow-moving major had his mask on before any of the others. on inquiring of him how it happened, he admitted with that humorous dry smile of his that he had not bothered taking his mask off after the first trial.

capt. j. a. cullum, c.a.m.c.

some twelve years ago when i was studying in edinburgh, at scotland's famous university, i occupied rooms at the apartment house of a bonnie little scotch woman on marchmont road. miss anderson was a mother to us all. how well i remember her smiling, sweet face, above which her white hair made an appropriate halo, as she came in to do for us some kindly, thoughtful act. may she still be in the land of the living and happy!

in the next suite of rooms lived jack cullum of regina, canada, and for the last month before examinations, the regular lessees of his rooms having returned, he and i occupied the same suite. he was a square-jawed, firm-mouthed, good-looking chap, with a strong arm and leg, made strong by breaking bronchos on the western canadian ranch where he grew to manhood and prosperity. he was blunt, almost to a fault, but his word was good, his mind fair, and his manners sociable. other canadians who were post-graduating there at the same time will remember many a gay evening we passed in the old r.b. on princes street, that most magnificent thoroughfare in scotland, with the old castle which saw many of the happy and unhappy hours of poor mary queen of scots as a background, calton hill and its unfinished grecian architecture at one end, and that fine gothic monument to sir walter scott in the center. in all these jolly evenings dear old cullum was foremost in pay-times and gay-times.

in serious moments and in times of leisure, however, his mind often carried him back in happy reminiscence to his homeland where a pretty canadian girl, whose photo he carried and often showed, was anticipating his return.

when the war came jack was among the first to come forward. he went across to france with a western canadian battalion. in the next year cullum was decorated for conspicuous gallantry three times, twice by the king and once by the french government with the croix de guerre. his first act of bravery was performed when the huns blew up a mine in no man's land, injuring many of his battalion. he, heedless of danger—and orders—rushed over the top, and attended his men in plain view of the enemy. for this he was given the military cross by king george; and a bar to the m.c. and the french decoration came later for acts of almost reckless courage. he was the first canadian to win three decorations, and now he was thought to bear a charmed life by his comrades. shortly after the last bit of ribbon came to him he applied for transfer to the fighting forces, resigning his commission in the medical corps, to accept a lower rank in the infantry. and just following this noble act, while sitting in a mess hut two miles behind the lines at noulette wood, a stray shell came through the roof, slightly injuring two other officers, and mortally wounding cullum. his generous soul displayed itself to the last, for he absolutely refused to have his wounds dressed until after the others had been attended to, maintaining that his injuries were slight. and the gallant cullum died in the ambulance on his way to the hospital.

but of course they are not all the fine types. you occasionally meet what the english call a rotter, but his kind is exceedingly scarce. after all, the finest type is the ordinary common soldier, without any special qualifications, who, day in and day out, night in and night out, performs the dirty, rough, hard, monotonous, and often very dangerous, tasks of the tommy; who does his duty, grumbling perhaps, swearing often, but does it without cowardice, without hope of honor or emolument, except the honor of doing his duty and doing it like a man. when his work is done he comes back, if still alive and well, to sleep in wet clothes, on a mud floor, under a leaky roof or no roof, often hungry, or his appetite satisfied by bully beef and biscuit.

yes; with all his swearing, despite any lead-swinging, the finest type of all, the real hero of the war, is the ordinary common soldier!