Project Gutenberg's Through St. Dunstan's to Light, by James H. Rawlinson
This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or
re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org
Title: Through St. Dunstan's to Light
Author: James H. Rawlinson
Release Date: November 7, 2008 [EBook #27193]
Language: English
*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THROUGH ST. DUNSTAN'S TO LIGHT ***
Produced by The Online Distributed Proofreading Team at
http://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images
generously made available by The Internet Archive/Canadian
Libraries)
[Illustration: Private James H. Rawlinson]
Through St. Dunstan's to Light
BY
PRIVATE JAMES H. RAWLINSON
58TH BATTALION, C.E.F.
TORONTO
THOMAS ALLEN
1919
COPYRIGHT, CANADA, 1919 BY THOMAS ALLEN
CONTENTS
CHAPTER I
PAGE
My Ticket for Blighty 1
CHAPTER II
In Blighty 14
CHAPTER III
At St. Dunstan's 23
CHAPTER IV
Braille 32
CHAPTER V
The Spirit of St. Dunstan's 37
CHAPTER VI
Air Raids 45
CHAPTER VII
Royal Visitors 55
CHAPTER VIII
In Playtime 61
CHAPTER IX
Memories of the Fighting Front 68
CHAPTER X
The Point of View of the Sightless 74
ILLUSTRATIONS
Private James H. Rawlinson _Frontispiece_
The Boot-Repairing Workshop _Facing Page_ 12
Sir Arthur Pearson " " 16
St. Dunstan's: The House " " 24
The Carpenter Shop " " 30
The Braille Room " " 34
Mat Weaving " " 56
Sightless Canadian Four " " 66
Basket Weaving " " 84
THROUGH ST. DUNSTAN'S TO LIGHT
CHAPTER I
MY TICKET FOR BLIGHTY
In the World War, it was not only the men who went "over the top" to
assault enemy positions who ran great risks. Scouts, snipers, patrols,
working parties, all took their lives in their hands every time they
ventured into No Man's Land, and even those who were engaged in
essential work behind the lines were far from being safe from death or
wounds. On the morning of June 7th, 1917, before dawn had broken, I was
out with a working party. Suddenly, overhead, sounded the ominous
drumming and droning of an aeroplane. It proved to be a Hun plane; the
aviator had spotted us, and was speedily in touch with the battery for
which he was working. Fortunately for us, he had mistaken our exact
position, and evidently thought we were on a road which ran towards the
front line about thirty yards to our left. The enemy guns, in answer to
his signals, opened up with a terrific fire, and the scenery round about
was soon in a fine mess. Shells of varying calibre came thundering in
our direction, throwing up, as they burst, miniature volcanoes and
filling the air with dust and mud and smoke. This shell-fire continued
for about three-quarters of an hour, but due to the defect in the
aviator's signals and our own skill in taking cover we suffered no
casualties. We were congratulating ourselves that we were to pass
through this ordeal uninjured, when suddenly a 5.9-inch shell fell
short. It exploded almost in our midst, and I was unlucky enough to get
in the way of one of the shrapnel bullets. I felt a slight sting in my
right temple as though pricked by a red-hot needle--and then the world
became black.
Dawn was now breaking, but night had sealed my eyes, and I could only
grope my way among my comrades. I was hit about 2.30 a.m., and it
speaks volumes for the Medical Service that at 2 p.m. I was tucked
safely in bed in a thoroughly-equipped hospital many miles from the
scene of my mishap.
Willing hands tenderly dressed my wounds and led me to the foot of the
ridge on which we were located. I was then placed on a stretcher, and
carried up the slope to one of the narrow-gauge railways that had been
run to the crest of Vimy Ridge. I was now taken to the end of what is
called the Y Road, and thence borne to one of the ambulances which are
always in waiting there, grim reminders of the work in hand.
My first impression of my ambulance driver was that I had fallen into
the hands of a Good Samaritan. He was most solicitous about the welfare
of the "head-case," and kept showering me with questions, such as: "Are
you comfortable, Mac?" (everyone in the Canadian Corps was "Mac" to the
stranger). "Tell me if I am driving too fast for you; you know, the
roads are a little lumpy round here." I didn't know it, but I was
quickly to become aware of the fact. His words and his driving did not
harmonize; if he missed a single shell-hole in the wide stretch of
France through which he drove, it was not his fault. I shall never
forget the agony of that drive; but at length, bruised and shaken, I
arrived at the Casualty Clearing Station at--but, no, I will not mention
its name; some of my readers may know the men who were there at the time
of my arrival, and there is pain enough in the world without
unnecessarily adding to the total. At the Clearing Station I learned two
things: First, that all the best souvenirs of the war are in the
possession of men who seldom or never saw the front line; and, secondly,
the real meaning, so far as the wounded "Tommy" is concerned, of the
letters R.A.M.C. The official records say they stand for the Royal Army
Medical Corps; but ask the men who have passed through the hands of the
Corps. They'll tell you with picturesque vehemence, and there will be
nothing Royal or Medical in their answer. For my own poor part, here's
hoping that the thirty-eight francs that disappeared from my pockets
while in their hands did some good somewhere. But I sadly wanted that
money while in the hospital at Boulogne to satisfy a craving I had for
oranges. Perhaps the beer or _eau de vie_ that it no doubt purchased did
more good than the oranges would have done me. Again, let us hope so!
From the Casualty Clearing Station I was taken to the hospital at St.
Omer, which was later to be laid flat by Hun air raids. And here, for
the first time, I realized the full weight of the calamity that had
overtaken me, and what being "windy" really meant. I was first visited
by the M.O., who removed my bandage and had my head skilfully dressed;
after him came a priest of the Church to which I belonged, who
administered to me the rites of the Church; then followed the assistant
matron, who endeavoured to cheer me up by asking if I wished to have any
letters written home. Before my inward eyes there began to flash visions
of a newspaper notice: "Died of wounds." But although a bit alarmed,
more by the attentions shown me than by my physical condition, the
thought of pegging-out never seriously entered my mind.
I spent four days at the hospital at St. Omer, and was then transferred
to Boulogne, together with a New Zealand sergeant who was in the same
plight as myself, and whom I later had the pleasure of meeting under
more favourable and happier conditions at dear old St. Dunstan's. At
Boulogne, I was given a thorough examination, and the doctors concluded
that an absolutely useless member of the body was an unnecessary burden
to the bearer, and so they removed what remained of my left eye. I was
still vainly hoping that my right eye, which was remote from my wound,
might recover its sight; but as the days crept by while the blackness of
night hung about me I grew alarmed, and one day I asked the O.C.
hospital why he was constantly lifting up my right eyelid. Truth to
tell, I was scared stiff with the thought that they were contemplating
removing my remaining eye, but I gave no outward sign of my fear. No
matter how "windy" one is, it would never do to let the other fellow
know it, at least not while you are wearing the uniform of the
Canadians. I, therefore, quickly followed my first question with the
inquiry if he thought he might yet get some daylight into my right eye.
"When?" he questioned. And, still clinging to the hope that I was not to
be forever in the dark, I replied, "In five, ten, fifteen, twenty-five
years; any time, so long as I get some light." In answer, he merely
patted me on the shoulder, saying: "Never mind, things are not always
quite so bad as they look." Then he moved away from my cot, and a moment
later I heard him talking in undertones to another officer. This
officer, whom he now brought to my bedside, proved to be Captain Towse,
the bravest man it has ever been my privilege to meet, and while I was
up the line I met many brave men who, where duty called, counted life
not at a pin's fee.
Captain Towse is a double V.C. It is hard enough to get the Cross
itself, and there are few men who dare even to dream of a bar to it. I
was now in personal touch with a man who, in distant Africa, during the
Great Boer War, with both eyes shot away, had gallantly stood firm,
urging his men to the charge. He came to my bedside with a cheery:
"Good morning, Canada! How is the boy this morning?" My answer was the
usual one of the boys in France: "Jakealoo!" Then he pointedly asked me
a question that set me wondering at its purport.
"You are a soldier, are you not, Canada?"
I replied with a somewhat mournful: "Well, I was one time, but I can't
say much as to the truth of that now."
Then he hit me harder than any Hun shell could hit a man. He snapped out
in a voice penetrating, yet with a cheery ring to it: "Well, you are
blind, and for life. How do you like it?"
For about five seconds (it was no longer) the night that sealed my eyes
seemed to clutch my soul. I was for the moment "down and out"; but I
braced my spirits in the presence of this dominating man. I would show
him how a Canadian soldier could bear misfortune. So I gathered myself
together as best I could under the circumstances; swore just a little to
ease my nervous strain, and replied: "That's a hell of a thing to tell a
guy."
Then came words that rolled a mighty load from heart and brain. Captain
Towse praised my soldierly bearing under misfortune, and praise from
this blind double V.C. meant much. He had been sorely smitten at a time
when there was no St. Dunstan's, no Sir Arthur Pearson, to make his
blindness into just a handicap, instead of what it nearly always was
before the days of St. Dunstan's, an unparalleled affliction. But
Captain Towse beat blindness, and did it, for the most part, alone.
Now the cruel fact had to be faced; the only world I would see
henceforth would be that conjured up by the imagination from memories of
the past. Then the difficulties of the future crowded upon me. Even if I
were not to see as other people do I should still have to eat; and
dinners do not grow by the roadside, and if they did I could not see to
pick them up.
"Well, Jim," I said to myself, "you are in a fine fix; what are you
going to do to get those three square meals a day that you were
accustomed to in civil life?" Then I began to wonder what particular
street and what street corner in old Toronto would be best suited for
selling matches, bootlaces, pencils, and postcards. While in this vein,
I conjured up visions of cold, grey days, days when customers did not
appear, and imagined myself led home at night without having enough to
buy even a meal. My humour suggested strolling along the roadside
singing doleful songs. I even chose a song, "The Blind Boy," by the late
W. G. Chirgwin, on which I might try my voice.
All this passed through my mind while Captain Towse was still standing
by my cot.
I was suddenly startled from my gruesome speculations by the captain
asking me if I had made up my mind to go to St. Dunstan's. I had to
confess that I did not know the place, where it was, or what it was for.
Then he told me that he wished to take down some particulars regarding
me. He wanted to know my full name, regimental number, when I was hit,
where I received my wound, who was my next of kin, and many other
particulars, all of which I, at that time, thought a most unnecessary
and foolish proceeding.
While the Captain was questioning me, I heard a rapid, clicking sound
following each of my answers. The noise fascinated me, and after a brief
time I made bold to ask him what it was. The answer fairly staggered me.
"It's a Braille machine," he replied. "I am writing down your answers."
