My name is Susan Parish, and I'm the granddaughter of Lieutenant Dr. James Wells Ross. My grandfather was in World War I, and he had actually started medical school before he left and signed up for World War I. He ended up receiving his notice that he had finished and that he had his Bachelor's Degree of Medicine. It was mailed to him January the 8th 1915 overseas, so after that he was officially a doctor and able to perform more of that role.
Dr. Ross was at the battle of Ypres, and I can read a short bit out of the newspaper:
"The trenches and battery were subjected to very heavy battery fire, and reminded many of the battle of Ypres. Some of the officers were under particularly good service under the action. Captain J. Ross was an observing officer for the battery and was under heavy shell fire all day.
During the morning, an Artillery Major of the Imperial Army lay wounded out in the open, and Captain Ross climbed out of the trench and went over to him, rendering first aid, and tried to bring him back, but the Major would not consent, as others were laying there also. It was a splendid act, and Captain Ross was mentioned by Colonel Mitchell for distinguished service."
There is one funny anecdote that was kind of interesting. He was "wounded" in 1915. I think he was embarrassed that he made the casualty list. He wrote, "I thought I'd better explain my cable, in case you should see the casualty list, because even a scratch like mine gets into those things. Mine is like a bump on the head from the corner of a bureau, about a quarter inch long and just the skin. It was only a little splinter that hit me, and a piece of court plaster would have fixed it. I haven't anything on it at all now, and have been on duty all the time." That was his only injury. He was extremely lucky, but I think he was embarrassed that it was so small.
In the late 1960s my uncle was working in the engineering department of Canadian Breweries, and he had a chap from England as one of their architects. He was telling them about an adventure he had in the war. He said it was nearly dawn one day as he was riding his bicycle along a wet and muddy road near Passchendaele in France, and as he was driving past the hedge row, there was a mighty thunder of gunfire from the other side of the hedge, and in the excitement he fell off his bike. With great apologies, he was picked up and cleaned up by the gunners, offered a hot tea, and was sent on his way by the Canadians. A few days later I was talking to my father and asked him if he had by any chance been firing on a particular day in France in an early morning barrage on the Germans. He replied that yes he had, and in fact remembered it vividly, because they had caused a British dispatch rider to fall off his bike. I then told him the rest of the story. It really is a small world.