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 a public holiday, and Chapelou in Northern Ontario, where we had our
first parade of the trip. There was a tremendous crowd to meet us here, a
great concourse of people to welcome these stalwarts of the West.
Pages:
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25