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Updated: June 27, 2025
It is not surprising, therefore, that McCuaig, fresh from his thirty-five years of life in the Athabasca wilds, should find the routine of military discipline extremely irksome and the niceties of military etiquette as from a private to an officer not only foolish but degrading both to officer and man.
"Hello, McCuaig," he called, in a quiet, clear voice, "where are you? It's Dunbar, you know." He drew the door shut after him. The corporal was for following him, but the M. O. interposed. "Stop out!" he ordered. "Stay where you are! You have done enough mischief already." "But, sir, he'll kill him!" "This is my case," said the M. O. sharply. "Fall back all of you, out of sight!"
"I remember well, Barry. I often think of it. It's a long time ago," said McCuaig in his soft, slow voice. "I've never been sorry but once that I come, and that time it was my own fault, but I didn't understand the game." "You've made a great soldier, Mac. We are all proud of you," said Barry, putting his hand upon McCuaig's. McCuaig's long thin fingers tightened upon Barry's hand.
They brought weird stories of his comrades, incidents pathetic, humorous, heroic, according to the temperament of the narrator. But from more than one source came tales of Knight's machine gun section to which McCuaig was attached.
You see, McCuaig was snipin' the first tour, and he's a killer, you bet, and he had only cut three natches in his rifle.
"I suppose so," said Barry. "That's what's goin' to happen to Germany," said McCuaig. "Germany's a very powerful nation," said Barry. "The most powerful military nation in the world." "What!" said McCuaig. "Bigger than Britain?" "Britain has two or three hundred thousand men in her army; Germany has seven millions or more, with seventy millions of people behind them, organised for war.
It was inevitable that the sergeant major should sooner or later discover this opinion in Private McCuaig, and that he should consider the holding of this opinion as a tendency toward insubordination. It was also inevitable that the sergeant major should order a course of special fatigues calculated to subdue the spirit of the insubordinate private.
"I say," said Duff, brushing aside the compliment, "did young Pickles get through? That young devil is the limit. You'd have thought he was hunting coyotes." "Yes, he got through. Got a blighty though, I guess. It was he that told me about McCuaig." "Well, Pilot, old man," said Duff, taking him by the arm, "get out! Get out! Don't waste time. There may be a break any minute. Get out of here."
"I think I'm going out," he said, with his eyes on Barry's face. "What do you think?" It was the time for truth telling. "Oh, Mac, old man," said Barry, putting his head down close to him to hide from him the rush of tears that came to his eyes, "I'm afraid you are, and I hate to have you go." "Why, Barry, you crying for me?" asked McCuaig in a kind of wonder.
'I've got him, he shouts, hoppin' up to get a good look, when McCuaig grabs him and jerks him down, swearin' somethin' awful, and tellin' him he wasn't shootin' no mountain goats. 'Oh shaw! says Jim. 'They can't get me. 'You keep your head down, Jim, said McCuaig. That's the very last words he said to him, just as he was leavin' him.
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