I can readily believe that war as performed by Messieurs our
ancestors was quite good fun. You dressed up in feathers and
hardware--like something between an Indian game-cock and a tank--and
caracoled about the country on a cart-horse, kissing your hand to
balconies and making very liberal expenses out of any fat (and
unarmed) burgesses that happened along.
With the first frost you went into winter quarters--i.e. you turned
into the most convenient castle and whiled away the dark months
roasting chestnuts at a log fire, entertaining the ladies with quips,
conundrums and selections on the harpsichord and vying with the
jester in the composition of Limericks.
The profession of arms in those spacious days was both pleasant and
profitable. Nowadays it is neither; it is a dreary _mélange_ of mud,
blood, boredom and blue-funk (I speak for myself).
Yet even it, miserable calamity that it is (or was), has produced its
piquant situations, its high moments; and one manages to squeeze a
sly smile out of it all, here and there, now and again.
I have heard the skirl of the Argyll and Sutherland battle-pipes in
the Borghese Gardens and seen a Highlander dance the sword-dance
before applauding Rome. I have seen the love-locks of a matinée idol
being trimmed with horse-clippers (weep, O ye flappers of Suburbia!)
and a Royal Academician set to whitewash a pig-sty. I have seen
American aviators in spurs, Royal Marines a-horse, and a free-born
Australian eating rabbit. All these things have I seen.
And of high moments I have experienced plenty of late, for it has
been my happy lot to be in the front of the hunt that has swept the
unspeakable Boche back off a broad strip of France and Belgium, and
the memory of the welcome accorded to us, the first British, by the
liberated inhabitants will remain with us until the last "Lights
Out." The procedure was practically the same throughout.
There would come a crackle of wild rifle-fire from the front of a
village; then, as we worked round to the flank, a dozen or so
blue-cloaked Uhlans would scamper out of the rear and disappear at a
non-stop gallop for home. In a second the street would be full of
people, emptying out of houses and cellars, pressing about us,
shaking hands, kissing us and our horses even, smothering us with
flowers, cheering "_Vivent les Anglais!_", "_Vive la France!_"
clamouring, laughing, crying, mad with joy.
_Grandmères_ would appear at attic windows waving calico tricolours
(hidden for four long years) while others plastered up tricolour
hand-bills--"_Hommage à nos Liberateurs_," "God's blessing unto
Tommy."
However, touching and delightful though it all might be, it was not
getting on with the war; this _embarras des amis_ was saving the
Uhlans' hide.
Furthermore, though I can bring myself to bear with a certain amount
of embracing from attractive young things, I do not enjoy the
salutations of unshorn old men; and when Mayors and Corporations got
busy my native modesty rebelled, and I would tear myself loose and,
with my steed decorated from ears to croup with flowers, so that I
looked more like a perambulating hot-house than a poor soldier-man,
take up the pursuit once more.
In due course we came to the considerable town of X. All happened as
before. As we popped in at one flank the bold Uhlan popped out at
the other, and the townsfolk flooded the streets. I was dragged out
of the saddle, kissed, pump-handled and cheered while my bewildered
charger was led aside and festooned with pink roses. Tricolours
appeared at every window; handbills of welcome were distributed
broadcast. The Mayor and Corporation arrived at the double, and we
struggled together for some moments while they rasped me with their
stubbly beards. When the first ecstasies had somewhat abated I
gathered my troop and prepared to move again.
"Whither away?" the Mayor enquired, a fine old veteran he, wearing
two 1870 medals and the ribbon of the Legion.
"To Z.," said I.
"_Ecoutez, donc_," he warned. "They are waiting for you there in
force, machine-guns and cannon."
I intimated that nevertheless I must go and have a look-see, at any
rate, and so rode out of town, the vast crowd accompanying us to the
outskirts, cheering, shouting advice, warnings and blessings. In
sight of Z. we shed our floral tributes and, debouching off the
highway into the open, worked forwards on the look-out for trouble.
It came. A dozen pip-squeaks shrilled overhead to cause considerable
casualties among some neighbouring cabbages, and shortly afterwards
rifle-fire opened from outlying cottages. I swung round and tried
for an opening to the north, but a couple of machine-guns promptly
gave tongue on that flank. Another flock of pip-squeaks kicked up
the mould in front of us and some fresh rifles and machine-guns
joined in. Too hot altogether.
I was just deciding to give it best and cut for cover when all
hostile fire suddenly switched off, and a few minutes later I beheld
light guns on lorries, machine-guns in motor-cars and Uhlans on
horses stampeding out of the village by all roads east.
The day was mine. Yip, Yip! Bonza! Skoo-kum! Hurroosh!
Nevertheless I was properly bewildered, for it was absurd to suppose
that an overwhelming force of heavily-armed Huns could have been
bluffed out of a strong position by the merest handful of unsupported
cavalry. Manifestly absurd!
I turned about, and in so doing my eye lit on the poplar-lined
highway from X., and I understood. Along the road poured the hordes
of an advancing army, advancing in somewhat irregular column of
route, with banners flying. The head of the column was not a mile
distant. The Infantry must be on my heels, thought I. Stout
marching! I grabbed up my glasses, took a long look and bellowed
with laughter. It was not the Infantry at all; it was the liberated
population of X., headed by the Mayor and Corporation, come out to
see the fun, the _grandmères_ and _grandpères_, the girls and boys,
the dogs and babies, marching, hobbling, skipping, toddling down the
pave, waving their calico tricolours and singing the _Marseillaise_.
I thought of the Boche fleeing eastward with the fear of God in his
soul, and rolled about in my saddle drunk with joy.