We have been "oot here" for a week now, and although we have had no
personal encounter with the foe, our time has not been wasted. We are
filling up gaps in our education, and we are tolerably busy. Some
things, of course, we have not had to learn. We are fairly well
inured, for instance, to hard work and irregular meals. What we have
chiefly to acquire at present is the art of adaptability. When we are
able to settle down into strange billets in half an hour, and pack
up, ready for departure, within the same period, we shall have made a
great stride in efficiency, and added enormously to our own personal
comfort.
Even now we are making progress. Observe the platoon who are marching
into this farmyard. They are dead tired, and the sight of the
straw-filled barn is too much for some of them. They throw themselves
down anywhere, and are asleep in a moment. When they wake up--or more
likely, are wakened up--in an hour or two, they will be sorry. They
will be stiff and sore, and their feet will be a torment. Others, more
sensible, crowd round the pump, or dabble their abraded extremities in
one of the countless ditches with which this country is intersected.
Others again, of the more enterprising kind, repair to the house-door,
and inquire politely for "the wife." (They have long given up
inquiring for "the master." There is no master on this farm, or indeed
on any farm throughout the length and breadth of this great-hearted
land. Father and sons are all away, restoring the Bosche to his proper
place in the animal kingdom. We have seen no young or middle-aged man
out of uniform since we entered this district, save an occasional
imbecile or cripple.)
Presently "the wife" comes to the door, with a smile. She can afford
to smile now, for not so long ago her guests were Uhlans. Then begins
an elaborate pantomime. Private Tosh says "Bonjourr!" in husky
tones--last week he would have said "Hey, Bella!"--and proceeds to
wash his hands in invisible soap and water. As a reward for his
ingenuity he receives a basin of water: sometimes the water is even
warm. Meanwhile Private Cosh, the linguist of the platoon, proffers
twopence, and says: "Doolay--ye unnerstand?" He gets a drink of milk,
which is a far, far better thing than the appalling green scum-covered
water with which his less adaptable brethren are wont to refresh
themselves from wayside ditches. Thomas Atkins, however mature, is
quite incorrigible in this respect.
Yes, we are getting on. And when every man in the platoon, instead
of merely some, can find a place to sleep, draw his blanket from the
waggon, clean his rifle and himself, and get to his dinner within the
half-hour already specified, we shall be able justly to call ourselves
seasoned.
We have covered some distance this week, and we have learned one thing
at least, and that is, not to be uppish about our sleeping quarters.
We have slept in chateaux, convents, farm-houses, and under the open
sky. The chateaux are usually empty. An aged retainer, the sole
inhabitant, explains that M. le Comte is at Paris; M. Armand at Arras;
and M. Guy in Alsace,--all doing their bit. M. Victor is in hospital,
with Madame and Mademoiselle in constant attendance.
So we settle down in the chateaux, and unroll our sleeping-bags upon
its dusty parquet. Occasionally we find a bed available. Then two
officers take the mattress, upon the floor, and two more take what is
left of the bed. French chateaux do not appear to differ much as a
class. They are distinguished by great elegance of design, infinite
variety in furniture, and entire absence of drains. The same rule
applies to convents, except that there is no furniture.
Given fine weather, by far the most luxurious form of lodging is in
the open air. Here one may slumber at ease, fanned by the wings
of cockchafers and soothed by an unseen choir of frogs. There are
drawbacks, of course. Mr. Waddell one evening spread his ground-sheet
and bedding in the grassy meadow, beside a murmuring stream. It was
an idyllic resting-place for a person of romantic or contemplative
disposition. Unfortunately it is almost impossible nowadays to keep
one's favourite haunts select. This was evidently the opinion of the
large water-rat which Waddell found sitting upon his air-pillow when
he returned from supper. Although French, the animal exhibited no
disposition to fraternise, but withdrew in the most pointed fashion,
taking an Abernethy biscuit with him.
Accommodation in farms is best described by the word "promiscuous."
There are twelve officers and two hundred men billeted here. The farm
is exactly the same as any other French farm. It consists of a
hollow square of buildings--dwelling-house, barns, pigstyes, and
stables--with a commodious manure-heap, occupying the whole yard
except a narrow strip round the edge, in the middle, the happy
hunting-ground of innumerable cocks and hens and an occasional
pig. The men sleep in the barns. The senior officers sleep in a
stone-floored boudoir of their own. The juniors sleep where they can,
and experience little difficulty in accomplishing the feat. A hard
day's marching and a truss of straw--these two combined form an
irresistible inducement to slumber.
Only a few miles away big guns thunder until the building shakes.
To-morrow a select party of officers is to pay a visit to the
trenches. Thereafter our whole flock is to go, in its official
capacity. The War is with us at last. Early this morning a Zeppelin
rose into view on the skyline. Shell fire pursued it, and it sank
again--rumour says in the British lines. Rumour is our only war
correspondent at present. It is far easier to follow the course of
events from home, where newspapers are more plentiful than here.
But the grim realities of war are coming home to us. Outside this farm
stands a tall tree. Not many months ago a party of Uhlans arrived
here, bringing with them a wounded British prisoner. They crucified
him to that self-same tree, and stood round him till he died. He was a
long time dying.
Some of us had not heard of Uhlans before. These have now noted the
name, for future reference--and action.