I knew he was blind--blinder than any bat; and, in my ignorance, I asked
him, in an irritated voice, if he thought that it was fair to try "to
kid" a man who had just been told that he would never again have the use
of his eyes. He uttered no word, but I had a feeling that a smile was
playing on his lips; and the next moment the machine he had been
operating was placed in my hands. He then began patiently to explain its
use, and what a moment before had seemed an utter impossibility I
realized to be a fact. Although the blind could not see, they at least
had it in their power to put down their thoughts without the aid of a
second party; and, not only that, the world of knowledge was no longer a
sealed book--they could read as well as write. The eye had been
accustomed to carry the printed word to the brain; now the finger tips
could take the place of eyes. I now recalled that I had seen a blind man
sitting at a street corner, running his fingers over the pages of a big
book; but I had paid no heed to it, thinking it merely a fake
performance to gain sympathy from the public. I told this to Captain
Towse, and he replied kindly that I should soon learn much greater
things about the blind. At St. Dunstan's, he said, there were about
three hundred men, all more or less sightless, making baskets, mats,
hammocks, nets, bags, and dozens of other useful articles, mending
boots, doing carpentry, learning the poultry business, fitting
themselves for massage work, and, what seemed to me most incredible,
taking up stenography as an occupation.
[Illustration: The Boot-Repairing Workshop]
Men--men who could not see as did other men, were doing these things;
straightway, the old street corner, the selling of matches and
shoelaces, the street strolling singing in a cracked voice while
twanging some tuneless instrument, vanished. Other men had risen above
this crowning infirmity; why could not I. Boulogne and this meeting
with Captain Towse had saved me. Gloom vanished, for the moment at any
rate, and my whole being was animated by a great resolve--the resolve to
win in the battle of life, even though I had to fight against fearful
odds.
CHAPTER II
IN BLIGHTY
It was with a sense of relief that, shortly after this, I received word
that I was to be sent to England. To me, it was the promised land, in
which I was to be fitted to take my place as a useful, independent
member of society. The trip to Dover was pleasant and exhilarating; the
run to London a bit tedious. But an incident that occurred on my arrival
at Charing Cross Station touched my heart as has nothing else in my
life, and my misfortune seemed, for the moment, almost a blessing; it
taught me that hearts beat right and true, and that about me were men
and women eager to cheer me on as I played the game of life.
It was just one of London's flower-girls, one of the women who
religiously meet the hospital trains and shower on the wounded soldiers
the flowers they have not sold--flowers, no doubt, held back from sale
in most cases for this charitable purpose. When the attendants were
moving me from the train and placing me on a stretcher, I was gently
touched, and a large bunch of roses placed in my hand. The act was
accompanied by the words: "'Ere ye are, Tommy. These 'ere roses will
'elp to liven things up a bit when yer gets in the 'ospital. Good luck
to you, matey; may yer soon get better." The voice was harsh and
unmusical. Grammar and accent showed that it had been trained in the
slums; but the kindly act, the sympathetic words, touched my soul.
The act was much to me, but the flowers were nothing. In answer to the
girl's good wishes, I replied that I did not see as well as I used to,
and that my power of enjoying the perfume of flowers had also been taken
from me; perhaps there were some other wounded boys who could appreciate
the beauty and scent of the flowers better than I could, and she had
better put them on one of their stretchers. But she left them with me,
and, in a voice in which I could detect a tear, said:--
"Well, matey, if yer can't see, yer can feel. Let's give yer a kiss."
I nodded assent, and then I received the first kiss from a woman's lips
that I had had since I left home--and then she passed away, but the
memory of that kiss remains, and will remain while life lasts.
I was now taken to St. George's Hospital, and from there to No. 2 London
General Hospital (old St. Mark's College), Chelsea. In this institution
I met for the first time one of the geniuses of the present age, a man
who spent his life working not with clay or marble, or wood or metal,
but with human beings, taking the derelicts of life and moulding them
into useful vessels--Sir Arthur Pearson, a true miracle worker, a man
who has given the equivalent of eyes to hundreds of blind people, who
has enabled many men who felt themselves down and out to face life's
battle bravely, teaching them to look upon their affliction as nothing
more than a petty handicap. A few years ago, as everyone knows, Sir
Arthur was one of the leading journalists and publishers in the British
Empire, the true founder of Imperial journalism. At the summit of his
career, while still a comparatively young man, he was smitten with
blindness. He would not let a thing like that beat him; he conquered
blindness, and set himself to help others to conquer it. He soon became
the leading spirit in the education of the blind in Great Britain, and,
despite his handicap, was elected President of the National Institute
for the Blind, and was the guiding star in many organizations
established to aid the sightless. When war broke out his success as an
organizer, his power as a teacher, caused the authorities to choose him
to look after the blinded of the Army and Navy.
[Illustration: Sir Arthur Pearson]
My meeting with Sir Arthur occurred in the following manner. The ward
door was open--I knew that by the gentle breeze that swept across my
cot. Suddenly, from the direction of the door, a cheery voice exclaimed:
"Are any new men here? Where's Rawlinson?"
I answered: "Right here, sir! But who are you?"
"Well, Rawlinson, and how are you getting along? When do they figure on
letting you get away from here? You know, we are waiting for you at St.
Dunstan's."
I knew then that the man standing by my cot was the famous Sir Arthur. I
shook hands with him, and thanked him for his kindly interest in asking
about me. I offered him the chair that always stands beside the hospital
bed. He must have heard me moving some objects I had placed on it, in
order to have them within reach of my hands.
"Never mind the chair," he said. "Just sit up a bit; there is room
enough on the bed for both of us. Have you got a cigarette to give a
fellow?"
I apologized, saying that I had only ---- ----, and that I didn't think
he would care to smoke them.
"Do you smoke them?" he questioned. "If they're good enough for you to
smoke, they're good enough for me."
That set me right at my ease. I was in the presence of a knight; but he
was first and last a _man_. Straight to the point he went. He never puts
a man through that bugbear of the soldier, a host of seemingly
inconsequential questions; he has the particulars of each man who is
likely to come under his direction long before he visits him.
"Have you," he said, "made up your mind to join our happy band at St.
Dunstan's. There's lots of room up there for you, and we want you."
Just here I would remark that No. 2 General was a sort of preparatory
school for St. Dunstan's. The adjutant from one of the St. Dunstan's
establishments, either the House, College, or Bungalow, came to read the
newspapers and talk with the men who were to study under him. So we had
by this means picked up much information about Sir Arthur, and knew the
man even before meeting him; but the being conjured up by our
imagination fell far short of the real man. He did not come to your
bedside commiserating with you over your misfortune. He was totally
unlike the average visitor, whose one aim seemed to be to impress on you
some appropriate--often most inappropriate, considering your
condition--text of scripture. Well, he was with me, and we talked and
smoked, the knight and the private soldier, both blind, but both
completely ignoring the fact. During our talk darkness seemed to
vanish, and I saw a great light--the battle could be won, and I would
win it. After that conference, I knew full well that I should not be a
burden upon anybody, sightless though I was.
Up to this time my idea of a blind man was just what is or was that of
the average sighted person--a man groping his way about the streets or
standing at some conspicuous corner with a card hanging on his breast
telling the world that he could not see; a cup to hold the coppers that
the sympathetic public would drop into it; and last, but not least, a
faithful little dog, his friend and guide. During the first days of my
blindness I often wondered where I was going to get a suitable pup.
While at No. 2 London General, preparation for my future work went on.
As soon as I was able to get out of bed, I was taken once each week to
St. Dunstan's to talk with other men in residence there--a species of
initiation. While in hospital, too, as soon as we were able to work a
little, we were given the rudiments of Braille. This was not compulsory;
and if we wished to yield to fate and sit with hands idly folded we
were at liberty to do so. But the majority of the men were eager for
occupation of any kind.
Lying in bed or sitting on a hospital chair, unable to see the objects
about you, there is a danger of deep depression being occasioned by
melancholy brooding. To prevent this, the V.A.D.'s who worked in the St.
Dunstan's Ward saw to it that the men were not left too much to
themselves, and kindly attention kept me from becoming morbid while
waiting for my exchange to St. Dunstan's.
As I was a Canadian, I had to go down to the Canadian Hospital to
receive my final Board--just a matter of that child of the devil,
red-tape. August 13th saw me on my way to Regent's Park, where St.
Dunstan's is situated. My heart leaped within me; I was going to have
first-hand knowledge of the marvellous things about which I had heard. I
was going to learn things that would put me out of the stick, tin-cup,
card-around-my-neck, and little-dog class. Thirteen may be an unlucky
number, but that 13th of August was, notwithstanding my blindness, the
beginning of the happiest year of my life since I left my mother's
home.
On my way to St. Dunstan's, I journeyed from the Marble Arch to Orchard
Street, then by bus up Orchard Street, Upper Baker and Baker Streets,
right past Marylebone, on the right of which stands Madame Tussaud's
famous Wax-Works, and on to Baker Street tube. Just past the tube is
Clarence Gate, one of the entrances to Regent's Park. Entering the
grounds, we followed the park rails until we came to two white stone
pillars. I have painful recollections of these pillars. For the first
two weeks after my arrival at St. Dunstan's I made their acquaintance
frequently, and in no pleasant manner. I was anxious to find my way
about without assistance, and those pillars always seemed to stand in my
way. Head, shoulders, and shins all bumped into them. They would meet me
even if I walked in the broad roadway. And they were hard, very hard.
They were at first a pair of veritable ogres, but in the end I conquered
them, and could walk by them with a jaunty air, whistling a tune of
defiance.
CHAPTER III
AT ST. DUNSTAN'S
When I arrived at St. Dunstan's, the place was practically deserted. The
summer holidays were on, and all the men were away, either at their
homes in the British Isles or at one of the annexes of St. Dunstan's.
Sir Arthur sees to it that no man goes without his vacation. Torquay and
Brighton were within easy reach, and at these seaside resorts there were
rest homes for the St. Dunstan's men. Since that time, so greatly has
the attendance increased, it has been found necessary to open other
vacation resorts. It is to these places that the sightless Colonials go.
When the boys got back, work began in earnest.
I have been speaking of St. Dunstan's; it is now fitting that I give a
description of this Mecca of the sightless, or, as we say, of those who
do not see quite as well as other people. A hostel for the training of
those having defective sight suggests a barrack-like structure with
whitewashed walls, board forms for the accommodation of the students,
and the rudest of furniture. What need is there of the beautiful for
those who are without eyes, or who have eyes that see not? But the blind
have a keen appreciation of the beautiful, and ample provision has been
made by the founders of St. Dunstan's for satisfying the aesthetic
craving of the students.
[Illustration: St. Dunstan's: The House]
St. Dunstan's stands on one of the largest estates in the city of
London. It is surpassed in size only by the Royal Palace of Buckingham.
The grounds are over sixteen acres in extent, and it has one of the most
beautiful lawns in the United Kingdom. The House belongs to Mr. Otto
Kahn, an American financier, who played an important part in bringing
the United States to the side of the Allies. When Sir Arthur Pearson
started out on his big drive in the interests of the soldiers and
sailors who might be deprived of their sight in the Great World War, Mr.
