When this war is over, and the glory and the praise are duly assigned,
particularly honourable mention should be made of the inhabitants of a
certain ancient French town with a Scottish name, which lies not far
behind a particularly sultry stretch of the trenches. The town is
subject to shell fire, as splintered walls and shattered windows
testify; yet every shop stands open. The town, moreover, is the only
considerable place in the district, and enjoys a monopoly of patronage
from all the surrounding billeting areas; yet the keepers of the
shops have heroically refrained from putting up their prices to any
appreciable extent. This combination of courage and fair-dealing has
had its reward. The town has become a local Mecca. British soldiers
with an afternoon to spare and a few francs to spend come in from
miles around. Mess presidents send in their mess-sergeants, and
fearful and wonderful is the marketing which ensues.
In remote and rural billets catering is a simple matter. We take what
we can get, and leave it at that. The following business-card, which
Bobby Little once found attached to an outhouse door in one of his
billets, puts the resources of a French hamlet into a nutshell:--
HÉRE
SMOKING ROM
BEER
WINE {WITHE
{RAID
COFFE
EGS
But in town the shopper has a wider range. Behold Sergeant Goffin, a
true-born Londoner, with the Londoner's faculty of never being at
a loss for a word, at the grocer's, purchasing comforts for our
officers' mess.
"Bong jooer, Mrs. Pankhurst!" he observes breezily to the plump
_épicière_. This is his invariable greeting to French ladies who
display any tendency to volubility--and they are many.
"Bon jour, M'sieu le Caporal!" replies the _épicière_, smiling.
"M'sieu le Caporal désire?"
The sergeant allows his reduction in rank to pass unnoticed. He does
not understand the French tongue, though he speaks it with great
fluency and incredible success. He holds up a warning hand.
"Now, keep your 'and off the tap of the gas-meter for one minute
_if_ you please," he rejoins, "and let me get a word in edgeways. I
want"--with great emphasis--"vinblank one, vinrooge two, bogeys six,
Dom one. Compree?"
By some miracle the smiling lady does "compree," and produces white
wine, red wine, candles, and--a bottle of Benedictine! (Sergeant
Goffin always names wines after the most boldly printed word upon
the label. He once handed round some champagne, which he insisted on
calling "a bottle of brute.")
"Combine?" is the next observation.
The _épicière_ utters the series of short sharp sibilants of which
all French numerals appear to be composed. It sounds like
"song-song-song." The resourceful Goffin lays down a twenty-franc
note.
"Take it out of that," he says grandly.
He receives his change, and counts it with a great air of wisdom. The
_épicière_ breaks into a rapid recital--it sounds rather like our
curate at home getting to work on _When the wicked man_--of the beauty
and succulence of her other wares. Up goes Goffin's hand again.
"Na pooh!" he exclaims.. "Bong jooer!" And he stumps out to the
mess-cart.
"Na pooh!" is a mysterious but invaluable expression. Possibly it is
derived from "Il n'y a plus." It means, "All over!" You say "Na pooh!"
when you push your plate away after dinner. It also means, "Not
likely!" or "Nothing doing!" By a further development it has come to
mean "done for," "finished," and in extreme cases, "dead." "Poor Bill
got na-poohed by a rifle-grenade yesterday," says one mourner to
another.
The Oxford Dictionary of the English Language will have to be revised
and enlarged when this war is over.
* * * * *
Meanwhile, a few doors away, a host of officers is sitting in the Café
de la Terre. Cafés are as plentiful as blackberries in this, as in
most other French provincial towns, and they are usually filled to
overflowing with privates of the British Army heroically drinking beer
upon which they know it is impossible to get intoxicated. But the
proprietor of the Café de la Terre is a long-headed citizen. By the
simple expedient of labelling his premises "Officers Only," and making
a minimum charge of one franc per drink, he has at a single stroke
ensured the presence of the _élite_ and increased his profits tenfold.
Many arms of the Service are grouped round the little marble-topped
tables, for the district is stiff with British troops, and promises
to grow stiffer. In fact, so persistently are the eagles gathering
together upon this, the edge of the fighting line, that rumour is
busier than ever. The Big Push holds redoubled sway in our thoughts.
The First Hundred Thousand are well represented, for the whole
Scottish Division is in the neighbourhood. Beside the glengarries
there are countless flat caps--line regiments, territorials, gunners,
and sappers. The Army Service Corps is there in force, recruiting
exhausted nature from the strain of dashing about the countryside in
motor-cars. The R.A.M.C. is strongly represented, doubtless to test
the purity of the refreshment provided. Even the Staff has torn itself
away from its arduous duties for the moment, as sundry red tabs
testify. In one corner sit four stout French civilians, playing a
mysterious card-game.
