If there is one man in France whom I do not envy it is the G.H.Q.
Weather Prophet. I can picture the unfortunate wizard sitting in his
bureau, gazing into a crystal, _Old Moore's Almanack_ in one hand, a
piece of seaweed in the other, trying to guess what tricks the weather
will be up to next.
For there is nothing this climate cannot do. As a quick-change artist
it stands _sanspareil_ (French) and _nulli secundus_ (Latin).
And now it seems to have mislaid the Spring altogether. Summer has
come at one stride. Yesterday the staff-cars smothered one with mud
as they whirled past; to-day they choke one with dust. Yesterday the
authorities were issuing precautions against frostbite; to-day they
are issuing precautions against sunstroke. Nevertheless we are not
complaining. It will take a lot of sunshine to kill us; we like it,
and we don't mind saying so.
The B.E.F. has cast from it its mitts and jerkins and whale-oil,
emerged from its subterranean burrows into the open, and in every wood
a mushroom town of bivouacs has sprung up over-night. Here and there
amateur gardeners have planted flower-beds before their tents; one of
my corporals is nursing some radishes in an ammunition-box and talks
crop prospects by the hour. My troop-sergeant found two palm-plants in
the ruins of a chateau glass-house, and now has them standing sentry
at his bivouac entrance. He sits between them after evening stables,
smoking his pipe and fancying himself back in Zanzibar; he expects the
coker-nuts along about August, he tells me.
Summer has come, and on every slope graze herds of winter-worn
gun-horses and transport mules. The new grass has gone to the heads
of the latter and they make continuous exhibitions of themselves,
gambolling about like ungainly lambkins and roaring with unholy
laughter. Summer has come, and my groom and countryman has started to
whistle again, sure sign that Winter is over, for it is only during
the Summer that he reconciles himself to the War. War, he admits,
serves very well as a light gentlemanly diversion for the idle months,
but with the first yellow leaf he grows restless and hints indirectly
that both ourselves and the horses would be much better employed in
the really serious business of showing the little foxes some sport
back in our own green isle. "That Paddy," says he, slapping the bay
with a hay wisp, "he wishes he was back in the county Kildare, he does
so, the dear knows. Pegeen, too, if she would be hearin' the houn's
shoutin' out on her from the kennels beyond in Jigginstown she'd dhrop
down dead wid the pleasure wid'in her, an' that's the thrue word,"
says he, presenting the chestnut lady with a grimy army biscuit. "Och
musha, the poor foolish cratures," he says and sighs.
However, Summer has arrived, and by the sound of his cheery whistle at
early stables shrilling "Flannigan's Wedding," I understand that the
horses are settling down once more and we can proceed with the battle.
If my groom and countryman is not an advocate of war as a winter sport
our Mr. MacTavish, on the other hand, is of the directly opposite
opinion. "War," he murmured dreamily to me yesterday as we lay on our
backs beneath a spreading parasol of apple-blossom and watched our
troop-horses making pigs of themselves in the young clover--"war!
don't mention the word to me. Maidenhead, Canader, cushions,
cigarettes, only girl in the world doing all the heavy
paddle-work--that's the game in the good ole summertime. Call round
again about October and I'll attend to your old war." It is fortunate
that these gentlemen do not adorn any higher positions than those of
private soldier and second-lieutenant, else, between them, they would
stop the War altogether and we should all be out of jobs.