I had come down to my tent one evening a little later than usual to find a D. R. L. S. letter from the Chaplain Service awaiting me. D. R. L. S. meant “Dispatch Riders’ Letter Service.” I opened it quickly, as a letter from headquarters, brought by a dispatch rider, might contain very important orders. This was an order to report for duty at No. 7 Canadian General Hospital the following day.
I looked at my watch. It was nearly nine o’clock. It was very dark outside and the rain was beating on my tent. No. 7 was at least two miles distant, but I must see the chaplain before he would leave. I put on my trench coat and stepped out into the rain.
As I drew near the hospital I was obliged to pass by a German prison camp. I suppose my thoughts were wandering that night. At least the first thing I realized was seeing through the rain the bright blade of a bayonet thrust at my breast; then I heard the voice of the guard: “Quick! Are you friend?”
I stopped suddenly. I had not heard him challenge me the first time, which he surely must have done. I realized in an instant my position. “Yes,” I shouted, “friend.”
“It’s a good job you spoke, sir,” warned the guard, and then he said, quickly, “Pass, friend.”
Although I had realized my position, I had not felt the slightest alarm, but now as I walked along in the darkness a strange fear took possession of me, so that I shook almost violently. I have been challenged often by sentries since that night, but it has never been necessary to inquire more than once; nor have I ever been halted so suddenly by a pointed bayonet.
I found the out-going chaplain, Father Coté, packing his bed-roll, and as he packed he gave me all the advice necessary to an incoming chaplain. The following morning he went up the line, and immediately after lunch I left No. 2 C. I. B. D., where I had been most cordially treated by both officers and men, and came to No. 7 Canadian General Hospital.