Kahn generously laid the whole of this magnificent estate at his
disposal. The House itself is one of the most famous in the United
Kingdom. In the days when it was the property of Lord Londesborough, it
was often the scene of royal gatherings. The Kaiser visited it so
frequently that the people in the vicinity began to look upon his coming
as a matter of course. Entering the gate to the left, the first object
to meet the eye is the lodge-keeper's house, a picturesque,
rose-embowered structure. Then comes the lawn, a wide stretch of velvety
turf, cool and restful. The approach to the House itself is through an
avenue of mulberry trees, well intermingled with lime. In the summer
season the air is filled with the scent of flowers, welling forth from
roses, yellow jasmine, and pink almond blossoms. Entering the building
by the main entrance, to the left of the hallway the visitor sees the
office of Sir Arthur and those of his staff, who, under the supervision
of the chief, control the hostel. At either side of the hallway are two
magnificent chairs, one of which was the favourite seat of Edward the
Peacemaker, and the other that of Kaiser Wilhelm II., the German War
Lord. Passing through the hallway, the lounge room is reached, and a
little farther the outer lounge, formerly Lord Londesborough's ballroom,
where are staged the charming concerts for which the House is famous.
But St. Dunstan's is not a mere resthouse. It is essentially a humming
hive of industry, an educational institution where there is something
for everyone to learn. Whether a man can see or not, he can here find
occupation for his hands and mind. After all, we do not _see_ with our
_eyes_; they merely carry sights to the seeing brain, and the hands, and
even feet, can perform the same duties, only in a different way.
Teachers were many and willing. And here I should like to record the
fact that no one can teach the blind quite as well as the other fellow
who is also sightless. I know whereof I speak, for I have been piloted
around localities by people who could see and also by people whose
"eyesight was not as good as it once was." This last expression is
borrowed from Sir Arthur, who always speaks of his sightless boys as:
"The boys whose eyesight is not quite as good as it once was."
About a week after the boys had returned from their vacation, I had a
chance to visit the workshops. What a hive of industry these same
workshops are! Go there, you men and women blessed with sight, and see
for yourselves what your sightless brother is doing in the way of making
himself over again, bringing into play his latent powers, and turning
what seemed to be a worthless creature, a burden to himself and
humanity, into the only asset--a producer--that is worth while to any
country. The obstacles he faces at the beginning seem unsurmountable;
but at St. Dunstan's the spirit of the place grips him and the word
"cannot" disappears from his dictionary. But at first he has much to
unlearn. All his old methods of work have to be forgotten. He is, in a
sense, a child again, born the day his sight was taken from him. But
though his sight is lost, if he is the right sort, the greatest asset a
man possesses can never be taken from him--his spirit, his determination
never to be a burden on others; his feeling, his knowledge that what
others have done he can do. His confidence in his ability to make good,
his spirit of independence--he still has these, and they enable him to
win greater victories than any he might have achieved in battle,
victories over that terror of the sighted--blindness.
Those of us who claim St. Dunstan's as our _Alma Mater_ are often told
that we can talk of nothing but the place and the treatment we received
there. Our answer is: Out of the abundance of the heart the mouth
speaketh. She took us up when we were in the depths and remade us into
_men_; she taught us to be real producers; she made it possible for us
to take our place in the ranks of the earners--in fact, all that we know
and all that we are we owe to her. There is only one point on which Sir
Arthur and his boys disagree. Sir Arthur claims that it was the boys who
made St. Dunstan's; the boys maintain that St. Dunstan's made the men.
While I was in residence there, there were about five hundred and fifty
men undergoing instruction, and yet St. Dunstan's carried on smoothly
and serenely without the slightest vestige of discipline in the ordinary
sense of the word. Only two per cent. of those who passed through the
institution failed to make good. What other educational establishment
can boast such a record? And yet nothing was compulsory except sobriety.
I was at St. Dunstan's for sixteen months, and as my case was typical I
cannot do better, in order to give a detailed account of the work there,
than relate my own experiences. When I was ready to begin work, I went
before the Adjutant and arranged what courses I would take up. Times for
classes were fixed, teachers named, and everything done to enable me to
begin my training for the battle of life. I was, as it were, a child
again, about to enter school for the second time, but under vastly
different conditions from my first entrance, about a quarter of a
century before. Braille and typewriting were taken up as a matter of
course. Braille is taught to enable the sightless to read for
themselves, and typewriting in order that it will not be so hard on
their friends, as it is much easier for the blind to learn to typewrite
than it is for the sighted to learn to read Braille. It took me four
months to master Braille, but I passed my typewriting test in less than
three weeks. I was pleased with my achievement in respect to the
latter, as I had determined to take up stenography and typewriting as a
profession. There was an added incentive for the students to take up
typewriting, for Sir Arthur, the most generous of men, presents each of
his boys with a typewriter when he is leaving St. Dunstan's.
The occupations were varied, and in my early days as a student, my
greatest pleasure was to visit the various rooms where workers were
engaged at different callings. Here some were repairing shoes, and
humming ditties happily as they worked; now the rustling and crackling
told me that I was in the presence of men making baskets and mats;
again, the sound of hammers driving home nails and of planes made me
aware that I was among carpenters. In addition to these trades, men were
at work studying poultry-keeping, and taking courses in massage work. At
first I viewed all this from the attitude of the sighted, and it seemed
to me an unparalleled miracle; but after a time I took it all as a
matter of course.
[Illustration: The Carpenter Shop]
The stenographic and massage courses take the longest time; but at St.
Dunstan's there is no time limit set for any course. If proficiency
is not achieved in one month or six months, the student can keep
doggedly at it for a longer period. St. Dunstan's is a home until
proficiency in the chosen calling is achieved. "Grow proficient" was Sir
Arthur's demand of his boys; and with few exceptions they stuck at it
till he was satisfied.
The time of actual work for each man was about three and a half hours
per day. From this it will be seen that it was not all work at St.
Dunstan's. While the main purpose of the institution is to make
producers of men with a serious handicap, another great aim is to
brighten their lives and create in them that buoyant spirit--the _moral_
of life--that is half the battle.
CHAPTER IV
BRAILLE
I have often been asked, "What is Braille? Is it raised letters?"
Braille was originated by a Frenchman named Louis Braille, in 1829, and,
with a few trifling changes, stands to-day as it left the hands of its
inventor. The base of the system consists of six raised dots enclosed in
what is called a cell, thus--
+---+ |. .| |. .|. |. .| +---+
The dots are numbered as follows: left-hand dots, 1, 3, 5; right-hand,
2, 4, 6. For reading purposes the dots are arranged in cells
corresponding to the base cell, each cell being a letter or contraction.
In Grade II Braille, there are in all eighty-two word and letter signs.
The letters of the alphabet
+---+
|. |
are as follows: Dot 1-- | | --represents the
| |
+---+
+---+
|. |
letter A; dots 1 and 3-- |. | --the letter B;
| |
+---+
+---+
|. .|
dots 1, 2-- | | --the letter C; dots 1, 2, 4--
| |
+---+
+---+
|. .|
| .| --the letter D, and so on. The arrangement
| |
+---+
of the dots in the cell gives not only all the letters of the alphabet,
but signs that stand for words and phrases as well.
I began the study of Braille with Miss Gilles, a New Zealand lady, as my
instructor, while I was at St. Mark's Hospital. I was first given a
wooden box full of holes. Into these holes my teacher showed me how to
put nails with large heads, the nails being placed in cells to
correspond with the Braille alphabet. After I had succeeded in grasping
the principle of Braille by means of the nails--which, by the way, I
frequently jabbed into my fingers instead of into the holes--I was given
a card with the alphabet on it. At first the dots seemed without form
and void; and when I was asked what numbers I felt, I did wish for my
eyes, as I was utterly unable to convey to my brain the letter under my
fingers. The hardest part of Braille for the beginner is not in getting
it into the head, but in getting the fingers to take the place of eyes.
But it is only necessary to persevere to get the proper, illuminating
"touch" into the finger tips. The men made sightless in the war were in
most cases confronted with grave difficulties. Their hands were hardened
by toil, and their fingers calloused by work in the trenches. One of my
comrades, when given his Braille card, struggled over it for a time, and
then exclaimed: "I wish they'd leave this card out in the rain till the
dots swelled to the size of door-knobs; then I might be able to read
it."
[Illustration: The Braille Room]
Before I left St. Mark's I had mastered the first ten letters of the
alphabet; but I was soon to learn that if one does not keep at it,
"touch" will be lost. After leaving St. Mark's, I spent three idle weeks
at Folkestone. As a result, when I arrived at St. Dunstan's I had to
begin my Braille all over again. My teacher at St. Dunstan's, Miss
Wineberg, proved herself as patient as was Miss Gilles; but patience is
a characteristic virtue of all the women who instructed the sightless
boys in the Braille Room, and among them were some of the best-known
ladies in England, four having titles. These teachers sit for hours
making men "stick it," in many cases against their will, until they have
mastered the mystery of correctly judging the number and arrangement of
dots under the finger tip. The theory of Braille can be grasped in six
weeks by the average student; but it takes from four to six months to so
cultivate touch as to make the fingers readily take the place of eyes.
After the reading of Braille has been mastered, writing it, an even more
difficult operation, is taken up. When I had satisfactorily passed my
test in both reading and writing, I entered that holy of holies, the
Shorthand Room. The four teachers in this room are all blind. Our
teacher was Corporal Charles McIntosh, who had lost both his eyes and
his right leg while with the Gallipoli Expeditionary Force. I have
stated that there are eighty-two signs in Grade II Braille; but Braille
shorthand contains six hundred and eighty word and letter signs that
have to be committed to memory. A herculean task was before me, but by
dogged effort on my part and patience on the part of my instructor, I
succeeded so well that in a few weeks I was able to take shorthand notes
as speedily as the average sighted stenographer. Meanwhile, I had been
diligently at work at my typewriting, and under the kindly instruction
of Miss Dorothy Charles Dickens, a granddaughter of the great novelist,
I had soon acquired sufficient speed and accuracy to qualify for work.
CHAPTER V
THE SPIRIT OF ST. DUNSTAN's
To give an adequate account of the work done at St. Dunstan's, and of
the spirit of the place, it is necessary to touch upon the personnel of
the hostel. I have already dwelt at some length on the patient
self-sacrifice of the teachers of Braille: the spirit they display
animates the entire staff. The work of the V.A.D.'s is beyond praise.
Very few of these noble women actually live on the premises; most of
them live in annexes provided for them by the St. Dunstan's management.
What they do, what they endure, can best be comprehended by following
them through a day's work.
They rise at 6 a.m., and after acting as their own housemaids for their
sleeping apartments, wend their way to the various houses to which they
are assigned. Breakfast hour is at 7 a.m. After this meal, the real work
of the day begins. At the Bungalow, where I was staying, the V.A.D.'s
ate at three tables; and after each meal two were told off to clear the
tables. At 8 o'clock the men had their breakfast, two of the women being
given the task of waiting on each table; and as they had to attend to
sixteen men, all healthy specimens of humanity, some of whom had been
out on the lake since early morning, getting up a voracious appetite,
their work was far from light. There was, I might say just here, no
shortage of food at St. Dunstan's, not even while the war was on; and we
had a lingering suspicion that Sir Arthur had a "pull" with the Food
Minister. At any rate, he secured us all we could eat, and of excellent
variety; and there were few in London who could say as much after food
was rationed. Breakfast over, the Sisters, as they are called, went to
the dormitories. Each dormitory held twenty-five beds; and with these
and in other ways, they were kept busy until 11.45. The dinner hour was
twelve o'clock. After dinner some of the men always went for a row on
the lake; and of course, they needed some one to steer the boat. A
Sister was called, and she gladly joined the boys. During my entire
stay at the Bungalow, I never heard one grumble or complain at these
calls on her time and energy. At 2 p.m., the morning Sisters went off
duty, and their time was their own until six in the evening, when they
again came on, and devoted themselves to the needs of the men until nine
o'clock. They were allowed one afternoon a week, which afternoon began
at 6 p.m.; and on this day they were on duty until this hour from six in
the morning. In addition, they were granted a week-end every three
months. These women did their bit during the war--and are still doing
it--as truly as did the men at the front. Their work was hard,
nerve-racking, and often of a disagreeable kind; and it must be
remembered that many of them had never so much as dusted off their own
pianos before taking up their duties at St. Dunstan's.
