I got to the university, before going into my first lecture, I announced my decision to Tom Moore, an old classmate of mine from my days at Loyola, Montreal’s Jesuit college. Tom was as good as a telegraph and no sooner had the professor made his entrance than Tom got to his feet and announced to one and all, “Please join with me in wishing our own Rory Ferrall the greatest good luck and a safe return, as he is soon going off to France to serve his country.”
I was taken aback by this sudden announcement. The professor grinned broadly, stuffed his hands in his trouser pockets, and flapped his academic gown as if he were a ruffled pheasant. He cleared his throat and asked in a loud voice, “Good for you, Ferrall, what regiment have you joined?”
“I haven’t actually signed on yet, sir,” I said in a quiet voice. “I intend to go down to one of the armouries later today. I’m not sure which unit I should join. I was hoping the recruiters would give me some advice on that one.”
“There’s no need to go down to the armouries, my boy,” quipped my professor, who was clearly enjoying himself. “Just over in the lobby of the Student Union building, the Princess Patricia’s Canadian Light Infantry have set up a recruiting desk.” He fixed me with a knowing stare. “I’m sure there’s no finer unit you could join. I’m told they’re re-building their ranks and they’re doing it entirely with university men. You’d do well to join them, be amongst fellow McGill men, friends.” He dropped his chin to his chest and looked at me expectantly as if he had just finished summing up a brilliantly argued case before a jury.
“I suppose I could go over and talk to them. As I said, I haven’t given it a lot of thought.”
“Go over now, Ferrall. You’re a good student, and as far as I’m concerned you’ve passed this course. There are only a few lectures left until exams, and I have no trouble giving you an exemption.” The students in the class burst into a round of applause and I hastily made my exit while thanking the professor and nodding to my fellow classmates.
Outside, I buttoned my coat and straightened my necktie in the glass reflection of the Arts building’s doors. The figure that looked back at me in the window pane was well over six feet, had thick curly brown hair, a good open smile, and a nose that was slightly crooked from a hockey injury sustained two years earlier. I should have known I was an ideal catch for a recruiting officer, but I had butterflies in my stomach, and for a few seconds I struggled with one of those foolish adolescent fears that if the Princess Patricia’s rejected me I’d never be able to look any of my classmates in the eye again.
On the outbreak of war the “Princess Pats,” as the press dubbed them, had been privately raised by a Montreal businessman. At that time, they were extremely choosy and turned away over two thousand volunteers. In the end, to ensure they got into the war before it was over, they recruited only ex-British regular soldiers. It was considered to be a crack regiment, and I was afraid that without any military experience I’d be sent off in search of a unit more accepting of my military experience.
At the Student Union building, which was decked out in flags, I found the recruiting station without difficulty. Behind a desk draped ceremoniously in a red blanket stood an imposing-looking young officer not many years older then I. He was dressed in a beautifully tailored uniform and was leaning on a cane. He smiled at me when I approached. His right arm was in a khaki sling. The officer asked me to sit and then followed suit himself. He lowered himself gingerly onto the chair and appeared to be in considerable pain. He carefully took out his pipe and a leather tobacco pouch and then because of his wounded arm began a very elaborate smoker’s ritual of filling, tamping, lighting, and blowing clouds of smoke. When he finished this, he asked me a few questions about myself, confirming that I was in my final year as a university student. He asked about my marks, what courses I had taken, and what I thought about volunteering. He queried me as to what my thoughts were on the war and a few other simple questions. He then asked what sports I played. He was happy to hear that I played both hockey and baseball and nodded vigorously as I answered. “These are good sports for a soldier. They teach team work and they build character.” I agreed.
“Right then, Ferrall, you’re the man for us.” He had me sign a printed recruiting form, handed me a chit with a room number on it, and told me to go next door to the second floor where a doctor was doing army medicals. “I think you’re in. You’ve made a good choice.” He shook my hand awkwardly with his left hand, sat back, and the last I saw of him he was staring into space wreathed in a haze of blue tobacco smoke.
That afternoon I returned to my father’s office. When I came into the front office, Thomas Randall jumped to his feet. He towered above me, moving quickly to block the approach to my father’s doorway. “Rory, what can I do for you? Your father’s very busy just now.”
“Is anyone with him?” I asked with impatience.
“No, no. But I know he has a great deal to do and he left instructions not to be disturbed.”
I rushed past him and headed for the door. Randall was both angry and surprised at my behaviour. I knocked quickly and went in directly.
My father was talking on the telephone. In one hand he held the speaker close to his ear, in the other he tightly gripped the base. His knuckles were white and he frowned fiercely. He looked up at me surprised, put the base of the telephone down, and mouthed the word “Wait.” He continued to listen for nearly a minute.
When my father spoke, he sounded confident. “I hear what you are saying and I tell you we can have fifty thousand leather jerkins in five sizes delivered to France or Britain in six weeks. I can have a further fifty thousand every month thereafter if they’re needed.” He listened for a few seconds and said, “Fine, fine, I’ll be in touch shortly. Thank you, goodbye.”
He turned to me, levelling his frosty blue eyes at me like a ship’s guns. “Rory, what are you doing here? I left instructions with Thomas not to be interrupted under any circumstances.”
“He tried to stop me. It’s not his fault.” I continued without hesitating, “Father, I’ve joined the army. My professors have given me credit for the remainder of the year. I go to Valcartier in three days, then I’m off to England and then I suppose I go to France.”
“Isn’t this all a bit sudden?” my father asked, reacting exactly the same way as my mother. “You haven’t discussed this at all with me.” For the first time in as long as I could remember he looked hurt. I softened my tone.
“I’ve been thinking about it for a while now. It’s not right for me to stay at home when the country’s at war. I have to go.”
Father didn’t say anything for a long time. He got to his feet and walked over to the window, staring out intensely, chewing his lower lip. He was a striking figure, with thick, curly brown hair, a full moustache and, as always, an impeccably cut dark blue suit. It was then, watching him look out the window, that I regretted not telling him of my plans beforehand. I didn’t expect him to be hurt by this, and I bitterly regretted I had not told both my father and mother together. In retrospect, it was naïveté rather than lack of sympathy that caused me to make my announcements separately, but my behaviour grieved him all the same and it’s one of the things I’ve always regretted.
My father spoke quietly. “You know, Rory, I was hoping the war would be over in a few months. But in these last weeks, after these battles in Belgium, France, and Poland, I don’t think it’s going to be. I think the war is going to drag on a lot longer than we ever imagined.”
I did my
