Loyola College - Review Yearbook (Montreal, Quebec Canada)

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REFECTORY BUILDING JUNIORS’ BUILDING MAJ.-ADJT. GEORGE P, VANIER, M.C : PHUR L. McGOVE. CAPTAIN FRANCIS MAGUIRE, LIEUTENANT JOSEPH POWER, Soe MEGA EUR Le BERN Old Loyola (1897-1909, B.A, ‘06. 28th Battalion, ia 2nd Battalion, 2ad Battalion, Sage ttajor. fe farsvertined Bee xe B.A. 1907, ©. L. 1897. ; , fecorated with the Ceo Legion et Killed in Action, June 6th, 1916. How Killed in Action, September 22nd, 1916,

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LETTER FROM CAPTAIN GEORGE VANIER OF THE 22ND: Somewhere in Flanders, January 21st, 1916. By this time you know the terrible news of Adrian's death in action. What can I say that would not be empty? You know how I feel...... He was one of those in the C.E.F. in whom I took the greatest interest. Unfortunately I did not run across him as often as I would have wished. Without being able to give you details, I can say that our battalions did not occupy exactly the same lines, and although two men may be billeted and -nay fight five hundred yards from one another, their paths may never cross. When Adrian was wounded, by a very singular coincidence I saw him in the ambulance. Our battalion that day happened to be resting in billets not very far from the firing line, and the 24th was in the front trenches. 1 was walking along the road when I heard an ambulance behind me. | stepped to one side, without nardly looking up. The ambulance passed me, had gone twenty feet when I heard my name called out. I looked up to see Adrian sitting in the rear end of the ambulance with one arm bound up and a cheery smile on his face. With the free arm he pointed towards one of his shoulders, and I knew then that he had been wounded somewhere near the shoulder and that the wound could not be serious. I was unable to speak to him because the motor ambulance was speeding away at a fast clip. Then I lost track of Adrian completely—heard neither of nor from him—until the night of January 17th. At five-thirty o’clock in the afternoon of that date 1 was waiting for my horse near a farm house close to the firing line, when out of the darkness (although early it was quite dark) he came up to me calling “Hello, George, how are you?” As far as I can remember, the conversation which was not long, ran as follows:— aa well, Adrian, happy New Year, and so you are back? Tell me about your wound. “Oh, it wasn’t very much. A clean bullet wound through the shoulder. The wound itself would have been nothing, if I had not suffered from the effects of anti-tetanus serum. For over a month, my sight was very much affected. But I’m in splendid shape now es “Why don’t you ever write, Adie? You promised you would. I should like to get news from you. I was anxious about your bullet wound.” “‘Curious, George, I wrote only a few days ago; have you received the letter ” “ No, it will probably reach me in due course.” “By the way, your mother sent me a Christmas present. It was jolly decent of her. It reached me in the hospital where it was doubly appreciated.” “I must be off, Adie. Good-bye and good luck, old boy.” “Good luck, George.” A hand shake, and I rode off. Little did I think that I should never see him again. Adrian, I am told, was shot through the lungs and died almost immediately. I have as yet no other details. I have been unable to see anyone who was with Adrian at the time of the accident. I shall make it my particular business to get in touch with some one who can give me more definite details of his death. He was buried Jan. 20th, with all the rites of our Church. Had I known then of his death, it is needless to say that I would have been present. I know the little cemetery,where he rests,very well indeed. Often, on and off duty, I pass it. It lies near the intersection of two roads. Very tall trees throw their shade over the mounds of earth that mark the last resting place of Canada’s boys. . . - - + + - .For