The matron of the Bungalow was Mrs. Craven, a sympathetic woman of
heroic mould, and with a wide experience in war work. She has two South
African medals, and for twelve months was matron of the hospital at
Bar-le-Duc that Fritzie once termed "that damned little British
hospital," just eight miles behind the lines at Verdun; at a time when
the Germans were exerting their utmost power to break through, and were
making the destruction of hospitals and clearing stations a specialty.
Mrs. Craven was every inch a soldier. The following incident admirably
illustrates her character. One of the men was one day calling for a
Sister just at the time that they were going off duty for the morning,
and waiting to be relieved by the afternoon Sisters. The man had called
three or four times at the top of his voice, "Sister! Sister! Anybody's
Sister!" There was no response. The matron heard him, and rushed to his
assistance. As she passed through the Lounge Room she met a Sister--a
new one, by the way--who had paid no attention to the call. The matron
asked her, somewhat sternly, "Did you not hear that man calling?"
"Yes, Matron; but I am off duty now."
"Off duty! If you were up the line and were going off duty, and a convoy
of broken, bleeding men were being brought in, would you think that you
would be justified in not going to their aid because you were off
duty?"
"Under such circumstances I should not think of such a thing."
"Well, I wish you to remember that there is no time here when you are
off duty. While working in St. Dunstan's all the staff are on duty for
twenty-four hours a day. These men have been deprived of the most
precious thing God had given them while seeing to it that we women might
live here in comparative safety and comfort. I am here to see to their
welfare, and I intend that everyone working with me shall do the same at
all seasons and all hours. Never let me hear you speak of being off duty
again when a cry of distress goes up. The work here is just as important
as if you were up the line. These men, although healed of their open
wounds, need our aid, for the time being at any rate, to help them bear
the burden that has been laid upon them."
Mrs. Craven was a veritable mother to all who came under her care, and
the boys showed their appreciation of her services when she was "called
up" by the War Office to take charge at one of the largest hospitals in
England.
The matron of the House, known to all as "Sister Pat," was compelled to
retire from her position on account of a breakdown in health. When she
was leaving, the boys presented her with a trifling gift as a mark of
their esteem, and to keep them green in her memory. But no gift was
needed for that. As she accepted the present, she said: "Boys, Sister
Pat will come back to you. She cannot leave her boys for ever. I will
come back to you if you will have me, if it is only to clean your
boots." Her place in the heart of her boys will never be filled.
Then there was Captain McMahon, adjutant at the Bungalow. The captain
had lost a leg in the South African War. The operation had not been a
success, and the "Skipper," as we affectionately called him, put in many
painful hours. To my own knowledge, on one occasion, he endured extreme
suffering for thirty-six hours at a stretch. It was clear to all that a
second operation was needed. One day, while in his office, I asked him
why he did not go to a hospital and have another amputation. My remark
was an innocent one, but I was quickly made to regret it.
"Rawlinson," he replied, "I did not think you would ask me such a
question."
"Why?" I continued.
"Why!" he snapped back. "Don't you know that there are still hundreds of
boys coming down the line wounded and broken?"
"Yes," I answered. "But why should that stop you?"
Then I got it. "Jim," he said, "there might be one of those boys that
would require the bed that I occupied, and my being there might
necessitate that lad having to go to one of the hospitals perhaps right
in the north of England. No, Jim, I will wait till all of them have been
set on their feet again before I make application for a bed in one of
the London hospitals."
And so Captain McMahon heroically continued to bear his suffering rather
than keep one of the derelicts from France out of a bed. Next to Sir
Arthur Pearson, he was dearest to the men in the Bungalow. They loved
him, and there was not one of the two hundred and fifty men there who
would not gladly have allowed him to walk over his body if it would be
for his good. The "Skipper" was a Man, a man's man, a father to all of
us, whom it was good to know. When the boys were worried they took their
troubles to him. He made all their worries his own, and it was
surprising what a big load of care he could carry.
Mrs. Craven, "Sister Pat," and Captain McMahon were leaders in the life
at St. Dunstan's. But the whole place was animated with the same spirit
that inspired them; the spirit that manifested itself in its fulness in
Sir Arthur Pearson, and in a lesser degree in every student. It made all
the boys workers, and created in them the desire to help others, to make
the world a little better for their being in it, even if they had to
work under a handicap.
CHAPTER VI
AIR RAIDS
When I left the shores of France I thought I was permanently out of
danger from the death-dealing missiles of the enemy; not that I cared
much then; I had received such a blow that I should not greatly have
regretted a stroke that would have ended my earthly career. But the arm
of Germany was long, the ingenuity of the War Lords great; by means of
their magnificent submarines they had carried the war to the shores of
England, so by their superb air force they were to bring it to the heart
of London; indeed, by their Zeppelins, those crowning failures of their
efficiency, they had already done that.
I had been in London but a short time when, on Saturday, July 21st,
1917, I had my first experience of an air raid in a crowded city. At the
time I was in St. Mark's Hospital, undergoing my preliminary training
for St. Dunstan's, at the moment in the ward receiving instruction in
Braille. Shortly before noon some one entered the room and exclaimed
jubilantly that a vast flock of aeroplanes, estimated at from thirty to
sixty, were manoeuvring at a great height in battle formation over the
city, and we were congratulating ourselves that the War Office had at
length aroused itself and was demonstrating its ability to cope with any
attack by heavier-than-air machines that the enemy might send over. As
we listened to the news and longed for our eyes that we might have a
sight of this spectacle, the thunderous report of a bursting bomb
undeceived us. These planes were not marked with the friendly
tricoloured circles, but with the ominous cross. There were cries of
terror, a hurrying of feet, a near panic as bomb succeeded bomb. Many of
us had been disciplined to war conditions, had dodged bombs at the Somme
and Vimy Ridge, dodged them when shrapnel was spraying about us and
machine-gun and rifle bullets made the air hiss on every side; but this
attack in the heart of a great city was not without its terrifying
aspect. After having escaped death on the battle-field, it would be
horrible to have to meet it in the tumbling ruins of a crushed building.
But we faced the situation stoically. London and its suburbs had over
7,000,000 people, and, by the theory of chances, we concluded that we
were not likely to be hit.
This was the first Hun aeroplane success over London, the only one in
which he accomplished anything of value from a military point of view,
one bomb knocking a corner off the General Post Office, St. Martin's in
the Field, and almost disrupting the whole of the telegraph system that
was carrying messages to and from military headquarters. There was, of
course, the usual slaughter of defenceless women and children, deeds
that the Hun hoped would terrorize England, lower the _moral_ of her
people, and keep a large army within the island for home defence. How
little he knew the British race! The deplorable thing in connection with
the raid was that while it was in progress there was not a single
machine in the air combatting the attackers, and not an anti-aircraft
gun in action. The War Office needed to be roused from its slumbers. It
was; and when the next raiders came over they had a warm reception.
My next experience was in the open. One day I was walking through
London's streets when the approach of a raiding force was announced.
Shelters were by this time provided for the citizens, and to one of
these underground bomb-proof spots, a tube, I made my way. At this time,
London was largely a city of women and foreigners--at least so it seemed
to me. I had evidently hit upon a shelter of a most cosmopolitan
character. The place was packed with a frightened mob, trembling and
groaning with terror, and expressing their fears in many tongues utterly
unknown to me. The air was stifling with that distinctive odour that
seems to emanate from the great unwashed; in this case garlic seemed to
be the prevailing perfume. It was a mixed crowd, however, and women in
silks rubbed shoulders with women in tattered gowns, all moved by the
one thought--self-preservation. Most of them, I judged by their cries
and gasps, were almost insane with terror. But there were heroines
among them. Two women near me were holding an animated conversation.
"Say," said one, "ain't it time that this war wuz over? Why don't they
stop? I haven't been in bed to stay for over six nights, and I'm getting
tired of it all."
The answer told the real spirit of the average British woman, a spirit
that was doing much to win the war.
"Liza," replied the first speaker's companion, in a somewhat indignant
voice, "Bill's over there, ain't 'e? 'E's tryin' to stop that ----
blighter from treatin' us like 'e did the women of Belgium and France.
'E's gettin' this every day, and still smiles and sticks it. Yer can't
git me to say stop it. Carry on is my motter till the ---- Hun is
slugged out of existence."
This rough, humble Cockney woman displayed the same spirit that was
being shown by the Women's Army Auxiliary Corps in France. The girls of
this corps took it upon themselves to do the work that was being done by
men who thought themselves permanently installed in bomb-proof jobs.
What is more, they did it well. Take this one instance. During the
German drive of 1918, some of these girls were working in canteens a
short distance behind the front line. As the Germans swept forward with
irresistible might, and had almost reached the camps and billets where
the W.A.A.C.'s were, the girls were ordered to leave the danger zone in
motor lorries. They refused, saying: "Those waggons can be used to carry
wounded men back; we can walk." And walk they did; slinging their packs
on their backs and marching nineteen miles over rough, muddy roads. But
not all of them; some of the boldest stayed behind to see that the boys
got hot tea or coffee to revive their tired, in most cases, wounded and
broken bodies. Their courage brought them under shell-fire; but they
carried on dauntlessly. During my last days in London, when I was
singing at one of their hostels, I met four of these women, each of whom
had lost a leg, and one was proudly wearing a Military Medal.
The woman of the tube and the refined W.A.A.C.'s were "sisters under the
skin." Had the former had her way, she would have been at Bill's side,
handing him cartridges while he potted the enemy.
While I was at the Bungalow, we had a somewhat thrilling experience from
air raids. In September, 1917, the raiders were exceptionally bold, and
during the first ten days of the month visited London no fewer than
eight times. Night after night we were roused by the whistling of sirens
and the bursting of maroons, thin shells that made a big noise, warning
all that an air raid was in progress, and giving pedestrians and others
a chance to take shelter from enemy bombs and the shrapnel of the
anti-aircraft guns, the latter even a greater menace to those in the
open than the former. On one of these nights I, with two Canadian chums,
sightless like myself, had just entered the Bungalow when the maroons
began to explode and the whistles to shriek. Bed was out of the
question. Besides, the matron, Mrs. Craven, would be up on the instant
to look after her boys. True to form, the matron appeared, and we drew
up one of the Davenports in front of a cheerful grate fire.
