Chapter 12

October 1916

It was a breezy, sunny day as I strode into the doctor’s office and took my usual seat.

“Hello, Bob. How are we today?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “Matron has brought me up to date. Let’s see, your eyesight has returned to normal, and your stutter has receded very nicely.” His grin showed that he was proud of his atmosphere of cure. “Now, what about the nightmares?”

Knocked from my high spirits, my mind raced, at first about childhood dreams, then more recent ones. I remembered dreaming, at a tender young age, that there was broken glass in my father’s slippers, ready to cut him. I had woken screaming, sobbing, crying, and ran from the bed. While he gave me one of his perfunctory hugs and assured me all was well—who on earth would want to hurt him?—I have always wondered if it was I in the dream who wanted to punish him for his detached nature. My memory would not go that deep.

There were current dreams about fleeing shells that rained down—spheres of hate and destruction. I would try to duck them, to weave, to do anything to avoid the menace, while my unconscious mind smelled noxious chemicals and a toxic mud that would make my face feel like exploding. One dream was about dodgeball, with an endless stream of balls coming out of darkness at me. I moved, kicked, and tried to push them away as they came close. I would run this way and that, jumping backward and then pushing forward, all the while my arms flung them away. It was tiring.

“Bob. I say, Bob.”

My head snapped up as I was jolted back to the moment. “Yeyes, Doctor.”

Mott leaned into his desk. “You were gone for a moment, deep in thought. Perhaps you can share. What was happening just then?”

“I don’t know if they’re connected, Doctor. I mean, two dreams I was thinking about. One a childhood nightmare which saw my father hurt, or almost hurt. Then, I suddenly shifted to a dream about having dodgeballs hurled at me. In both cases, I fled the terror, tried to run away by jumping out of bed. And thinking about it, there was a fitful nightmare on the train coming into Amiens on my first day in France, sort of like these dreams.”

As he leaned back in his chair, Mott’s fingers pressed together in what I learned was his contemplative posture. “Yes, the nurses explained to me that you have these vivid dreams, but also that you’re willing to talk them through. That is a good sign.” He looked over at me, ensuring I was still attentive. “It may be you are prone to anxiety for other, perhaps childhood, reasons, and that your shell shock is causing that to surface in an accelerated fashion.”

“It’s very serious, then? Long lasting?”

“No, needn’t be. We all have dreams, nightmares, where some of us fret but don’t act out. Those others may suffer with night sweats or tremors. You are a very open person, Bob; you don’t hold back. That taking action is, I think, reflected in your dreams.”

I grinned. “Yes, I share things easily. An open book, some say.

Ha ha!”

He sat up straight and nodded his head in approval. “Well, the good news is that you are not stuttering nearly as much as you were. That tells me you are beginning to relax, normalizing.”

Mott continued to steer the discussion away from my dreams by injecting positive aspects of my recovery, for which I was thankful. I knew there were shell shock victims much worse than me who spent all day staring wide-eyed at an open field, waiting to fight in a fictitious battle that was never going to come, and men who dove under tables at the instant of a sudden noise. I was thankful not to be in that state.

I faced the task of accepting that my shock was a normal reaction to the most significant and destructive terror I had ever experienced. I realized that most people, civilians in particular, could not begin to understand.

Dr. Mott reinforced his prediction that the nightmares would subside and my memory and connection to others would improve. Before I knew it, Mott craftily shifted the discussion to his belief that group therapy—the working with others—was good for the soul. That he was a founding member of the Society of English Singers fit nicely with his plan to promote cheerfulness by holding a Friday-evening sing-along in the second-floor lounge. Intrigued, I agreed to attend.

. . .

Plink-plink-plink! Plink-plink-plink!

I heard the repetitive tuning of middle C on the piano as I drew on my pipe, watching the glow of the embers. The taste of the smooth tobacco seduced my senses into contentment. Again, the plink-plink-plink drew attention to the upstairs lounge.

