All the world has marvelled at "the irrepressible good humour" of old
Atkins. Every distinguished tripper who comes Cook's touring to the
Front for a couple of days devotes at least a chapter of his
resultant book to it. "How in thunder does Thomas do it?" they ask.
"What the mischief does he find to laugh at?" Listen.
Years ago, when the well-known War was young, a great man sat in his
sanctum exercising his grey matter. He said to himself, "There is a
war on. Men, amounting to several, will be prised loose from
comfortable surroundings and condemned to get on with it for the term
of their unnatural lives. They will be shelled, gassed, mined and
bombed, smothered in mud, worked to the bone, bored stiff and scared
silly. Fatigues will be unending, rations short, rum diluted,
reliefs late and leave nil. Their girls will forsake them for
diamond-studded munitioneers. Their wives will write saying, 'Little
Jimmie has the mumps; and what about the rent? You aren't spending
all of five bob a week on yourself, are you?' This is but a tithe
(or else a tittle) of the things that will occur to them, and their
sunny natures will sour and sicken if something isn't done about it."
The great man sat up all night chewing penholders and pondering on
the problem. The Big Idea came with the end of the eighth penholder.
He sprang to his feet, fires of inspiration flashing from his eyes,
and boomed, "Let there be _Funny Cuts!_"--then went to bed. Next
morning he created "I." (which stands for Intelligence), carefully
selected his Staff, arrayed them in tabs of appropriate hue, and told
them to go the limit. And they have been going it faithfully ever
since. What the Marines are to the Senior Service, "I." is to us.
Should a Subaltern come in with the yarn that the spook of Hindenburg
accosted him at Bloody Corner and offered him a cigar, or a balloon
cherub buttonhole you with the story of a Boche tank fitted with
rubber tyres, C-springs and hot and cold water, that he has seen
climbing trees behind St. Quentin, we retort, "Oh, go and tell it to
'I.'" and then sit back and see what the inspired official organ of
the green tabs will make of it. A hint is as good as a wink to them,
a nudge ample. Under the genius of these imaginative artists the
most trivial incident bourgeons forth into a Le Queux spell-binder,
and the whole British Army, mustering about its Sergeant-Majors, gets
selected cameos read to it every morning at roll-call, laughs
brokenly into the jaws of dawn and continues chuckling to itself all
day. Now you know.
Our Adjutant had a telephone call not long ago. "Army speaking,"
said a voice. "Will you send somebody over to Courcelles and see if
there is a Town Major there?"
The Adjutant said he would, and a N.C.O. was despatched forthwith.
He returned later, reporting no symptoms of one, so the Adjutant rang
up Exchange and asked to be hooked on to Army Headquarters. "Which
branch?" Exchange inquired. "Why, really I don't know--forgot to
ask," the Adjutant confessed. "I'll have a try at 'A.''
"Hello," said "A." "There is no Town Major at Courcelles," said the
Adjutant. "You astound me, Fair Unknown," said "A."; "but what about
it, anyway?" The Adjutant apologised and asked Exchange for "Q."
department, "Hello," said "Q." "There is no Town Major at
Courcelles," said the Adjutant. "Sorry, old thing, whoever you are,"
said "Q.," "but we don't stock 'em. Rations, iron; perspirators,
box; oil, whale, delivered with promptitude and civility, but not
Town Majors--sorry." The Adjutant sighed and consulted with Exchange
as to who possibly could have rung him up.
Exchange couldn't guess unless it was "I."--no harm in trying, anyhow.
"Hello!" said "I." "There is no Town Major at Courcelles," the
Adjutant droned somewhat wearily. "Wha-t!" "I." exclaimed, suddenly
interested. "Say it again, clearer."
"Cour-celles--No--Town--Major," the Adjutant repeated. There was a
pause; then he heard the somebody give off an awed "Good Lord!" and
drop the receiver. Next morning in _Funny Cuts_ (the organ of
Intelligence) we learned that "_Corps_ Headquarters was heavily
_Shelled_ last night. The Town Major is missing. This is evidence
that the enemy has brought long-range guns into the opposite sector."
Followed masses of information as to the probable make of the guns,
the size of shell they preferred, the life-story of the Battery
Commander, his favourite flower and author.
The Boche, always on the alert to snaffle the paying devices of an
opposition firm, now has his "I." staff and _Funny Cuts_ as well.
From time to time we capture a copy and read this sort of thing:
"From agonised screeches heard by one of our intrepid airmen while
patrolling over the enemy's lines yesterday, it is evident that the
brutal and relentless British are bayoneting their prisoners."
A Highland Division, whose star pipers were holding a dirge and
lament contest on that date, are now ticking off the hours to the
next offensive.
The Antrims had a _cordon bleu_ by the name of Michael O'Callagan.
He was a sturdy rogue, having retreated all the way from Mons, and
subsequently advanced all the way back to the Yser with a huge
stock-pot on his back, from which he had furnished mysterious stews
to all comers, at all hours, under any conditions. For this, and for
the fact that he could cook under water, and would turn out hot meals
when other _chefs_ were committing suicide, much was forgiven him,
but he was prone to look upon the _vin_ when it was _rouge_ and was
habitually coated an inch thick with a varnish of soot and pot-black.
One morning he calmly hove himself over the parapet and, in spite of
the earnest attentions of Hun snipers, remained there long enough to
collect sufficient débris to boil his dixies. Next day the Boche
_Funny Cuts_ flared forth scareheads:
"SAVAGES ON THE SOMME.
"The desperate and unprincipled British are employing black cannibal
Zulus in the defence of their system. Yesterday one of them, a chief
of incredibly depraved appearance, was observed scouting in the open."
The communiqué ended with a treatise on the Zulu, its black
man-eating habits, and an exhortation to "our old Brandenburgers" not
to be dismayed.