"Are all you boys feeling right?" asked the matron.
Before we had time to answer, the anti-aircraft guns opened up their
barrage. They seemed to be shooting right over the Bungalow, for pieces
of shrapnel clattered on the roof like great hailstones. One piece,
about a pound in weight, smashed through the roof and into the matron's
room. As we sat there, overhead we could hear the angry droning of the
Hun planes and the whistling rush of the dropping bombs, each moment
expecting one to crash among us. A bomb that dropped near by, in St.
John's Wood, sounded as it if were going to pay us a visit, and I
nervously remarked: "This one is ours, Matron!"
"Well, Rawlinson," she replied, without a quiver in her voice, "we are
still soldiers, you know, and if it comes, what better could we ask than
a soldier's death."
That night four bombs dropped in the grounds within a radius of four
hundred yards, but fortunately none of them did any material damage.
On another night we were being entertained at one of the delightful
concerts arranged for us by the staff. The concert was at its height
when the guns opened up. Our entertainers suggested stopping the
performance, but we objected to having such a trifling matter as an air
raid interfere with our fun, and the concert went merrily on, and before
it was over the Huns were beating it for home, chased by daring British
aviators.
On several occasions the raiders hove in sight after the inmates of the
Bungalow were all in bed. But Sir Arthur had seen to it that we should
be warned in time, so that in case we received a direct hit we should
not be caught like rats in a trap. News of the approaching raiders was
sent in by the telephone simultaneously with its receipt by the police
authorities, and one of the orderlies on watch visited the rooms and
roused the men, instructing any who so wished to take refuge in the
shrapnel-proof cellars over at the House. Needless to say, none of the
boys rushed for shelter--not from our ward, at any rate. We either got
up and dressed to enjoy the thrill of listening to the droning planes,
bursting bombs, and clattering shrapnel, or lay in bed, quietly taking
the whole matter with philosophical indifference. The danger signal came
as soon as the raiders crossed the East Coast, and then all was hubbub
and excitement in London until the "all clear" was sounded by that
gallant little--little in body, but big in heart--band of boys known as
the Boy Scouts, who were posted at every police station.
No doubt many of us felt a bit "windy" during these raids, but in the
presence of the other fellow we would not show it. Our buildings and
grounds, right in the heart of London, were most conspicuous; and,
besides, Regent's Park was not without its military importance, for in
it were kept the aerodrome stores. Its lake and the canal which runs
between it and the Zoo, made it a shining mark for the Hun bombers. But
we stood our ground fearlessly through all these raids, listening to the
din of this aerial warfare, awed not so much by the explosions as by the
bedlam created in the Zoo, where, as soon as a raid was on, the lions
roared, elephants madly trumpeted, monkeys chattered, parrots shrieked,
and wolves howled dismally.
CHAPTER VII
ROYAL VISITORS
St. Dunstan's was frequently visited by British aristocracy, but, by all
odds, the most interesting visitors were members of the Royal Family.
His Majesty, King George, dropped in on more than one occasion, just
like an ordinary citizen, without the usual frills and pageantry that
accompany Royalty. In his visit to St. Dunstan's he went through the
place without even an equerry in attendance. He showed a deep and
sincere interest in the training and work of the men. He seemed to be a
little sceptical about our ability as poultry-raisers. On one occasion,
when visiting the poultry-house while a class was being instructed, he
signified that he would like a practical test of the power of the blind
to distinguish different breeds of fowls. The attendant caught a bird
and handed it to one of the students, an Imperial officer, by the way,
and scarcely had he touched it before he correctly pronounced it a
Plymouth Rock. The King was still sceptical, and a second and third bird
were handed the demonstrator, and the birds were properly named. This
convinced His Majesty that, though blind, the men could "carry on" in
what seemed to him an incredibly difficult occupation for the sightless.
[Illustration: Mat Weaving]
Her Majesty, Queen Mary, took an equally active interest in our hostel.
I met her under peculiar circumstances at the Bungalow. I had just
entered the Lounge from the Shorthand Room, when I heard the "Skipper"
calling me. I went up to him through an opening between a line of
chairs. When I reached Captain McMahon, he said: "Her Majesty, Queen
Mary, wishes to meet you, Rawlinson." And to the Queen he remarked:
"This is Rawlinson, who is learning to be a stenographer." Her Majesty
showed genuine interest in me, as she did in all the boys, and asked me
many questions about my wound, the circumstances under which I received
it, and what part of the line I was operating in when I was struck. She
then questioned me about the progress I was making with my work, and
about my life in the Bungalow. She finally complimented me on my ability
in finding my way about despite my handicap. It is not every day that a
private has the privilege of chatting familiarly with a queen, and in my
vanity I answered: "I know my surroundings at St. Dunstan's as well as I
do the palm of my hand." After a moment's silence, I asked Captain Mac
if that was all he wanted of me. He said that would do, and I turned to
depart. But while talking to the Queen I must have turned slightly
without knowing it, and I had lost my bearings. I stepped out boldly,
and tumbled clean over one of the chairs, and that after boasting to Her
Majesty that I knew the place "as well as I do the palm of my hand." It
was truly literally a case of pride going before a fall.
About half an hour later, I was going down the garden walk leading to
the Outer Circle, when I heard women's voices farther down the path. I
honk-honked--the usual signal of the boys when wishing the right of way.
Among the party in front of me was the Matron of the House, who said to
me: "Come on, Rawlinson, the way is all clear."
"Is that you, Matron," I replied; then, in a simulated injured tone, I
remarked that I had been talking to Queen Mary that afternoon, and:
"Would you believe it, Matron, she had not the good manners to shake
hands with a guy."
The Matron answered me in a somewhat flurried tone: "Her Majesty is
here, Rawlinson."
Needless to say, I was somewhat abashed. Canada had gone far beyond his
objective, as usual, but Canada was unfamiliar with retreat, and I
determined to stand by my guns.
"Well," said I, "will she shake hands now?"
"I surely will," replied the Queen. She did it with a firm pressure that
showed genuine feeling. She then asked me if I were out for a walk.
"No," I replied, "I'm going to meet another queen. Two queens in one
afternoon is not bad going for an old Canuck, is it?" "It certainly is
not," she replied. "And I do hope," she added with a merry laugh, "that
the other queen will not forget to shake hands when she meets you."
As I went away I heard her remark that that is "a very cheerful boy;
his blindness does not seem to trouble him much." She was right. It did
not by this time. I had so far progressed with my work that the future
was assured; work and happiness I could still find in this old world.
While at St. Dunstan's I had still another meeting with Royalty. One day
I was walking up the Lounge, along the strip sacred to the sightless,
when bump I went against someone who was stooping over while questioning
another student. I had collided with a woman, who immediately turned and
apologized most profusely for being in my way. She was most sorry that
she "did not see me coming." I was in an irritated mood; the sightless
always are under such circumstances. A collision of this sort always
reminds them of their handicap, a thing they delight to ignore.
Impatiently, I replied: "That's all right, ma'am. But if you people with
eyes, when you visit us, would only remember that there are some men
here that cannot see just as well as they once did, it would make it
easier for us." Again she apologized, and took my hand, giving it such
a hearty, sympathetic pressure that I felt somewhat ashamed of myself
for my hasty words. As I renewed my walk up the Lounge, one of the
V.A.D.'s overtook me, and asked what had happened. I told her, and she
almost took my breath away by telling me that I had been "saucing" Her
Most Gracious Majesty, Queen Alexandra. I quite expected to be "on the
carpet" before the chief for my words, for Sir Arthur was standing by,
and must have heard them. But Sir Arthur had a way of avoiding causing
his boys the slightest pain, and he no doubt knew that when I realized
to whom I had spoken so hastily, my chagrin would be sufficient
punishment. I hope the good Queen has forgiven my lack of courtesy, and
forgotten the incident--a thing I am not likely to do.
CHAPTER VIII
IN PLAYTIME
It was not all work at St. Dunstan's. Sports were encouraged and
fostered in every way; but rowing and tug-of-war were by far the most
popular. Fully sixty per cent. of the men went in for rowing, and some
very skilful and powerful oarsmen were turned out. There were two
regattas each year. The preliminary heats of each regatta were pulled
off on the lake that runs into the grounds of the House, and the finals
took place on the River Thames. Single sculls, pair-oars, and fours were
our strong points. The Bungalow turned out two men who had no superiors
on the river either sighted or sightless. Sergeant Barry, at one time
the world's champion sculler, coached the team during the seasons of
1917 and 1918. So successful were the Canadians that there are now a
number of St. Dunstan's rowing prizes in Canada.
The tug-of-war team, of which I was a member, was quite as successful as
the oarsmen. Indeed, we lost only one point during the whole season. We
treated all comers alike: they were there to be pulled over; and we saw
to it that they came. The following was our war song; we sang it going
to the grounds, and we sang it coming away.
The Canucks are on the rope, on the rope, on the rope;
Their breasts are full of hope, full of hope, full of hope;
They tell the teams they pull against
That they're out to win the cup.
Canadians do your bit, do your bit, show your grit;
Lay back on that rope, legs well braced; never sit.
Make your snow-clad country proud
Of her boys who are on the line.
Chorus--
Take the strain, take the strain;
First a heave, then a pull, then again.
The boys are pulling, the boys are pulling;
Yes, they're pulling with might and main.
Take the strain, take the strain;
First a heave, then a pull, then again.
They'll come over; they'll come over;
For the timber wolves are winning once again.
Not a very elaborate piece of poetry, and sadly deficient in metre and
rhyme; but it certainly did mean much to us when we heard our supporters
singing it. We sang it to the tune of "Over there." Out of justice to my
comrades, I must plead guilty of composing it.
The average weight of the team was only 145lbs., but what the men lacked
in weight was made up in grit. The team was chosen from fifteen
Canadians, all who were at the Bungalow at the time; and seven of the
nine men who comprised the team were "black" blind. Yet this team beat
the pick of five hundred others. I have heard some of the men of the
other teams asking: "Why do they always pull us over? We are heavier,
man for man we are stronger, and we have more sight than they have."
One of the opponents discovered the secret, and thus expressed himself:
"I know what it is; it's the--what they themselves call 'pep'; it's the
vim they put into the game; it's the enthusiasm they have for all sorts
of sport. I was billeted close to some of them on the Somme; they were
always the same whether in or out of the line."
He hit the nail on the head. The Canadians had the vim, the dogged
determination; they would not submit to defeat, even in sport.
My mention of lack of sight among the men might seem superfluous to
those who have not pulled on a tug-of-war team. The advantage of sight
lies in the fact that a man to use his strength to the best advantage
must make a straight pull. If any member of the team is pulling at an
angle, those behind him are wasting their own pull while minimizing his.
For success, all must pull together, and the rope must be kept straight
and taut.
Theatricals did much to add pleasure to our lives. We not only enjoyed
those of outside performers, but we put on several plays, and the boys
took their parts well, and a prompter was very little in evidence. The
sighted are at a loss to understand how a drama, comedy, or sketch can
be enjoyed by the sightless. But the spoken word acts on the inward
eye, and the entire stage is revealed as vividly to the brain as if it
were carried there by sight. One of the annoying things to a sightless
person is to have some sighted friend sit by him at a play, describing
costumes and scenery. The blind have no need of such aids.