the time being, a simple white cross will mark his grave. He is with his men, where probably he would wish to be ————4 LETTER FROM CAPTAIN ARTHUR L. McGOVERN Otterpool Camp, Sept. 16th, 1915. I am leaving here this afternoon, at 5 p.m., on my way to France, and am writing this little note of farewell... The King reviewed us on September 2nd, and was very pleased with our appearance and good bearing. Lord Kitchener was also present and complimented us qn our men... We expect to make a good showing. ; Belgium, Oct. 15th, 1915. . . . | wrote you from the trenches while we were doing our first spell, and in haste sent you a card when leaving to re-enter the trenches, after being out for six days. After the completion of our first spell, when we came out of the trenches for the first time, we marched to a little village about six miles behind the line for a rest. Alas! for our men, the proposed rest was one in name only, as they were kept continually employed on fatigue work, that is, carrying food to the troops in the trenches, etc. However, we “‘ rested ’ for six days and re-entered the trenches on Wednesday, to take our second spell. Sad to say, our second venture was not as fortunate as the first, and we had a great number of casualties. The Germans very unkindly exploded a mine under a portion of our trenches and caused considerable loss of life. We were also shelled very heavily, and in connection with this shelling I had a fortunate escape, the particulars of which were as follows: large German shell dropped in the trenches occupied by my platoon, and, while doing consid- erable damage to the trench itself, did not, luckily, cause any casualties. I took an officer of the Engineers down to look at the damage, and, while we were both examining same, the Germans landed another shell about ten yards in front of us, outside the trench. We heard the shell hit the ground and rebound along the ground urtil it struck the parapet with a shock that caused the whole section of parapet to shake, but luckily the shell did not explode. As we were standing right behind the place where it struck the parapet, we had a close shave, but we both laughed and promptly forgot all about it. . . . The shelters or dug-outs are usually quite damp and leak very badly, our clothes are usually encrusted with mud and dirt, the food, while usually good, is often, through unforeseen difficulties, such as transport, etc., rather slim, but the men “ keep on smiling,” and for my part I am very proud indeed to be associated with such a body of men. Their manners may be uncouth, their speech may be rough and their appearance far from attractive, but their hearts are true, and when the time comes for the big struggle, as it will surely come, our men will always be ready and willing to do their part. One torpedo lit in our trench, blew a hole about eight feet deep and twenty feet across, besides making a big hole in our parapet. However, it is all in the game, and we are always on the watch for this unpleasant visitor. One of these torpedoes killed seven men and wounded two, not so long ago, so we take no chances. When you have slept, eaten, fought and fasted with men for such a period; when you have seen them with the shells bursting close by, or the sniper’s bullet skimming over their heads; when you have seen them cheerfully erecting barbed-wire entanglements in the open, about 125 yards from the Huns; when you have seen all these things, you are proud to belong to such a Battalion, very proud of your men, and your only ambition is that in the time of trial they will have no reason to be ashamed of you... FROM A FORMER MASTER . . . I cannot convince myself that poor Arthur has been cut down on the threshold of man- hood. I had always counted upon him, more perhaps than upon any of my former pupils, to have a brilliant and useful career. But God ordained otherwise. The poor boy had many noble — and a high sense of honour. It was for them I loved him so much. He was a good riend. ...

