A generous foe, the soul of chivalry, I am always ready to admit that
the Boche has many good points. For instance, he is--er--er--oh,
well, I can't think of any particular good point just for the moment.
On the other hand, it must be admitted that he has his bad ones also,
and one of these is that he cannot stand success; he is the world's
worst winner.
Never does he pull off one of these "victorious retreats" of his but
he needs must spoil the effect by leaving behind all sorts of puerile
booby traps, butter-slides, etc., for the annoyance of the
on-sweeping vanquished, displaying a state of mind which is usually
slippered out of one at a dame school.
Most of his practical jokes are of the fifth of November order and
detonate by means of a neat arrangement of springs, wire and acid
contained in a small metal cylinder.
You open a door and the attached house blows away all round it,
leaving the door in your damaged hand. You step on a duckboard;
something goes bang! and the duckboard ups and hits you for a
boundary to leg--and so on, all kinds of diversions.
Of course you don't really open doors and prance on duckboards;
that's only what he (Jerry) in his simple faith imagines you will do.
In reality you revive memories of the days when as a small boy you
tied trip-strings in dark passages and balanced water-jugs on
door-tops; and all the Boche's elementary parlour-tricks immediately
become revealed unto you.
Not long ago the Hun, thirsting for yet more imperishable laurels,
made a sudden masterly manoeuvre towards the East. Our amateur Staff
instantly fell into the trap, and when battle joined again we found
we had been lured twenty miles nearer Germany.
The Hun had not left things very comfortable for us; most of the
cover had been blown up, and there was the usual generous provision
of booby traps lying about dumbly pleading to be touched off.
However, we sheltered in odd holes and corners, scrounged about for
what we could "souvenir" and made ourselves as snug as possible.
It was while riding out alone on one of these souveniring expeditions
that our William came upon a chaff-cutter standing in what had once
been the stable yard of what had once been a château. Now to a
mounted unit a chaff-cutter is a thing of incredible value. It is to
us what a mincing-machine is to the frugal housewife.
Our own cutter was with the baggage, miles away in the rear, and
likely to remain there.
William slipped off his horse and approached the thing gingerly. It
was a Boche engine, evidently quite new and in excellent trim. This
was altogether too good to be true; there must be a catch somewhere.
William withdrew twenty yards and hurled a brick at it--two, three,
four bricks. Nothing happened. He approached again and tying one
end of a wrecked telephone wire to it, retired behind a heap of
rubble and tugged.
The chaff-cutter rocked to and fro and finally fell over on its side
without anything untoward occurring. William, wiping beads from his
brow, came out of cover. There was no catch in it after all. It was
a perfectly genuine bit of treasure-trove. The Skipper would pat his
curly head, say "Good boy," and exalt him above all the other
subalterns. _Bon_--very _bon_!
But how to get it home? For you cannot carry full-grown
chaff-cutters about in your breeches pockets. For one thing it
spoils the set of your pants. He must get a limber. Yes, but how?
The country was quick with other cavalrymen all in the souvenir
business. If he left the chaff-cutter in order to fetch a limber,
one of them would be sure to snap it up. On the other hand, if he
waited for a limber to come trotting up of its own sweet will he
might conceivably wait for the rest of the War. Limbers (G.S. Mule)
are not fairy coaches.
Our William was up against it. He plunged his hands into his
tunic-pockets and commenced to stride up and down, thinking to the
best of his ability.
In pocketing his right hand he encountered some hard object. On
drawing the object forth he discovered it to be his mother's gift.
William's mother, under the impression that her son spends most of
his time lying wounded and starving out in No-man's land, keeps him
liberally supplied with tabloid meals to sustain him on these
occasions--herds of bison corralled into one lozenge, the juice of
myriad kine concentrated in a single capsule. This particular gift
was of peppermints (warranted to assuage thirst for weeks on end).
But it was not the peppermints that engaged William's young fancy; it
was the container, small, metal, cylindrical.
His inspiration took fire. He set the tin under the chaff-cutter,
chopped off a yard of telephone wire, buried one end in peppermints,
twisted the other about the leg of the cutter, mounted his horse and
rode for dear life.
When he returned with the limber an hour later, he found three
cavalrymen, two horse-gunners and a transporteer grouped at a
respectful radius round the chaff-cutter, daring each other to jerk
the wire.
When William stepped boldly forward and jerked the wire they all
flung themselves to earth and covered their heads. When nothing
happened and he coolly proceeded to load the cutter on the limber
they all sat up again and took notice.
When he picked up the tin and offered them some peppermints they
mounted their horses and rode away.