Chief among our sources of amusement was the Rag-time Band, which did
much to enliven our idle hours. Any who have been lucky enough to hear
this band have had a rare treat. It was composed entirely of men who had
been "over," and had lost their sight. But this loss of sight had not
lessened their love of music or their power of musical expression, as
many of the boys who were in hospital in London can testify. High-class
singers, theatrical parties, in fact, all the leading theatrical
performers and many minor ones, paid their tribute to the boys by
entertaining them with song and sketch; but no performance had quite the
same popularity as the rag-time discoursed by the "blind boys." And the
remarkable thing about the band is that it is doubtful if any member
had ever, before going to St. Dunstan's, played a more elaborate
instrument than a Jew's-harp or a mouth organ. The side-drummer, who
played the side-drum, bass drum, cymbals, Chinese block, motor-horn,
triangle, and clappers was a boy who had lost both eyes.
I have vivid recollections of the celebration at St. Dunstan's on
Armistice Day, November 11th, 1918; on that day the band excelled
itself, and played as if it meant that its music should be heard in
Germany. This occasion is one that will live long in the memory of those
of us who were at St. Dunstan's when the "scrap of paper" virtually
ending the war was signed. Our Rag-time Band then really came into its
own. Ask London. She will tell you that there was never a more popular
band in the city. The students of St. Dunstan's paraded through the
streets of the great metropolis in full regalia. As an initial step to
our parade, we managed somehow or other to secure a disused old
fire-engine, and on this the band piled. Sir Arthur's battalion lined up
in fours and followed. Through the busiest streets of the city we
marched with, at first, about two hundred and fifty men in the
parade. But before we had finished we extended over more than a quarter
of a mile. A procession of munitioners happened to meet us, and when
they found out who we were they immediately tacked themselves onto our
little line. We marched to Buckingham Palace, and here we were halted by
our leader--a Canadian, by the way. It seems that word had been passed
to their Majesties that the St. Dunstan's men were outside. At any rate,
they both came out, and I doubt if his Majesty ever had such a salute as
was given him on that day. Sergeant-Major George Eades, a Canadian
pioneer, drooped the colours with a flag that could not have measured
more than a foot square; but his Majesty took the salute and answered
it.
[Illustration: Sightless Canadian Four]
Besides the amusements already mentioned, dances were held frequently
and thoroughly enjoyed. Then, as I have said, there was rowing, and
Regent's Park Lake was constantly visited by blind lads and their
friends to enjoy this sport. We had even a four-oared Canadian crew--all
blind, and as they skimmed over the lake, rowing in perfect time, an
observer would have difficulty in detecting that they were sightless.
CHAPTER IX
MEMORIES OF THE FIGHTING FRONT
During my early days at St. Dunstan's, I was inclined to brood a bit,
and the past was constantly before my mind's eye; but gradually under
occupation the past became shadowy, and the future was for me the only
reality. Even the scenes through which I had passed in the months I was
at the front took on the semblance of a dream--sometimes a nightmare;
but it seemed to me that it was not I--the St. Dunstan's student--who
had endured cold and wet and forced marches, who had felt the shock of
high-explosive shells, the stinging threat of machine-gun and rifle
bullets, who had taken part in wild charges over the top, but some other
being. However, in the stillness of the night, one incident I had
experienced, one scene I had witnessed, kept constantly recurring to my
mind with a vividness that kept the World War and my humble part in it a
stern reality for me. The affair in question occurred on April 19th,
1917.
Ten days before, on Easter Monday--a red-letter day for the Canadians,
but a day black as night for the Germans--the troops from the Dominion
had in one swift forward movement swept the enemy from positions which
he had thought impregnable along Vimy Ridge. For days after that, we
wallowed around in the mud, gaining a village here, a trench there, and
driving him from hills and wood fastnesses. All the time we were
expecting that he would come back in force to make a mighty effort to
regain the territory he had held for over two years against the British
and the French. He had apparently proved his right to it, and since
September 15th, 1916, had been resting at his ease in his underground
dug-outs and capacious caverns.
On the night of the 19th, the battalion to which I belonged had just
ended a tour of duty in the front line. We were to be relieved by
another battalion of the 3rd Division of the Canadian Corps. There was
but one road out, a road which at that time was considered a
masterpiece of road-building. Three days had been allotted for its
construction. The Imperial engineers contended that the task was an
impossible one, but G.H.Q. said it would have to be done, and the
Canadian engineers were assigned the work. To their credit, it was
completed in the stipulated time.
To retire from the side of the ridge facing the German position, it was
necessary to take this road, and, as the crest of it was under almost
continuous shell-fire, for safety we were sent over in sections of ten
men at a time. This territory had all been in Fritzie's hands, and he
knew every inch of it. The road was a vital spot, and more shells were
dropped on it than upon any other place of the same area on the Western
front. On the top, about two hundred yards away, lay the ruined village
of Thelus; once in it we should be comparatively safe.
I was in the last section of my platoon, and at the top I paused to look
about me at the scene that presented itself. It was horrible; it was
glorious; it was magnificent--it was War. The centre of the road was
fairly clear, but at the edges all was chaos. The night was a wonderful
one; the moon was shining in all her glory, and pale stars twinkled in
the sky. In the bright moonlight I could see all about me dead and
wounded men, wounded men who would surely "go West," for, once down, the
chance of escape from that hell-hole was slight. Here and there were
great W.D. waggons, G.S. waggons, ammunition mules bearing 6-inch
howitzer and the smaller 18-pounder equipment--in fact, everything that
was in any way connected with the grim business that was being carried
on. Here and there, too, through this chaos of war, ration parties
wended their way to and from the front line trenches.
Just as we reached the crest of the ridge, that spur of France that had
taken such heavy toll from Hun and Ally, we heard a warning shout: "Keep
to the edge of the road!" We wondered at the caution. The middle of the
road was comparatively clean, while towards the edges it was ankle-deep
in sticky mud, and we had been floundering around in a quagmire for the
last eleven days. But we soon knew the reason; for while we hesitated
up came a battery of guns at full gallop--big howitzers at that. Drivers
shouted; horses plunged and tugged at their traces; the guns bounded and
rattled in and out of the shell-holes that pitted the road, sometimes
seeming to be balanced on only one wheel. It was a thrilling sight, such
as comes to the eyes of a man only once in a lifetime. It gripped us
all. Poor Sergeant Harry Best, our platoon sergeant, who was near me,
relieved the tension by exclaiming: "Get that, Jim! You will never see
such a sight again, even if you stayed out here for fifty years. If a
painter were to put that sight on canvas he would be laughed at as a
dreamer."
I said, poor Sergeant Best! He had seen the sight of his lifetime, but
he was not long to enjoy it, for the next trip in, when he was all ready
to go to London to take his commission, he was "sent West" by a bomb
from a trench mortar. Harry was a little strict, but he was dead fair,
and, best of all, a thorough soldier. How is it that nearly all the good
ones get, or seem to get, the worst of the deal; they certainly play
for the most part in hard luck. But then they take risks that the
"safety-first" soldier never takes.
CHAPTER X
THE POINT OF VIEW OF THE SIGHTLESS
When I began to write this personal narrative I had two main thoughts in
mind. My first was that no work written on the World War would be
complete without some account of the transference of the soldier back
from khaki to mufti; my second, and to my mind the more important, was
to show the man himself, suffering from a serious handicap, that one of
the greatest truths in this life of ours is: there is nothing that a man
cannot do, if he _has_ to. This needs explanation. There are few men who
have come out of this war just as they went into it. Apart from injuries
they have sustained, there is unavoidably a new outlook upon life,
gained by their sojourn in the trenches. No matter who the man is, no
matter how settled were his views on the management of this old world,
his stay "over there" has changed his point of view. His whole mental
attitude has undergone something of the nature of a revolution in the
crucible of war. Up the "line," he saw things stripped to the buff, saw
life and death in all their nakedness. The veneer of so-called
civilization has been worn off, and the _real man_ shows through. That,
to my mind, is why friendships made amid the blood, mud, hunger, and
grime of the trenches are friendships that will endure through life. It
is there _Man_ meets _Man_, and admires him. I have met men in the
trenches to whom, had I met them in ordinary life, I would not have
given a second thought. When they first came to the front they were
known as "sissies," but not for long. They, for the most part, quickly
acquired that character and bearing that is the rule of the trenches.
There were exceptions, of course, but not many. As I write there comes
to my mind a little incident that happened in a dug-out in a trench
known to the 9th Brigade as Mill Street. Those who were there at the
time will remember it from the fact that the body of a French soldier
was lying half buried under the parapet at one of the entrances. Poor
Frenchy's whole right side was showing from the foot to the waist line.
The day of which I write had been rather warm. A working party had been
out repairing a firing step and revetting the trench. A "sissy" came
down the steps of the dug-out, mopping his forehead with a
handkerchief;--fancy any one carrying a handkerchief in the front line;
one had essentials enough to carry without being burdened with such a
feminine article;--another of the boys was sitting writing a letter with
his ground-sheet under him in the mud. The sissified one blurted out:
"Holy gee! but I'm perspiring profusely." The kid writing the letter
looked up and sarcastically answered, "Wouldn't sweatin' like 'ell be
more to the point." Later in my military career I had a chat with the
commander of the company to which the "sissy" belonged, and he
incidentally remarked that the lad had turned out to be one of the most
reliable and plucky fellows in the battalion. I have often wondered
since if that little remark "sweatin' like hell" had not helped him to
buck up and fit into his general surroundings.
Since I have been sightless, two things have deeply impressed
themselves on my mind. The first is that no person with sight can, or
ever will be able to, see from a blind man's point of view; the second,
that no one who can see can ever understand or gauge a blind man's
capabilities or limitations. When I speak of a blind man in this sketch,
I, of course, refer to those who have suddenly been deprived of sight.
Of the man who was born blind or who became sightless early in life I do
not profess to know anything. But the viewpoint of the blind is, in the
majority of cases, different from that of the sighted--I mean in the
matter of earning one's living and making oneself independent of
charity. The man who has been blinded in battle has seen life--and death
for that matter--stripped of all its frills and flounces. His mind and
viewpoint have been enlarged and broadened by his life in the Army. But
he sees life from an angle that is denied the sighted. To be made into a
wage-earner he must be handled rightly. He must not be "mollycoddled";
to do so would be to leave him a burden to himself and to his friends.
He must not be made to feel that he is an object to be set in a corner
where he can hurt neither himself nor others. It does not do to treat
blind men in the lump; they must be handled individually. Each and every
case stands by itself. Tact, and a lot of it, patience, and perseverance
are the essentials for re-making a man who has lost his sight, into what
he desires to be--a being capable of earning a living and producing
results in the industrial world. For the attainment of this end, two
things are necessary--confidence and independence. Once he has learned
these, he has won half his battle--a hard battle, how hard he alone
realizes. For my own part, my first two months of blindness, at least,
were Hell with a capital H. Let me illustrate what I mean by confidence
and independence.
