Produced by Al Haines. [Illustration: "HE IS A MAN AFTER MY OWN HEART!" EXCLAIMED MADAME COUILLARD] THE FIRST CANADIANS IN FRANCE THE CHRONICLE OF A MILITARY HOSPITAL IN THE WAR ZONE BY F. McKELVEY BELL ILLUSTRATED BY CHRISTOPHER FULLEYLOVE MCCLELLAND, GOODCHILD & STEWART PUBLISHERS :: :: :: :: :: TORONTO COPYRIGHT, 1917, BY GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA TO SURGEON-GENERAL GUY CARLETON JONES, C.M.G. AND TO THE CANADIAN MEDICAL SERVICES OVERSEAS THESE PAGES ARE DEDICATED The wise and skillful guidance of the former and the efficient fulfilment of onerous duties by all have given to the Canadian Medical Service a status second to none in the Empire: The sick and wounded soldier has been made to feel that a Military Hospital may be not only a highly scientific institution—but a Home. *PREFACE* In glancing through these pages, now that they are written, I realise that insufficient stress has been laid upon the heroism and self-sacrifice of the non-commissioned officers and men of the Army Medical Corps—the boys who, in the dull monotony of hospital life, denied the exhilaration and stimulus of the firing line, are, alas, too often forgotten. All honour to them that in spite of this handicap they give of their best, and give it whole-heartedly to their stricken comrades. The pill of fact herein is but thinly coated with the sugar of fiction, but if the reader can get a picture, however indefinite, of military hospital life in France, these pages will not have been written altogether in vain. F. McK B. *ILLUSTRATIONS* "He Is a Man After My Own Heart!" exclaimed Madame Couillard (See page 166) . . . . . . _Frontispiece_ The Song Was Sad—But We Laughed and Laughed Until We Wept Again René Had Risen in the Excitement of His Description "How Can You?" She Cried Involuntarily, "How Can a Little Lad Like You Bear to Kill Men with a Bayonet?" German Wounded *THE FIRST CANADIANS IN FRANCE* *CHAPTER I* We were a heterogeneous lot—no one could deny that—all the way down from big Bill Barker, the heavyweight hostler, to little Huxford, the featherweight hustler. No commanding officer, while sober, would have chosen us _en masse_. But we weren’t chosen—we just arrived, piece by piece; and the Hammer of Time, with many a nasty knock, has welded us.