In some respects one is no doubt compelled to admire the foresight of
those gentlemen who are writing the History of the War while it is in
progress, but as Mabel (my wife and very able colleague) justly
observes, no History of the War, however copious or however fully
illustrated, can be considered complete without a few salient details of
the campaign by which The Snookeries (our domestic stronghold in
Tooting) was saved from the fate of Belgium.
That omission I propose to remedy. Peace hath her strategy no less than
War.
For some time prior to the Declaration of War it was evident that the
butcher, the baker, and other foes of our domestic happiness were
gathering for an onslaught. The attitude of the butcher was particularly
uncompromising: I do not hesitate to describe it as distinctly Hun-ish.
Diplomacy gave little hope of preserving peace, so that I was not
altogether surprised when the war opened with a heavy bombardment. A
brigade of small accounts advanced in skirmishing order, but were
disposed of without trouble.
Mabel suggested a temporary withdrawal to the sand-dunes of
Mudville-on-Sea, but I pointed out that this meant sacrificing part of
our scanty store of ammunition and had the further disadvantage of
cutting us off from our base of supplies in the City, to say nothing of
losing touch with Uncle Robert, who has so often proved a staunch ally
in a crisis.
We therefore resolved to entrench ourselves behind the Moratorium and
prepared for a stubborn resistance. From this strong position we were
able to sustain without loss a brisk fire of explosive missives which
continued unchecked for some weeks. Speaking quite candidly, and
dropping the language of the Press Bureau for the moment, there has
never been a time when the postman's rat-tat has occasioned me less
emotion.
The defences of the Moratorium did not save us from sundry annoying
raids upon our supplies, the butcher being peculiarly active in this
kind of warfare. I repeat, the butcher is a true Hun and must be sternly
dealt with after the Peace. I was forced to silence him temporarily with
a few shots from my new one-pounders.
I would like to say what a valuable weapon the one-pounder has proved in
this campaign. It is wonderfully mobile and saves the waste of heavier
ammunition. My only regret is that we were not armed with more of them.
Towards the end of August the rate-man and the gas-man mounted heavy
ordnance upon official heights. They got our range to a nicety and
threatened us in flank. I despatched Mabel at once to Uncle Robert, and
with his assistance we were enabled to silence the enemy's howitzers,
not, however, before the rate-man--a remorseless and persistent foe--had
landed a "sheriff's officer" (as we jocularly term his missiles) into
our dining-room. Little material damage was done, but for some days the
effect upon the _moral_ of our forces was apparent.
I must not forget to speak of Mabel's brilliant victory over the
milkman, whose attack she frustrated by a threat to open negotiations
for obtaining supplies from his hated rival. When these troubles are
happily over I must certainly see that Mabel receives a decoration.
Towards the end of October our entrenchments behind the Moratorium
became untenable, but by that time we had received substantial
reinforcements and were easily able to hold our own against the enemy's
reckless frontal attacks. The landlord suddenly unmasked a very strong
battery which created some consternation. He himself appeared in force,
but, thanks to the vigilance of my outposts, I was enabled to make a
strategic retirement by the back-garden gate, leaving Mabel to foil the
enemy by a _ruse-de-guerre_. (Dear Mabel is wonderfully clever at these
things.) I succeeded in regaining my position under cover of darkness.
The attacks of the landlord were renewed with such vigour that I called
a council of war to discuss the situation. Retreat being out of the
question, Mabel suggested a levy of our last reserves, and the charwoman
(who is a discreet person of considerable experience in such matters)
was mobilised. In this way we secured a sufficient force to rout the
landlord on his next appearance.
The last few days have been comparatively quiet. Mabel's dressmaker and
my tailor have reaffirmed their neutrality, and we have promise of
further support, if needed, from Uncle Robert. Thus, although the enemy
appear to contemplate a new attack in the future, we are full of
confidence.
In conclusion, I must not forget to refer to the very able way in which
Mabel out-manoeuvred the coal-man. Before he could unlimber, she had
deftly poured in a rapid fire of sympathy for the slackness of trade
from which she _knew_ he must be suffering, and followed this up by an
order for two tons of the best Wallsend.
I think I am justified in advancing the theory that there are no flies
on dear Mabel.
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