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Frank Maguire Where we are going we do not know, nor will we be allowed to inform you, as our letters will be censored, and one rule is that no places must be mentioned. You all speak of a icture in the “Star” which you say looks like me. It may be; as I have not seen the picture, cannot say. We are often photographed when at work. March 7th, 1915. One shell got 8 of my section, the other day; | say my section, as | am now a section commander. We are not far from the Gurkhas now, but I think we are doing much better than they. What with the cold and the special food their religion calls for, these poor fellows (Sikhs, Punjabis and Gurkhas) are always in trouble. Our own officers occasionally do a mad stunt. A few nights ago, one of them walked right up to the German trenches and fired three shots with his revolver into them and got away in spite of their machine gun. France, June 8th, 1915 Since Ypres, we have had another turn in the trenches and two rests. What the pepers say about the battle of Ypres is all wrong. Our battalion seems to get little credit, but I think there was only the 16th Canadian Scottish that had anything on us. Anyhow, the paper accounts are all wrong. Belgium, July 7th, 1915. , Next time I write I guess I'll have a commission instead of a number. This child will be right glad, too. Some three weeks back we had all the excitement necessary, in France. ; . ‘ However I, in particular, have no kick coming. I came to France full private; since then I have been lance-jack, corporal, sergeant and, I guess, lieutenant next week. Belgium, July 24th, 1915. Just a few lines in answer to yours of the 3rd inst., which reached me day before yesterday. hope you got my last note to tell you that I have got my commission, and am now fully decked out in an officer’s glad rags, with a batman or servant of my own, etc. It is quite an agreeable change, I assure you. Aug. 10th, 1915. We are in the trenches in Belgium just now, and it is quite a long time since we have had a rest, back from the line. Things are usually very quiet, with every now and then a heavy bombardment from one side or the other. Our trenches are very nice, and I have a fine dug-out. No worry about my clothes, water for washing, shaving, etc.; no meals to cook, no rifle to clean. Believe me, I am quite charmed with the life of an officer on active service. We have a small Victrola in with us this time, and some very good records. P.S.—The following lines were found by us in a trench taken over from the 16th Canadian Scottish. When a man is invalided home, he is said to have gone to Blighty. “Balloo” is the way the Tommies pronounce Bailleul, from where the train leaves. 10 THE TRIP TO BLIGHTY. I have travelled many journeys in my two-score years and ten, And oft enjoyed the company of jovial fellowmen, But of all the happy journeys, none can compare for me With the Red-Cross midnight fast express from the trenches to the sea. It’s “Balloo, Boulogne and Blighty”’ is the burden of my song, “Balloo, Boulogne and Blighty’’—Oh, speed the train along, Though you've only half a stomach and you may have lost a knee, You'll choke your groans as best you can and shout along with me: “Balloo, Boulogne and Blighty’’—dear old Blighty by the sea. Oh, it’s better than the trenches and it’s better than the rain, It’s better than the mud and stink—we’re going home again; We're going home to Blighty, just as happy as can be, Though most of us have lost some friends, the wrong side of the sea, For they gave their lives for Blighty, dear old Blighty by the sea. CANADIAN HIGHLANDER. I found this effusion in a letter I censored, and promptly plagiarised it: “STAND TO.” Regularly every morning, just as the stars begin to tire, Without the slightest warning one of our maxims opens fire; A German machine gun answers back, One or two rifles begin to crack, And all down the line you can hear the rattle, As they start their own little morning battle; As dawn coines creeping into the sky, A couple of shells go whizzing by, The bullets are flying in every direction Just as the larks are beginning to carol, And all because the machine-gun section Wanted to warm their hands on the barrel. Flanders, June 2nd, 1916. I am, as you will see, back in Flanders. My machine-gun company fell through, und i got so fed up with staying in England at a reserve battalion that I pulled the wires a bit and fixed things up so as to get back to France. I have been here for about ten days now. We are in, I might say, the hottest hole on the British line, but I have dodged them for so long that I am becoming an expert. Here I touch wood. There is only one officer here that I know, apart from the commanding officer. The latter has promised me my captaincy at once. I am at present in charge of my old company. Funny, is it not—I left England a full buck in the rear rank of this company and now | command it. Field Aug. 6th, 1916. At present we are having a rest after a ....!!! It is Sunday morning and I have just brought my cut-throats back from mass. It is a funny war. Mass took place in an old barn which has been turned into a picture palace. On the stage, Capt. Workman, M.C., was saying mass, while in the orchestra pit, another padre was hearing confessions, attired in boots and spurs and a Sam Brown belt, with a blue stole and a gas helmet slung round his neck and, believe me, he had some cut-throats for penitents. Yours was the first letter I got from Canada, addressed “Capt.”” I am much pleased with this step, as it looked for a time as if I should never get it. A captain in the Ypres salient and a captain in Canada ars two distinct species. Anyhow I am as pleased as Punch about it all. I enclose you a little souvenir which I gathered during the last scrap. It belonged to a Boche who, like little Clarence, is no more. Since returning to France, | have been twice recommended for a M.C., but evidently the higher authorities don’t like my name.