Though I am well off for literature of all sorts (my locker is a
scandal), I don't seem to be able to settle down to anything like a
quiet, enjoyable read at all. Tommy Atkins _never_ seems to realise that
one cannot carry on a conversation and read a book simultaneously, or
write a letter.
"Oh for a booke and a shadie nooke,
Eyther indoore or out;
With the grene leaves whysperynge overheade,
Or the streete cryes all about.
Where I maie reade all at mine ease,
Both of the newe and olde;
For a jollie goode booke whereon to looke,
Is better to me than golde."
Thus the olde songe. And the kopjes are gazing stonily at me through the
tent door; a man two beds off is squirming and ejaculating under the
massage treatment of a powerful khaki _masseur_; doctors, sisters,
orderlies, and runners come and go; a triangular duel between three
patients on the usual subject--the superior merits of their respective
regiments--is in full swing; and the realisation of the foregoing rhyme
seems afar off.
I, however, am not the only man with yearnings for a different state of
affairs. Private Patrick McLaughlan, of the Inniskilling Fusiliers,
occupying the bed on my right, has his. He often tells us his ideal of
happiness, a "pub" corner with half-a-dozen pint pots containing
ambrosial "four 'arf" before him, and a well-seasoned old clay three
inches long filled with black Irish twist.
The other day I ventured to Omarise his ideal of the earthly paradise
thus:
A pipe of blackish hue for smoking fit,
Some good ould Irish twist to put in it;
Six pints of beer in a hostel snug,
And there, a king in Paradise, I'd sit.
His only comment was a vast expectoration.
By-the-way, my friend, Patrick, relates a good loot tale which befell
his regiment in the Free State. They camped one day within easy distance
of a store, kept by the usual gentleman of Hebrew extraction. Pat and
his comrades made a rush for the place and collared all of the condensed
milk, for which the merchant charged (or attempted to) a shilling per
tin. About five men, early arrivals, paid; then in the scramble which
ensued the rest omitted to do likewise. On returning to camp and opening
the tins the milk appeared peculiar, and the regimental AEsculapius
hearing of it, inspected the tins, pronounced them bad, and told the men
to take them back to the store and get _their money_ refunded, which
they did. Of course, the gentle Hebrew protested vehemently, but Tommy,
with the medical officer's word behind him, soon persuaded him to do
what he was told. Patrick was six shillings to the good over this
transaction. And I daresay the wily Israelite regretted having had such
a large stock of milk, though presumably he had hoped to rob the
Philistines, not, as the case proved, to be doubly done by them.
"WAR WITHOUT END."
(AN INTERLUDE.)
He came up to me and handed me a photograph. I took it, and beheld a
being clad in a new khaki uniform and obviously conscious of the fact.
An empty bandolier crossed his extended chest diagonally. His slouch
hat was well tilted to the right, with the chin strap arranged just
under the lower lip. The putties were immaculately entwined around his
legs--in short the _tout ensemble_ was decidedly smart and soldier-like.
His right hand rested lightly on a Sheraton table; in the immediate
background was a portion of a low ornamental garden wall, in the
distance was a ruin principally composed of Ionic columns in various
positions--presumably the devastating work of the warrior in the
foreground, "Look on that," he said bitterly, and as I returned it, "and
on this, the _backbone_ of the British Army," smiting his manly breast.
I looked, and in the bronzed, unshaven face and raggedly-apparelled
figure before me, recognised a certain semblance to him of the
photograph. I smiled sympathetically. "As it was," quoth he, "now and
ever shall be, war without end." I turned to go, but was not fated to
escape so easily. He held me with his bloodshot eyes, and perforce I
stayed. With upraised voice he declaimed thus: