They came and split a turkey with us on Boxing Day, ten old soldiers,
all out of a job, and only ten legs between them. At least there were
only ten real legs; two of them had admirable imitation ones, and there
were sixteen excellent crutches. One of them was a miner--_was_, of
course; just now he is not mining much; perhaps that is why he seemed
such a decent fellow, not at all violent or unpleasant, as one knows
those practising miners are. In fact he reminded one of the miners one
used to have in one’s platoon. Personally I had the honour to have a
whole platoon of them. Odd, isn’t it, what capital fellows they were
then, and how sadly they deteriorate when they get back to the mines?
And it was odd, too, to hear this fellow say that he wished he could
be back in the pits; I thought it was such a hateful and dangerous
occupation.
Yes, he was a nice miner, and so were the rest of them, very cheerful
and respectful. But they didn’t talk much--at first. It was strangely
difficult to find a safe subject. A few years ago there would have
been no difficulty; one would have talked war-shop. “Were you ever at
Ypres?” “I was on Gallipoli.” “Did you know Captain ----?” and so on.
We did a little of this, but it didn’t go very well.
In the dining-room I keep a large coloured photograph of the top of
the Vimy Ridge on the day of a battle--you know the sort of thing,
a hideous expanse of broken brown earth, that dreadful endless
brown, with walls of smoke all round the horizon, shells bursting
in the middle distance, a battered trench in the foreground, with
a few scattered men climbing out of it, gazing at the camera with
expressionless faces, stretcher-bearers stooping on the parapet with
their stretchers on their shoulders, odd men straying everywhere like
lost sheep across the chocolate wilderness, looking aimless, looking
small.
Our guests were interested in that picture; it was wonderfully _like_,
they said; but I felt that my usual remark about it was hardly
suitable. Usually I tell my guests, and it is true, that I keep the
picture as a kind of chastener, so that, when I am moved to complain at
the troubles of this world, I can look at the picture and think, “At
any rate life is better than it was then----.” It was on the tip of
my tongue to say so to the one-legged men when it came to me that for
them, perhaps, at the moment, it wasn’t true.
After the turkey and the pudding and the crackers, and of course the
beer, there was a slight thaw, but it was still very difficult. We
tried to get them to sing. Only a few years ago how easy it was. There
was “Tipperary” and many another rousing chorus. One was familiar in
those times with the popular songs of the day. Unfortunately these were
the only songs we could produce now. And they didn’t suit. “Keep the
Home-fires Burning,” for instance--one didn’t like to suggest that. The
chief minstrel of the one-legged men, who was also the chief comedian,
disinterred from a heap of old music, “Your King and Country Need You.”
“How would that go, Bert?” he said. He said it without bitterness, I
don’t know why, and Bert’s answer was a silent grin, and one felt that
Bert was right. “Pack up your Troubles in your old Kit-bag,” “Till the
Boys Come Home”--all the old titles had a certain ironic underlining in
that company.
So we abandoned singing and we sat rather silent. There was some
desultory conversation about the various “trades” to which a grateful
State had trained them, and left it at that; there was some mild chaff
of Bill, who had been too old (at thirty-five) to be trained at all,
though not too old to learn musketry and lose a leg; but socially one
felt the “party” was drifting to disaster.
It was saved, like many parties, by “shop,” and not war-shop, at least
not exactly. What sort of shop will amuse ten one-legged men? Why,
one-legged shop, of course. Somebody said, “Is your leg comfortable?”
and that set the ball rolling. All the tongues wagged gleefully at
once; all the technical details of one-leggedness, all the points of the
various kinds of “legs,” were brought out and tossed about and hotly
contested as if we had been a number of golfers arguing the merits
of different makes of putters. Some of us wear “stump-socks”; some
of us can’t stand the things. Some of us have “buckets” (graphically
described) which we can comfortably pad, and some of us have something
else not nearly so good. Some of us are excited about the new
“aluminium” legs, four pounds lighter, which are soon to be available,
though we think it a terrible waste of money now that we have most of
us got wooden ones. Here is a chance for the “economising” campaigners!
Now then, Lord Rothermere, “No Aluminium Legs!” What a war-cry!
Altogether it is an enthralling topic; there is no more awkwardness....
And it is so amusing. Gad, how we laughed! There was the story of the
man on the Underground, a friend of ours. Someone trod on his false
foot in the crowded train and, scrambling out in a hurry at a station,
he found himself footless on the platform, while the train slid away
with the other fellow still standing on his foot. Ha, ha! how we
laughed.
But most of us are “above the knee,” and that provides the best joke of
all. You see it all depends on the length of your stump (or “stoomp”).
If you have five inches left you get an eighty per cent pension; if
you have more you get less--even if it is only five and a quarter.
That quarter of an inch makes all the difference, financially, though
practically it isn’t a great deal of use. How much have _you_ got? Ah,
you’re unlucky. I’m four and three-quarters--a near thing, eh? Peals of
laughter. “You go back and have another inch off. Ho, ho, ho!” We roll
about in our chairs.
Well, well, it’s a queer world; but the party was a great success after
all.