"HARMONY, GENTS!"
No one, with the exception of the Boche, has a higher admiration for
the scrapping abilities of the Scot than I have, but in matters
musical we do not hear ear to ear. It is not that I have no soul; I
have. I fairly throb with it. I rise in the mornings trilling
trifles of Monckton and croon myself to sleep o' nights with snatches
of Novello.
I do not wish to boast, but to hear me pick the "Moonlight Sonata"
out of a piano with one hand (the other strapped behind my back) is
an unforgettable experience.
I would not yield to Paderewski himself on the comb, bones or Jew's
harp, and I could give A. Gabriel a run for his money on the
coachhorn. But these bagpipes!
It is not so much the execution of the bagpiper that I object to as
his restricted repertoire. He can only play one noise. It is quite
useless a Scot explaining to me that this is the "Lament of Sandy
Macpherson" and that the "Dirge of Hamish MacNish"; it all sounds the
same to me.
The brigade of infantry that is camped in front of my dug-out ("Mon
Repos") is a Scots brigade. Not temporary Scots from the Highlands
of Commissioner Street, Jo'burg, and Hastings Street, Vancouver
(about whom I have nothing to say), but real _pukka_, law-abiding,
kirk-going, God-fearing, bayonet-pushing Gaels, bred among the crags
of the Grampians and reared on thistles and illicit whuskey. And
every second man in this brigade is a confirmed bagpiper.
They have massed pipes for breakfast, lunch, tea and dinner; pipes
solos before, during, and after drinks. If one of them goes across
the road to borrow a box of matches, a piper goes with him raising
Cain. Their Officers' Mess is situated just behind "Mon Repos," so
we live in the orchestra stalls, so to speak, and hear all there is
to be heard.
One evening, while Sandy Macpherson's (or Hamish MacNish's) troubles
were being very poignantly aired next door, Albert Edward came to the
conclusion that the limit had been reached. "They've been killing
the pig steadily for ten days and nights now," said he; "something's
got to be done about it."
"I'm with you," said I; "but what are we two against a whole brigade?
If they were to catch you pushing an impious pin into one of their
sacred joy-bags there'd be another Second Lieutenant missing."
"Desist and let me think," said Albert Edward, and for the next hour
he lay on his bed rolling and groaning--the usual signs that his
so-called brain is active.
The following morning he rode over to the squadron, returning later
with the Mess gramophone and a certain record. There are records and
records, but for high velocity, armour-piercing and range this one
bangs Banagher. It is a gem out of that "sparkling galaxy of melody,
mirth and talent" (Press Agent speaking), "_I Don't Think_," which
scintillates nightly at the Frivolity Theatre.
"When the Humming-birds are singing" is the title thereof, and Miss
Birdie de Maie renders it--renders it as she alone can, in a voice
like a file chafing corrugated iron.
We started the birds humming at 4 p.m., and let it rip steadily until
11.15 p.m., only stopping to change needles.
Albert Edward's batman unleashed the hub-bub again at six next
morning; my batman relieved him at eight, and so on throughout the
day in two-hour shifts. At night the line guards carried on. The
following morning, as our batmen threatened to report sick, we crimed
a trooper for "dumb insolence" and made him expiate his sin by
tending the gramophone. O'Dwyer, of one of the neighbouring
ammunition columns, came over in the afternoon to complain that his
mules couldn't get a wink of sleep and were muttering among
themselves; but we gave him a bottle of whiskey and he went away
quietly.
Monk of the other column called an hour later to ask if we wanted to
draw shell-fire; but we bought him off with a snaffle bit and a
bottle of hair lotion.
The whole neighbourhood grew restive. Somebody under cover of the
dark took a pot at the gramophone with a revolver and winged it in
the trumpet. Even the placid observation balloon which floats above
our camp grew nasty and dropped binoculars and sextants on us. We
built a protective breastwork of sandbags about it and carried on.
As for ourselves we didn't mind the racket in the least, having taken
the precaution of corking our ears with gunners' wax.
Then one evening we discovered a Highland bomber worming up a drain
on his stomach towards our instrument. Cornered, he excused himself
on the plea that it was a form of Swedish exercise he always took at
twilight for the benefit of his digestion. An ingenious explanation,
but it hardly covered the live Mills bomb he was endeavouring to
conceal in a fold of his kilt. We drove him away with a barrage of
peg-mallets; but secretly we were very elated, for it was clear that
the strain was telling on the hardy Scot.
As a precautionary measure we now surrounded the gramophone with a
barbed-wire entanglement, and so we carried on.
Next day we saw a score of kiltie officers grouped outside their
Mess, heads together, apparently in earnest consultation. Every now
and again they would turn and glare darkly in our direction.
"The white chiefs hold heap big palaver over yonder," Albert Edward
remarked. "They're tossing up now to decide who shall come over and
beard us. The braw bairn with the astrakhan knees has lost; he's
cocking his bonnet and asking his pals if he's got his sporran on
straight. Behold he approacheth, stepping delicately. I leave it to
you, partner."
I lay in the grass and waited for the deputation. The gramophone,
safe behind its sandbags and wire, was doing business as usual, Miss
Birdie yowling away like a wild cat on hot cinders. The deputation
picked his way round the horse lines, nodded to me and sat down on
the oil-drum we keep for the accommodation of guests. He nervously
opened the ball by remarking that the weather was fine.
I did not agree with him, but refused to argue. That baffled him for
some seconds, but he recovered by maintaining that it was anyway
finer than it had been in 1915. After that outburst he seemed at a
loss for a topic of conversation, and sat scratching his ear as if he
expected to get inspiration out of it as a conjurer gets rabbits.
"Ye seem verra pairtial to music?" he ventured presently.
"Passionately," said I.
"Ah--hem! Ye seem verra pairtial to that one selection," he
continued.
"Passionately devoted to it," said I. "Lovely little thing; I adore
its sentiment, tempo, tremolo and timbre, its fortissimo and allegro.
Just listen to the part that's coming now--
'When the humming birds are singing
And the old church bells are ringing
We'll canoodle, we'll canoodle 'neath the moon.
Down in Alabama
You'll be my starry-eyed charmer;
On my white-haired kitten's grave we'll sit and spoon, spoon,
spoo-oo-oon.'