It was Friday after dinner as I sat in the hospital library listening to the notes whispering down. I thought back to my childhood in Walthamstow. There were times, particularly Sundays, when my granny’s home school for girls was closed for the day and our family gathered around the black-and-whites for a sing-along.

It was Easter Sunday 1908, just before immigrating to Canada, that I remember most for a wonderful singsong. The entire world was singing then, as prosperity was boosting spirits across Europe and America. We had attended Easter services before walking along High Street, where it was warm enough to enjoy the season’s first ice cream cone. Arriving home, Granny and Mama had played a duet on the piano, laughing at their rusty mistakes. It was always enjoyable to watch and hear, bringing comfort into our home.

We all broke into song. At fifteen, I was still getting used to my rough masculine tone, whereas my younger sisters were like angels with dulcet voices. At twenty-one, Eric, our cousin who lived with us after his parents’ divorce, brought a wonderful baritone to the mix. The tunes were fresh and mainly from America, and we knew them well.

School days, school days

Dear old Golden Rule days

Every time we got to the third stanza, Hilda would trip over the words and break into hysterical laughter, and Ethel and I would press on with so much fun.

‘Reading and ‘riting and ‘rithmetic

Taugh to the tune of the hick’ry stick

Oh, for the days of Blackhorse Road, for memories of Walthamstow! I remembered my entry to adolescence when Eric was there for me, teaching me everything about growing up, including some predictably naughty things.

Papa was physically there, but Eric was my guiding light. He would divert great-uncle Charlie with conversation while I nicked a candy from his Pitman’s Grocery on High Street, or he would steal a kiss from some unsuspecting lass just to see what she would do. It was great fun being with Eric right up to the time of his plans to settle down with Daisy. That was just before our immigration to Canada.

Suddenly, the upstairs lounge rang out with a similar melody, bringing me back to the present.

There is a flower within my heart,

Daisy, Daisy!

In spite of an earlier hesitance, I followed the tunes up the stairs to the second-floor lounge.

Planted one day by a glancing dart,

Planted by Daisy Bell!

Sarge was lingering at the door, playing the welcoming committee as he was when I visited the workshop. “Hello, Bob,” he whispered. “We thought you were the musical type. Can’t stay away from a good tickling of the ivories, eh?”

“You got me on that one. I grew up around the family piano and fancy myself a bit of an enthusiast.”

Whether she loves me or loves me not,

Sometimes it’s hard to tell.

“It’s great to see you not buried in a library book. Me ‘n the lads, we really like you, what with being one of the nicer officers. You know, you respecting us without throwing your position at us.”

“All right now, no need to swell my head to that extent!”

Yet I am longing to share the lot

Of beautiful Daisy Bell!

He grinned. “Well, what with bein’ accused of bein’ a pacifist, I’ve nothin’ to lose with bein’ honest, eh?”

“A pacifist?”

“Oh, yes. Was felled durin’ a machine-gun barrage. We were pressin’ forward in no man’s when our own shells dropped down all over us. I was crazy scared, mumbling stupid, cursin’ our own artillery idiots. After they got me back to the trench, seems my CO heard me talkin’ about a stupid war, a need to end it at all costs, both sides should go bloody home.”

“That’s it? That’s all you said?”

Daisy, Daisy,

Give me your answer, do!

I’m half crazy,

All for the love of you!

“Well, I might ‘ave told him to fuck off and die. Before I knows it, the court martial brass call me shell shocked, respectin’ my long service the only thing keeps me outta field punishment or the firin’ squad. They says I was temporarily insane, and nows I’m here weavin’ baskets.”

I continued looking at him, empathetic to such a sorry story. “You’d think they’d want solid fellows like you back out in the trenches instead of judging righteousness or personal beliefs, for that matter.”

It won’t be a stylish marriage;

I can’t afford a carriage.