Whilst at St. Dunstan's, I was, for some reason or other, given the job
on quite a few occasions of meeting men who were feeling rather harder
than was thought necessary the darkness that enveloped them. If a man
came in feeling that there was nothing in life for him now that he was
blind, I was given the task of cheering him up and showing him, if I
could--and I have the satisfaction of knowing that I did not often
fail--that this old world was not such a bad place, even if one's lights
were put out. One case stands out with prominence, and when I look back
at the results of my work after twelve months have passed, it is not
without a measure of pride.
One Saturday afternoon, a young Canadian came to the Bungalow. He was
talked to by both the Adjutant and the Matron, who did all in their
power to "buck" him up. They failed hopelessly, as the "kid" felt too
far gone; he just would not try to look at the bright side of life. Then
some one suggested that he be brought over to "Rawly." When we met, I
began our conversation with: "Well, kid, how are things?" He snapped
back: "For God's sake, another preacher!" It was somewhat of a
staggerer, but I had been through it all myself, and understood the
boy's feelings perfectly. In the darkness that sealed his eyes he was
forced to grope his way about stumblingly, usually with the help of a
guide. He had not yet gained confidence in his own powers. I straightway
determined to inspire him with that confidence.
In the first days of my sojourn at St. Dunstan's, I, for a time, felt
that never again should I be able to step out into the world except with
halting step and a horror of what might happen. The management of the
institution had constructed an elaborate system of gravel paths, along
which were wooden palings which would prevent the students losing their
way. A knob in these palings told of a turning; a plank served to warn
that we were approaching steps or a steep incline. In the work-rooms and
through out the entire buildings, strips of carpet served as a guide to
the feet. But it took time to gain confidence even with these aids; and
then they were confined to the buildings and grounds. Confidence would
only come when one was able to navigate his way alone through busy
thoroughfares. Shortly after entering St. Dunstan's I determined to
venture out alone. A guide accompanied me on my outward journey, but I
dismissed him and determined to find my way back without help. I
cautiously kept to the outside of the walk, using my stick as a guide,
but I had not calculated on obstructing posts; bump I went into one, but
nothing daunted, I kept on. I was about to test the hardness of another
with my head when a sympathetic soul seized me by the arm and saved me
just in time. I asked him to direct me to the wall bordering the walk.
He did so; but I had not taken into consideration the fact that there
were stores with goods out for display in front of them. I was first
made aware of this by hitting a somewhat flimsily-constructed fruit
stand. At this moment a motorcycle a few feet away back-fired viciously.
It sounded like the explosion of a shell. Vimy and its horrors came back
on the instant, and I involuntarily ducked for safety, or, rather,
sprawled forward at full length. Down came the fruit stand, and there I
lay among apples, oranges, and bananas. Kindly hands helped me to my
feet, and set me on my way. My first experience of solitary walking out
had been a rough one, and for a time I felt beaten, and had very much
the attitude of this boy towards the future. But my experiences would
help him. I had conquered in time, and could journey about freely
without even the aid of a stick. I would not let him know that I was
"black" blind, but I would take him out with me and show him what the
blind could do unaided if they would only bring into play their latent
powers.
We chatted for a time about the war, and the prospect of his return to
Canada and his friends. He gradually thawed out, and took me in a
measure into his confidence. But he was still in the depths, and
continually referred to his deplorable lot. There was, he said, nothing
in this world for him now, and he added pathetically: "I'm only twenty
years old; I have seen practically nothing, and as both my eyes are out,
I never shall be able to enjoy life and nature. I wish I had got the
full issue instead of half of it; I should have been a lot better off."
Now, there is an unfailing means to get on the good side of any one who
has spent any time in "Blighty," and that is to suggest tea. So I asked
him if he would not like a cup and some cake: I knew, I said, a nice
tea-room where we could get a good cup.
"Yes," he replied, "I should enjoy something to drink; but who will take
me to your tea-room?"
"Come with me," I said; "I will be your pilot."
So away we toddled out of the Bungalow and down the rails which run
round the Outer Circle, right through Clarence Gate, down Upper Baker
Street, past the Tube, and across the road to Gentle's. Well, we had the
tea; and companionship and the refreshments seemed to cheer up the lad.
At any rate, he began to talk about things they told him he could learn
at St. Dunstan's; and I seized the opportunity to say: "Well, things are
not quite as bad as they seemed at first, eh? You see we got down here
all right." This was in answer to his saying that one would always be
compelled to depend on a guide in his ramblings.
"Yes," he replied, "we got here all right, but you can see some. It's
easy for you guys to talk about getting around by yourselves when you
can see, be it never so dimly; but remember that I have both my eyes
out."
This was what I had been working for and waiting for all afternoon. I
wanted him to think that I could see; my turn would come sooner or
later, and my answer to him would make him buck up if anything could.
"Eh, old boy," I said, with a degree of exultation; "I am as 'black'
blind as you are. I have one eye, it is true, but it is na-poo, finis,
just as much as your's are."
"Do you really mean that, Jim?" he asked.
"I certainly do; and you just fell into the bear-pit I had ready for
you."
"Well, let me tell you," he said, with stern determination, "if you have
done this, here's another boy who can do likewise."
That boy returned to Canada with a full knowledge of poultry-breeding
and egg-producing, basket-making, rough carpentry, and all kinds of
string work, such as hammock and net weaving. He became one of the
brightest and happiest students in St. Dunstan's, and, incidentally, I
might mention that that same lad, who felt himself down and out for all
time, developed into one of the best dancers that ever put foot in
slipper.
[Illustration: Basket Making]
Another lad--an Australian, this time--wanted to go over the House. I
acted as his pilot, and on our way back to the Bungalow he asked me how
much I could see. I told him, "nothing." He answered: "Say, Digger, I've
been taking some chances, haven't I? But this I will tell you, the
next time I want to come over here I am going to find the way myself."
All that those boys needed was to realize that others who were
handicapped as they were could work and move about on their own
initiative, and they would be quick to follow their example. Confidence
is infectious; it passes from one individual to another. Above all, it
is the absolute foundation for success in a man who cannot see--or, for
that part of it, in any man.
I have said sufficient to show that the man from whom the external world
is suddenly shut out is still able to "carry on." For my own part, I
have returned to Canada, and am busy in useful employment, working among
comrades similarly situated with myself. Three years ago, had any one
told me that a blind man could qualify as a stenographer I should have
ridiculed the idea. But I am now able to take dictation in Braille
shorthand at the rate of one hundred and twenty words per minute and
then transcribe my notes on any typewriting machine on the market just
as speedily as the ordinary sighted typist. And I never operated a
typewriting machine before I became a student at St. Dunstan's.
As I said, I am back in Canada, and not getting my living through
charity. What I am I owe to St. Dunstan's, and while labouring here my
heart ever goes back to dear old England. I feel towards St.
Dunstan's--and so do all the boys who have passed through her halls--as
does the grown man for the place of his birth. She is home for me. I was
born again and nurtured into a new manhood by her, led by her from
stygian darkness to mental and spiritual light, and my heart turns with
longing towards her. At times, separation from the genial atmosphere of
this paradise of the sightless, from contact with the dominating, kindly
presence of Sir Arthur Pearson and his noble assistants, weighs heavily
upon my spirits. But there is work to be done here in Canada, and, in a
humble way, I am able to continue the good work done at St. Dunstan's;
if not in a militant way, at least by example, taking my place among the
producers, toiling daily with hands and brain.
End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Through St. Dunstan's to Light, by
James H. Rawlinson
*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THROUGH ST. DUNSTAN'S TO LIGHT ***
***** This file should be named 27193.txt or 27193.zip *****
This and all associated files of various formats will be found in:
http://www.gutenberg.org/2/7/1/9/27193/
Produced by The Online Distributed Proofreading Team at
http://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images
generously made available by The Internet Archive/Canadian
Libraries)
Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions
will be renamed.
Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no
one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation
(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without
permission and without paying copyright royalties. Special rules,
set forth in the General Terms of Use part of this license, apply to
copying and distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works to
protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm concept and trademark. Project
Gutenberg is a registered trademark, and may not be used if you
charge for the eBooks, unless you receive specific permission. If you
do not charge anything for copies of this eBook, complying with the
rules is very easy. You may use this eBook for nearly any purpose
such as creation of derivative works, reports, performances and
research. They may be modified and printed and given away--you may do
practically ANYTHING with public domain eBooks. Redistribution is
subject to the trademark license, especially commercial
redistribution.
*** START: FULL LICENSE ***
THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE
PLEASE READ THIS BEFORE YOU DISTRIBUTE OR USE THIS WORK
To protect the Project Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting the free
distribution of electronic works, by using or distributing this work
(or any other work associated in any way with the phrase "Project
Gutenberg"), you agree to comply with all the terms of the Full Project
Gutenberg-tm License (available with this file or online at
http://gutenberg.org/license).
Section 1. General Terms of Use and Redistributing Project Gutenberg-tm
electronic works
1.A. By reading or using any part of this Project Gutenberg-tm
electronic work, you indicate that you have read, understand, agree to
and accept all the terms of this license and intellectual property
(trademark/copyright) agreement. If you do not agree to abide by all
the terms of this agreement, you must cease using and return or destroy
all copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in your possession.
If you paid a fee for obtaining a copy of or access to a Project
Gutenberg-tm electronic work and you do not agree to be bound by the
terms of this agreement, you may obtain a refund from the person or
entity to whom you paid the fee as set forth in paragraph 1.E.8.
1.B. "Project Gutenberg" is a registered trademark. It may only be
used on or associated in any way with an electronic work by people who
agree to be bound by the terms of this agreement. There are a few
things that you can do with most Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works
even without complying with the full terms of this agreement. See
paragraph 1.C below. There are a lot of things you can do with Project
Gutenberg-tm electronic works if you follow the terms of this agreement
and help preserve free future access to Project Gutenberg-tm electronic
works. See paragraph 1.E below.
1.C. The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation ("the Foundation"
or PGLAF), owns a compilation copyright in the collection of Project
Gutenberg-tm electronic works. Nearly all the individual works in the
collection are in the public domain in the United States. If an
individual work is in the public domain in the United States and you are
located in the United States, we do not claim a right to prevent you from
copying, distributing, performing, displaying or creating derivative
works based on the work as long as all references to Project Gutenberg
are removed. Of course, we hope that you will support the Project
Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting free access to electronic works by
freely sharing Project Gutenberg-tm works in compliance with the terms of
this agreement for keeping the Project Gutenberg-tm name associated with
the work. You can easily comply with the terms of this agreement by
keeping this work in the same format with its attached full Project
Gutenberg-tm License when you share it without charge with others.
1.D. The copyright laws of the place where you are located also govern
what you can do with this work. Copyright laws in most countries are in
a constant state of change. If you are outside the United States, check
the laws of your country in addition to the terms of this agreement
before downloading, copying, displaying, performing, distributing or
creating derivative works based on this work or any other Project
Gutenberg-tm work. The Foundation makes no representations concerning
the copyright status of any work in any country outside the United
States.