At the very next table we find ourselves among friends. Here are Major
Kemp, also Captain Blaikie. They are accompanied by Ayling, Bobby
Little, and Mr. Waddell. The battalion came out of trenches yesterday,
and for the first time found itself in urban billets. For the moment
haylofts and wash-houses are things of the dim past. We are living in
real houses, sleeping in real beds, some with sheets.
To this group enters unexpectedly Captain Wagstaffe.
"Hallo, Wagger!" says Blaikie. "Back already?"
"Your surmise is correct," replies Wagstaffe, who has been home on
leave. "I got a wire yesterday at lunch-time--in the Savoy, of all
places! Every one on leave has been recalled. We were packed like
herrings on the boat. Garçon, bière--the brunette kind!"
"Tell us all about London," says Ayling hungrily. "What does it look
like? Tell us!"
We have been out here for the best part of five months now. Leave
opened a fortnight ago, amid acclamations--only to be closed again
within a few days. Wagstaffe was one of the lucky few who slipped
through the blessed portals. He now sips his beer and delivers his
report.
"London is much as usual. A bit rattled over Zeppelins--they have
turned out even more street lamps--but nothing to signify. Country
districts crawling with troops. All the officers appear to be
colonels. Promotion at home is more rapid than out here. Chin, chin!"
Wagstaffe buries his face in his glass mug.
"What is the general attitude," asked Mr. Waddell, "towards the war?"
"Well, one's own friends are down in the dumps. Of course it's only
natural, because most of them are in mourning. Our losses are much
more noticeable at home than abroad, somehow. People seemed quite
surprised when I told them that things out here are as right as rain,
and that our troops are simply tumbling over one another, and that we
don't require any comic M.P.'s sent out to cheer us up. The fact is,
some people read the papers too much. At the present moment the London
press is, not to put too fine a point on it, making a holy show of
itself. I suppose there's some low-down political rig at the back of
it all, but the whole business must be perfect jam for the Bosches in
Berlin."
"What's the trouble?" inquired Major Kemp.
"Conscription, mostly. (Though why they should worry their little
heads about it, I don't know. If K. wants it we'll have it: if not,
we won't; so that's that!) Both sides are trying to drag the
great British Public into the scrap by the back of the neck. The
Conscription crowd, with whom one would naturally side if they
would play the game, seem to be out to unseat the Government as a
preliminary. They support their arguments by stating that the British
Army on the Western front is reduced to a few platoons, and that
they are allowed to fire one shell per day. At least, that's what I
gathered."
"What do the other side say?" inquired Kemp.
"Oh, theirs is a very simple line of argument. They state, quite
simply, that if the personal liberty of Britain's workers--that
doesn't mean you and me, as you might think: we are the Overbearing
Militarist Oligarchy: a worker is a man who goes on strike,--they say
that if the personal liberty of these sacred perishers is interfered
with by the Overbearing Militarist Oligarchy aforesaid, there will
be a Revolution. That's all! Oh, they're a sweet lot, the British
newspaper bosses!"
"But what," inquired that earnest seeker after knowledge, Mr. Waddell,
"is the general attitude of the country at large upon this grave
question?"
Captain Wagstaffe chuckled.
"The dear old country at large," he replied, "is its dear old self,
as usual. It is not worrying one jot about Conscription, or us,
or anything like that. The one topic of conversation at present
is--Charlie Chaplin."
"Who is Charlie Chaplin?" inquired several voices.
Wagstaffe shook his head.
"I haven't the faintest idea," he said. "All I know is that you can't
go anywhere in London without running up against him. He is It. The
mention of his name in a _revue_ is greeted with thunders of applause.
At one place I went to, twenty young men came upon the stage at once,
all got up as Charlie Chaplin."
"But who _is_ he?"
"That I can't tell you. I made several attempts to find out; but
whenever I asked the question people simply stared at me in amazement.
I felt quite ashamed: it was plain that I ought to have known. I have
a vague idea that he is some tremendous new boss whom the Government
have appointed to make shells, or something. Anyhow, the great British
Nation is far too much engrossed with Charles to worry about a little
thing like Conscription. Still, I should like to know. I feel I have
been rather unpatriotic about it all."
