"Fee-Fi-Fo-Fum, I am a bold and infamous Hun, I am, I am."
We are obliged to repeat this continually to ourselves in order to
present the stern and forbidding air which is supposed to mark our
dealings with the inhabitants. For, look you, we have usurped the
place of the Royal Jocks on the "right flank of the British Army," and
are on outpost duty, with our right resting on the bank of the Rhine,
while in front the notice-boards, "Limit of Cologne Bridgehead," stare
at us.
No longer are we the pleasant, easy-going, pay-through-the-nose people
that we were. No longer does our daily routine include the smile for
Mademoiselle, the chipping of Madame, or the half-penny for the little
ones. No, we steel ourselves steadily to the grim task entrusted to
us, and struggle to offer a perfect picture of stolid indifference to
anybody's welfare but our own. "Fee-fi-fo-fum."
What does Thomas think of it all? Well, to tell the truth, I haven't
caught him thinking very much about it. Gloating seems foreign to his
nature somehow, and I don't think he will ever make a really good
Hun. He is rather like a child who for four years has been crying
incessantly for the moon. Having got it, he says, "Well, I'm glad
I've got it; now let's get on with something else," and takes not the
slightest interest in the silly old moon he has acquired with so much
trouble.
There are two things to which he cannot quite accustom himself: not
being allowed to fraternize with the inhabitants and the realisation
that his laboriously acquired knowledge of the French language is no
longer of any avail. He will never quite get over the former of these
two disabilities, but he is coping courageously with the latter.
For instance, in place of the "No bon" of yesterday, "Nix goot" now
explains that "Your saucepan I borrowed has a hole in it; please, I
didn't do it." For the rest, change of environment makes very little
difference to him. Given a cooker, a water-cart and the necessary
rations, a British oasis will appear and be prepared to flourish in
any old desert you like.
No, I am wrong. There is another difficulty which as yet he has not
been able entirely to overcome. I cannot describe the consternation
which came over the Company when I informed them that there was no
longer any need to scrounge; in fact, I forbade it. At first they
thought it was just a Company Commander's humour and paid it the usual
compliments of the parade; but when they found I was serious they were
simply appalled. It was as if I had taken the very spice out of their
existence. Not to be able to go out and "win" a handful of fuel for
the evening's fug and for the brewing of those unwholesome messes in
the tin canteen? Bolshevism itself could not have propounded a more
revolutionary principle. Heartbroken some of the old soldiers came
to me afterwards. "What are we to do, Sir?" they said. "We only go
on guard four hours in sixteen; we must do something the rest of the
time." Sternly I bade them think of scrounging as a thing of the
past--a thing of glorious memory only to be spoken of round the fires
at home. If they wanted anything in the meantime to add to their
material comfort they were to come to me for it.
For let me tell you, all you demobilised wallahs who know only those
countries where the necessities of life were matters of private
enterprise--let me tell you that in this village, if I say that I
require coal, _coal is here_, and with it the Bürgermeister inquiring
politely if my needs are satisfied. We must have beds? The spare beds
of the village are forthcoming. If we want baths for the men, our
Mr. Carfax, who speaks a language which the inhabitants pretend to
understand, goes round to the householders and explains the necessity.
Should there be any difficulty he explains further that it would be
_much_ better, don't they think, and _much_ more convenient if the
men visited the houses, rather than that baths should be carried to
some central place? It is invariably found to be preferable for all
concerned.
Bathing has now become a pleasure to all, except, perhaps, to
Nijinsky, our Pole from Commercial Road, East. On being presented
(for the first time, I gather) to a first-class bathroom with geyser
complete, he evinced signs of great uneasiness. In fact he seemed to
think that this was making a parade of a purely private matter. The
Sergeant-Major, being called in, exhorted him to "get in and give the
thing a trial," at which Nijinsky flung up his hands in characteristic
fashion and said, "Vell, it's somethink fur nothink, anyhow," and
they left him to it. The rest of the story is concerned with his
turning off the water in the geyser and leaving the gas on, of a loud
explosion and the figure of Nijinsky, fat and frightened, fleeing
through the main street dressed in an Army towel. Subsequently I heard
him expressing forcibly a fixed determination never, _never_ to be
persuaded against his will again.
Oh, yes, it is a wonderful thing to be a Hun. Every day we go about
telling one another what Huns we are and how we love our hunnishness.
And yet, you know, as a matter of fact, I don't believe all our
efforts amount to anything really; they wouldn't deceive a child--and
in fact they don't. For ever since we came here one can't help
noticing that the little tiny natives have acquired an extraordinarily
good imitation of Tommy's salute, and, though Subalterns and
Sergeant-Majors may go about gnashing their teeth and wearing
expressions of frightful ferocity, still the youngsters grin
fearlessly as they raise their tiny fingers. They know it isn't real.
They know a Hun when they see him all right; what child doesn't?
And I caught our Mr. Carfax picking one of them up from the gutter the
other day and soothing its tears with the baby-talk of all nations. I
told him he was fraternising abominably and was not being a true Hun.
"Well," he said, "you can't leave a child yelling in a puddle, can
you?"
And, damn it, you can't, so what's the use of trying to be hunnish?