“Nah, not quite. Theys don’t want the likes of me infectin’ the morale, the spirit of the lads out there. I understand that. Just do my time here, go before the med board with a promise to say nice things about the cause. Be back sooner than Bob’s your uncle. A little humor on you there, eh?”

We momentarily held our look and then burst into laughter. “Well, you’re a good man, Sarge. I’ve seen you with the other lads, and you have a way about things. With them, I mean.”

“Thanks, I appreciate you sayin’ that.” <block>

But you’ll look sweet upon the seat

Of a bicycle built for two!

In the silence that followed the end of the song, I looked around the room to see many of the soldiers assembled around the piano, some still giggling with the fun of the infectious tune. Others were sitting sullen, withdrawn into themselves. Still, they had made their way to the event. Others, like Sarge and I, were engaged in conversation. It was when Dr. Mott caught my eye, nodding me over, that I realized I had best set an example and lead some of the singing.

I beckoned Sarge and we strolled over to the piano. I still marveled at the thought of such an eminent doctor breaking into song while playing the ivories. He glanced at me, smiled, and then peered around the lounge, seemingly trying to connect with the patients, to encourage participation. While a few of the men avoided his gaze by looking elsewhere or down at their shoes, most had edged toward the piano after that first tune.

While playing a soft melody, Dr. Mott looked this way and that in the image of a real showman, addressing his patients. Taking the tune to a whisper, he ruminated, “Now, many of you have come to know me over the past days, weeks, and, God forbid, months.” There was a hesitant outbreak of laughter. “You know my beliefs about the healing benefits of song and how it works to diminish fear through expressing yourselves with simple pleasantries. Much like the soothing baths that I insist upon, I want you to consider these moments as bathing each other’s ears with the soothing rise and fall of your communal voices.”

This time the laughter was more comfortable, louder. Mott’s voice cheerfully rang out. “All right, let’s move to a little ditty that was kindly struck by our Irish friends back in ‘12. Come on, boys!”

It’s a long way to Tipperary;

It’s a long way to go.

Ah yes, it was so comforting to hear this marching song that meant so much to so many soldiers, each in their own way. Whether it was a Tipperary for all those Irish who had left their homes for opportunities in England before the war, for Aussies who missed Melbourne, or for me longing for a Canada thousands of miles away, it was a long, long emotional distance for all.

It’s a long way to Tipperary,

To the sweetest girl I know.

As I heartily sang along, I felt a slight watering in my eyes, not at the passion for leaving behind a sweet girl but perhaps for not having one to leave behind. While I was perfectly happy to be free of a steady date while at university, in the moment I longed for the love of a sweetheart to whom I could write, someone to whom I could return.

Goodbye, Piccadilly;

Farewell, Leicester Square?

It’s a long, long way to Tipperary,

But my heart’s right there.

The chorus was repeated twice at the end, as the men were enjoying the catchy tune, and the doctor was reluctant to stop a good time. But after a few more tunes, he suggested that a good night’s rest and reflection were in order. However, one young soldier boldly suggested a tune that he and his platoon had sung along the roads of Picardy during a recent march.

Private Perks is a funny little codger

With a smile, a funny smile.

Five feet none, he’s an artful little dodger,

With a smile, a sunny smile.

Flush or broke, he’ll have his little joke;

He can’t be suppressed.

All the other fellows have to grin,

When he gets this off his chest, Hi!

Pack up your troubles in your old kit-bag,

and smile, smile, smile!

While you’ve a Lucifer to light your fag,

Smile, boys, that’s the style.

What’s the use of worrying?

It never was worthwile.

So pack up your troubles in your old kit-bag,

And smile, smile, smile!

“I must say,” said Mott, “that tune always brings up thoughts of making the best of life, whatever cards we are dealt. I wish you lads the best, wherever and whenever your travels take you, for the rest of this war and beyond.”

“Hear, hear.” The collective voices of the men fell away as they filed out of the lounge.

Mott called after them, “Have a restful sleep.”