There is an expression here which I expect will shortly become as
familiar as "Na poo," and that is, "Hoot up!" When I first beard
our mild and gently-mannered Carfax employ it as a vigorous word of
command to a civilian in this small German village, I thought he had
gone a little mad. For no good military purpose, it seemed to me,
could possibly be served by demanding an imitation of an owl at eleven
o'clock on a wintry morning. It argued a perverted sense of humour at
least; and in truth I had been expecting a slight lapse from the paths
of sanity on the part of our Mr. Carfax for some time. For, you see,
he is a pivotal man who cannot get away until others arrive to replace
the pivots, and it is difficult to persuade him that all is for the
best. But he informed me that "Hoot up" had nothing whatever to do
with, the night-cries of owls or any other kind of bird, but was in
fact the idiotic way in which the natives of this country pronounce
"_Hut ab_" (Hat off).
_Now_ you realise what horrid Huns we are. Civilians are obliged to
take off their hats to British officers--a very grim business. In
reality, except that we are the hated English, it makes very little
difference to the Bosch, for the innkeeper here says that orders
concerning the taking off of hats to all and sundry became so
stringent in 1918 that the local postman was constantly interrupted
in his duties to answer the salutes of people who wished to be on the
safe side.
Bosches who have really fought for their country do not object
to "Hoot-upping." They of course are the first to realise that
inhabitants of occupied countries were forced by them to "hoot up,"
and that therefore there is a certain justice now in the retaliation.
Anyway, from these people the procedure does not greatly interest us;
but the overdressed Bosch profiteer, fat and muttony--to hoot him up
in his own village! Really, you know, in some ways the War has been
worth while.
But the knowledge that he is carrying out a perfectly definite order
does not make the subaltern turn any the less pink the first time he
ticks off a civilian for failing to comply with the regulations. No,
you can't produce a really good Hun without lots of practice. I made
almost a companion of the Sergeant-Major at first, because he used
to say it for me; but the second day I got caught. It came as I was
picking my way down the main (and only) street of the village. My
attention being riveted upon keeping my feet, for there are little
streams on either side of the street which freeze and flood it, making
life in army boots difficult, I did not notice the approach of the
fellow until he was on me. And then I saw it was a real Hunnish Hun;
and, oh joy! he had a fur coat and a face which I had not thought
could exist outside bad dreams. His wicked little eyes glared
insolently at me, and he strolled by with his hat stuck at a rakish
angle; and for the life of me, would you believe it? I could _not_
remember the magic words. Turning in desperation I commanded him
without further delay to "hot hoop." He appeared surprised. He made
no sort of motion to comply with my order. "Hut hop!" I cried, purple
with vexation, and still the abominable article of headgear remained
jauntily perched over his square ugly face. Advancing threateningly
I thundered out that it was my firm intention that he should, under
peril of instant arrest, "_take his confounded, hat off_!" At this
final command (the first he had found intelligible) he grabbed hastily
at the offending article, slipped up on the ice, and, in my moment of
triumph, so did I.
It is a sickening business sitting on the ground opposite a man you
don't like, but I had the better of it in the end, for I had sat down
where the water was already frozen, and he hadn't.
Our Mr. Carfax too had an awkward incident happen to him. We were
walking down the street discussing the Pay Warrant, which gives the
young Army of Occupation a bonus from February 1st, and gives us
nothing for doing their job until May, when suddenly a civilian
passed us with a mere nod. Mr. Carfax went on with his insubordinate
conversation, oblivious to the insult.
"Mr. Carfax," I said sadly, "when will you learn that private affairs
must never be allowed to interfere with military duties?"
"Sir," he said, surprised and aggrieved, "though a pivotal man of some
years' standing I really am taking an interest in my platoon--"
"It is not that," I said; "but do you know you allowed a civilian to
pass on your side without taking his hat off?"
Scarlet with chagrin he rushed back after the offender and "hooted him
up" more sternly than I could have believed possible for anybody but a
Hun to the manner bred.
"I'm most awfully sorry," said the man, "but I've only just got out
and didn't know about it." It transpired (as they say) that he was an
Englishman who had been interned in the village for four years.