"I can tell you," said Bobby Little. "My servant is a great admirer of
his. He is the latest cinema star. Falls off roofs, and gets run over
by motors--"
"And keeps the police at bay with a firehose," added Wagstaffe.
"That's him! I know the type. Thank you, Bobby!"
Major Kemp put down his glass with a gentle sigh, and rose to go.
"We are a great nation," he remarked contentedly. "I was a bit anxious
about things at home, but I see now there was nothing to worry about.
We shall win all right. Well, I am off to the Mess. See you later,
everybody!"
"Meanwhile," inquired Wagstaffe, as the party settled down again,
"what is brewing here! I haven't seen the adjutant yet."
"You'll see him soon enough," replied Blaikie grimly. He glanced over
his shoulder towards the four civilian card-players. They looked
bourgeois enough and patriotic enough, but it is wise to take no
risks in a café, as a printed notice upon the war, signed by the
Provost-Marshal, was careful to point out. "Come for a stroll," he
said.
Presently the two captains found themselves in a shady boulevard
leading to the outskirts of the town. Darkness was falling, and soon
would be intense; for lights are taboo in the neighbourhood of the
firing line.
"Have we finished that new trench in front of our wire?" asked
Wagstaffe.
"Yes. It is the best thing we have done yet. Divisional Headquarters
are rightly pleased about it."
Blaikie gave details. The order had gone forth that a new trench was
to be constructed in front of our present line--a hundred yards in
front. Accordingly, when night fell, two hundred unconcerned heroes
went forth, under their subalterns, and, squatting down in line
along a white tape (laid earlier in the evening by our imperturbable
friends, Lieutenants Box and Cox, of the Royal Engineers), proceeded
to dig the trench. Thirty yards ahead of them, facing the curious eyes
of countless Bosches, lay a covering party in extended order, ready to
repel a rush. Hour by hour the work went on--skilfully, silently. On
these occasions it is impossible to say what will happen. The enemy
knows we are there: he can see us quite plainly. But he has his own
night-work to do, and if he interferes with us he knows that our
machine-guns will interfere with him. So, provided that our labours
are conducted in a manner which is neither ostentatious nor
contemptuous--that is to say, provided we do not talk, whistle, or
smoke--he leaves us more or less alone.
But this particular task was not accomplished without loss: it was too
obviously important. Several times the German machine-guns sputtered
into flame, and each time the stretcher-bearers were called upon to
do their duty. Yet the work went on to its accomplishment, without
question, without slackening. The men were nearly all experts: they
had handled pick and shovel from boyhood. Soldiers of the line would
have worked quite as hard, maybe, but they would have taken twice as
long. But these dour sons of Scotland worked like giants--trained
giants. In four nights the trench, with traverses and approaches, was
complete. The men who had made it fell back to their dug-outs, and
shortly afterwards to their billets--there to spend the few odd francs
which their separation allotments had left them, upon extremely
hard-earned glasses of extremely small beer.
At home, several thousand patriotic Welshmen, fellows of the same
craft, were upholding the dignity of Labour, and the reputation of
the British Nation, by going out on strike for a further increase of
pay--an increase which they knew a helpless Government would grant
them. It was one of the strangest contrasts that the world has ever
seen. But the explanation thereof, as proffered by Private Mucklewame,
was quite simple and eminently sound.
"All the decent lads," he observed briefly, "are oot here."
"Good work!" said Wagstaffe, when Blaikie's tale was told. "What is
the new trench for, exactly?"
Blaikie told him.
"Tell me more!" urged Wagstaffe, deeply interested.
Blaikie's statement cannot be set down here, though the substance
of it may be common property to-day. When he had finished Wagstaffe
whistled softly.
"And it's to be the day after to-morrow?" he said.
"Yes, if all goes well."
It was quite dark now. The horizon was brilliantly lit by the flashes
of big guns, and a continuous roar came throbbing through the soft
autumn darkness.
"If this thing goes with a click, as it ought to do," said Wagstaffe,
"it will be the biggest thing that ever happened--bigger even than
Charlie Chaplin."
"Yes--_if_!" assented the cautious Blaikie.
"It's a tremendous opportunity for our section of 'K(1),'" continued
Wagstaffe. "We shall have a chance of making history over this, old
man."
"Whatever we make--history or a bloomer--we'll do our level best,"
replied Blaikie. "At least, I hope 'A' Company will."
Then suddenly his reserved, undemonstrative Scottish tongue found
utterance.
"Scotland for Ever!" he cried softly.