pte. clarke of the orderly room staff told me how my coming as chaplain to the 43rd in 1917 was announced to the men attached to battalion headquarters. they were "killing time" off duty in one of the cellars under the brick-piles on the flats facing avion. i give it in his own words as well as memory recalls them.
"we knew," he said, "that d. t. macpherson had some news by the hurried way he slithered down the muddy dug-out steps. he came with bent head over to the candle-light where a bunch of us were resting after a few hours "running" and "mending wire" with explosive hardware dropping around us. 'well,' said mac, when he got over near us, 'i've got a new job and it's a cushy one. no more listening-post for me or walking around in a front-line trench asking for a blighty. nay, nay! the new chaplain has arrived and i'm his batman. after this i'll have to work only one day a week. on sundays i'll pass around the hymn-books, lead the singing, and see that none of you fellows miss church parade.' 'you'll last about two weeks, mac,' said jesse elder. 'the chaplain will have to get rid of you if he wants to make good. otherwise you'd handicap him, corrupt him and kill his influence. but what's his name and where is he from?' 'his name is pringle, capt. george pringle. i heard him tell the o.c. that he had spent years in the klondike goldfields in early days.' 'well,' elder replied, 'that sounds good. he ought to be able to give us some rex beach-jack london stuff. see what sort he is, mac, and when you get better acquainted sound him about coming under-ground here to give us some stories of the north.' the proposition sounded all right and macpherson said he'd try for it."
when mac put the request to me i welcomed the chance it gave me to talk to ready listeners about a land i love, to me the fairest under heaven. the men were always eager to listen, eager because the stories were about canada and they were home-sick. also because in every man there is something that stirs responsive to tales of the mystic northland, vast, white, and silent. then besides, the mad years of the great stampede had their own appeal, when the golden treasures were found and adventurers from the seven seas rushed to the discovery. what days those were, filled with tragedy and comedy, shameful things we would fain forget but can't, incidents too of heroism and comradeship that will live in our memories forever, and through it all, bad and good, an intense, throbbing life that was irresistibly fascinating. little wonder that my soldiers, out themselves on a great adventure, would listen to stories of the yukon and its adventurers in those glorious stampede days.
many an hour have i spent with my men off duty spinning these "sourdough" yarns, and i know very often we forgot for the time the dugout and the trench, hardly hearing the boom of the guns or bursting shells.
the incidents are true both in prologue and story. in "the lost patrol" and "soapy smith" i am indebted to my good friends staff-sergt. joy of the r.n.w.m.p. and mr. d. c. stephens of vananda, for inside information not otherwise obtainable. mr. george p. mackenzie, gold commissioner for the yukon, has given me data i needed from government records. i am very grateful to my former "o.c.," lieut.-colonel h. m. urquhart, m.c., d.s.o., now commanding the 1st battalion canadian scottish, for arduous work done by him in getting my manuscript into shape. the preparation of these sketches, as they now stand, came about largely through the kindly encouragement and expert advice of dr. haddow of the presbyterian witness in which journal some of them were published.
the stories are put down pretty much as i told them. i have had, of course, to make some changes to suit a written narrative offered to a larger circle. the language and style are homely, for the stories were first given in simple words and i have tried to reproduce them. some names have been changed for obvious reasons. probably i seem at times to speak much about myself; where this happens i couldn't avoid it in telling my story. for the rest i make no excuse. there is one advantage about a book, if you don't like it you can shut it up!
if these pages serve to keep alive old friendships and pleasant memories among my "tillicums" of the trail, and the men in khaki to whom i ministered, i shall be content.
george c. f. pringle.
vananda, texada island, b.c.
