Lying on the floors were
scores of soldiers with faces blue or ghastly green in colour choking,
vomiting and gasping for air, in their struggles with death, while a
faint odour of chlorine hung about the place.
These were some of our own Canadians who had been gassed, and I felt,
as I stood and watched them, that the nation who had planned in cold
blood, the use of such a foul method of warfare, should not be allowed
to exist as a nation but should be taken and choked until it, too,
cried for mercy.
We could not help smiling as we shook hands with Captain Boyd, who had
been shot in the calf of the leg and was now getting the wound
dressed, particularly when he heard that Captain Scrimger had already
been ordered to replace him. (Captain Scrimger won the V.C. the
following day).
We offered our car to the Colonel of the ambulance for the night, but
he had to stay at his work, and the car was not very suitable for
evacuating wounded. As we could not be of use, we reluctantly passed
on out of the fighting zone toward home, and the refugees being not
so numerous we could travel faster.
[Illustration: GERMAN BARRAGE FIRE AT NIGHT.]
Near the entrance to Poperinge a British Major came over to our car as
we were showing our passes to a military policeman. "Are you Canadian
officers?" he said.
"We are," I answered.
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