1.E. Unless you have removed all references to Project Gutenberg:
1.E.1. The following sentence, with active links to, or other immediate
access to, the full Project Gutenberg-tm License must appear prominently
whenever any copy of a Project Gutenberg-tm work (any work on which the
phrase "Project Gutenberg" appears, or with which the phrase "Project
Gutenberg" is associated) is accessed, displayed, performed, viewed,
copied or distributed:
This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or
re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org
1.E.2. If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is derived
from the public domain (does not contain a notice indicating that it is
posted with permission of the copyright holder), the work can be copied
and distributed to anyone in the United States without paying any fees
or charges. If you are redistributing or providing access to a work
with the phrase "Project Gutenberg" associated with or appearing on the
work, you must comply either with the requirements of paragraphs 1.E.1
through 1.E.7 or obtain permission for the use of the work and the
Project Gutenberg-tm trademark as set forth in paragraphs 1.E.8 or
1.E.9.
1.E.3. If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is posted
with the permission of the copyright holder, your use and distribution
must comply with both paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 and any additional
terms imposed by the copyright holder. Additional terms will be linked
to the Project Gutenberg-tm License for all works posted with the
permission of the copyright holder found at the beginning of this work.
1.E.4. Do not unlink or detach or remove the full Project Gutenberg-tm
License terms from this work, or any files containing a part of this
work or any other work associated with Project Gutenberg-tm.
1.E.5. Do not copy, display, perform, distribute or redistribute this
electronic work, or any part of this electronic work, without
prominently displaying the sentence set forth in paragraph 1.E.1 with
active links or immediate access to the full terms of the Project
Gutenberg-tm License.
1.E.6. You may convert to and distribute this work in any binary,
compressed, marked up, nonproprietary or proprietary form, including any
word processing or hypertext form. However, if you provide access to or
distribute copies of a Project Gutenberg-tm work in a format other than
"Plain Vanilla ASCII" or other format used in the official version
posted on the official Project Gutenberg-tm web site (www.gutenberg.org),
you must, at no additional cost, fee or expense to the user, provide a
copy, a means of exporting a copy, or a means of obtaining a copy upon
request, of the work in its original "Plain Vanilla ASCII" or other
form. Any alternate format must include the full Project Gutenberg-tm
License as specified in paragraph 1.E.1.
1.E.7. Do not charge a fee for access to, viewing, displaying,
performing, copying or distributing any Project Gutenberg-tm works
unless you comply with paragraph 1.E.8 or 1.E.9.
1.E.8. You may charge a reasonable fee for copies of or providing
access to or distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works provided
that
- You pay a royalty fee of 20% of the gross profits you derive from
the use of Project Gutenberg-tm works calculated using the method
you already use to calculate your applicable taxes. The fee is
owed to the owner of the Project Gutenberg-tm trademark, but he
has agreed to donate royalties under this paragraph to the
Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation. Royalty payments
must be paid within 60 days following each date on which you
prepare (or are legally required to prepare) your periodic tax
returns. Royalty payments should be clearly marked as such and
sent to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation at the
address specified in Section 4, "Information about donations to
the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation."
- You provide a full refund of any money paid by a user who notifies
you in writing (or by e-mail) within 30 days of receipt that s/he
does not agree to the terms of the full Project Gutenberg-tm
License. You must require such a user to return or
destroy all copies of the works possessed in a physical medium
and discontinue all use of and all access to other copies of
Project Gutenberg-tm works.
- You provide, in accordance with paragraph 1.F.3, a full refund of any
money paid for a work or a replacement copy, if a defect in the
electronic work is discovered and reported to you within 90 days
of receipt of the work.
- You comply with all other terms of this agreement for free
distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm works.
1.E.9. If you wish to charge a fee or distribute a Project Gutenberg-tm
electronic work or group of works on different terms than are set
forth in this agreement, you must obtain permission in writing from
both the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation and Michael
Hart, the owner of the Project Gutenberg-tm trademark. Contact the
Foundation as set forth in Section 3 below.
1.F.
1.F.1. Project Gutenberg volunteers and employees expend considerable
effort to identify, do copyright research on, transcribe and proofread
public domain works in creating the Project Gutenberg-tm
collection. Despite these efforts, Project Gutenberg-tm electronic
works, and the medium on which they may be stored, may contain
"Defects," such as, but not limited to, incomplete, inaccurate or
corrupt data, transcription errors, a copyright or other intellectual
property infringement, a defective or damaged disk or other medium, a
computer virus, or computer codes that damage or cannot be read by
your equipment.
1.F.2. LIMITED WARRANTY, DISCLAIMER OF DAMAGES - Except for the "Right
of Replacement or Refund" described in paragraph 1.F.3, the Project
Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the owner of the Project
Gutenberg-tm trademark, and any other party distributing a Project
Gutenberg-tm electronic work under this agreement, disclaim all
liability to you for damages, costs and expenses, including legal
fees. YOU AGREE THAT YOU HAVE NO REMEDIES FOR NEGLIGENCE, STRICT
LIABILITY, BREACH OF WARRANTY OR BREACH OF CONTRACT EXCEPT THOSE
PROVIDED IN PARAGRAPH F3. YOU AGREE THAT THE FOUNDATION, THE
TRADEMARK OWNER, AND ANY DISTRIBUTOR UNDER THIS AGREEMENT WILL NOT BE
LIABLE TO YOU FOR ACTUAL, DIRECT, INDIRECT, CONSEQUENTIAL, PUNITIVE OR
INCIDENTAL DAMAGES EVEN IF YOU GIVE NOTICE OF THE POSSIBILITY OF SUCH
DAMAGE.
1.F.3. LIMITED RIGHT OF REPLACEMENT OR REFUND - If you discover a
defect in this electronic work within 90 days of receiving it, you can
receive a refund of the money (if any) you paid for it by sending a
written explanation to the person you received the work from. If you
received the work on a physical medium, you must return the medium with
your written explanation. The person or entity that provided you with
the defective work may elect to provide a replacement copy in lieu of a
refund. If you received the work electronically, the person or entity
providing it to you may choose to give you a second opportunity to
receive the work electronically in lieu of a refund. If the second copy
is also defective, you may demand a refund in writing without further
opportunities to fix the problem.
1.F.4. Except for the limited right of replacement or refund set forth
in paragraph 1.F.3, this work is provided to you 'AS-IS' WITH NO OTHER
WARRANTIES OF ANY KIND, EXPRESS OR IMPLIED, INCLUDING BUT NOT LIMITED TO
WARRANTIES OF MERCHANTIBILITY OR FITNESS FOR ANY PURPOSE.
1.F.5. Some states do not allow disclaimers of certain implied
warranties or the exclusion or limitation of certain types of damages.
If any disclaimer or limitation set forth in this agreement violates the
law of the state applicable to this agreement, the agreement shall be
interpreted to make the maximum disclaimer or limitation permitted by
the applicable state law. The invalidity or unenforceability of any
provision of this agreement shall not void the remaining provisions.
1.F.6. INDEMNITY - You agree to indemnify and hold the Foundation, the
trademark owner, any agent or employee of the Foundation, anyone
providing copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in accordance
with this agreement, and any volunteers associated with the production,
promotion and distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works,
harmless from all liability, costs and expenses, including legal fees,
that arise directly or indirectly from any of the following which you do
or cause to occur: (a) distribution of this or any Project Gutenberg-tm
work, (b) alteration, modification, or additions or deletions to any
Project Gutenberg-tm work, and (c) any Defect you cause.
Section 2. Information about the Mission of Project Gutenberg-tm
Project Gutenberg-tm is synonymous with the free distribution of
electronic works in formats readable by the widest variety of computers
including obsolete, old, middle-aged and new computers. It exists
because of the efforts of hundreds of volunteers and donations from
people in all walks of life.
Volunteers and financial support to provide volunteers with the
assistance they need, is critical to reaching Project Gutenberg-tm's
goals and ensuring that the Project Gutenberg-tm collection will
remain freely available for generations to come. In 2001, the Project
Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation was created to provide a secure
and permanent future for Project Gutenberg-tm and future generations.
To learn more about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation
and how your efforts and donations can help, see Sections 3 and 4
and the Foundation web page at http://www.pglaf.org.
Section 3. Information about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive
Foundation
The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation is a non profit
501(c)(3) educational corporation organized under the laws of the
state of Mississippi and granted tax exempt status by the Internal
Revenue Service. The Foundation's EIN or federal tax identification
number is 64-6221541. Its 501(c)(3) letter is posted at
http://pglaf.org/fundraising. Contributions to the Project Gutenberg
Literary Archive Foundation are tax deductible to the full extent
permitted by U.S. federal laws and your state's laws.
The Foundation's principal office is located at 4557 Melan Dr. S.
Fairbanks, AK, 99712., but its volunteers and employees are scattered
throughout numerous locations. Its business office is located at
809 North 1500 West, Salt Lake City, UT 84116, (801) 596-1887, email
[email protected]. Email contact links and up to date contact
information can be found at the Foundation's web site and official
page at http://pglaf.org
For additional contact information:
Dr. Gregory B. Newby
Chief Executive and Director
[email protected]
Section 4. Information about Donations to the Project Gutenberg
Literary Archive Foundation
Project Gutenberg-tm depends upon and cannot survive without wide
spread public support and donations to carry out its mission of
increasing the number of public domain and licensed works that can be
freely distributed in machine readable form accessible by the widest
array of equipment including outdated equipment. Many small donations
($1 to $5,000) are particularly important to maintaining tax exempt
status with the IRS.
The Foundation is committed to complying with the laws regulating
charities and charitable donations in all 50 states of the United
States. Compliance requirements are not uniform and it takes a
considerable effort, much paperwork and many fees to meet and keep up
with these requirements. We do not solicit donations in locations
where we have not received written confirmation of compliance. To
SEND DONATIONS or determine the status of compliance for any
particular state visit http://pglaf.org
While we cannot and do not solicit contributions from states where we
have not met the solicitation requirements, we know of no prohibition
against accepting unsolicited donations from donors in such states who
approach us with offers to donate.
International donations are gratefully accepted, but we cannot make
any statements concerning tax treatment of donations received from
outside the United States. U.S. laws alone swamp our small staff.
Please check the Project Gutenberg Web pages for current donation
methods and addresses. Donations are accepted in a number of other
ways including checks, online payments and credit card donations.
To donate, please visit: http://pglaf.org/donate
Section 5. General Information About Project Gutenberg-tm electronic
works.
Professor Michael S. Hart is the originator of the Project Gutenberg-tm
concept of a library of electronic works that could be freely shared
with anyone. For thirty years, he produced and distributed Project
Gutenberg-tm eBooks with only a loose network of volunteer support.
Project Gutenberg-tm eBooks are often created from several printed
editions, all of which are confirmed as Public Domain in the U.S.
unless a copyright notice is included. Thus, we do not necessarily
keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper edition.
Most people start at our Web site which has the main PG search facility:
http://www.gutenberg.org
This Web site includes information about Project Gutenberg-tm,
including how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary
Archive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to
subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks.
