I am living at present in one of those villages in which the
retreating Hun has left no stone unturned. With characteristic
thoroughness he fired it first, then blew it up, and has been shelling
it ever since. What with one thing and another, it is in an advanced
state of dilapidation; in fact, if it were not that one has the map's
word for it, and a notice perched on a heap of brick-dust saying that
the Town Major may be found within, the casual wayfarer might imagine
himself in the Sahara, Kalahari, or the south end of Kingsway.
Some of these French towns are very difficult to recognise as such;
only the trained detective can do it. A certain Irish Regiment was
presented with the job of capturing one. The scheme was roughly this.
They were to climb the parapet at 5.25 A.M. and rush a quarry some one
hundred yards distant. After half-an-hour's breather they were to go
on to some machine-gun emplacements, dispose of these, wait a further
twenty minutes, and then take the town. Distance barely one thousand
yards in all. Promptly at zero the whole field spilled over the bags,
as the field spills over the big double at Punchestown, paused at the
quarry only long enough to change feet on the top, and charged yelling
at the machine guns. Then being still full of fun and _joie de vivre_,
and having no officers left to hamper their fine flowing style, they
ducked through their own barrage and raced all out for the final
objective. Twenty minutes later, two miles further on, one perspiring
private turned to his panting chum, "For the love of God, Mike, aren't
we getting in the near of this damn town yet?"
I have a vast respect for HINDENBURG (a man who can drink the mixtures
he does, and still sit up and smile sunnily into the jaws of a
camera ten times a day, is worthy of anybody's veneration) but if he
thought that by blowing these poor little French villages into small
smithereens he would deprive the B.E.F. of headcover and cause it to
catch cold and trot home to mother, he will have to sit up late and
do some more thinking. For Atkins of to-day is a knowing bird; he
can make a little go the whole distance and conjure plenty out of
nothingness. As for cover, two bricks and his shrapnel hat make a
very passable pavilion. Goodness knows it would puzzle a guinea-pig
to render itself inconspicuous in our village, yet I have watched
battalion after battalion march into it and be halted and dismissed.
Half an hour later there is not a soul to be seen. They have all gone
to ground. My groom and countryman went in search of wherewithal to
build a shelter for the horses. He saw a respectable plank sticking
out of a heap of débris, laid hold on it and pulled. Then--to quote
him _verbatim_--"there came a great roarin' from in undernath of it,
Sor, an' a black divil of an infantryman shoved his head up through
the bricks an' drew down sivin curses on me for pullin' the roof off
his house. Then he's afther throwin' a bomb at me, Sor, so I came
away. Ye wouldn't be knowin' where to put your fut down in this place,
Sor, for the dhread of treadin' in the belly of an officer an' him
aslape."
Some people have the bungalow mania and build them _bijoux
maisonettes_ out of biscuit tins, sacking and what-not, but the
majority go to ground. I am one of the majority; I go to ground like
a badger, for experience has taught me that a dug-out--cramped, damp,
dark though it maybe--cannot be stolen from you while you sleep; that
is to say, thieves cannot come along in the middle of the night, dig
it up bodily by the roots and cart it away in a G.S. waggon without
you, the occupant, being aware that some irregularity is occurring to
the home. On the other hand, in this country, where the warrior, when
he falls on sleep suffers a sort of temporary death, bungalows can be
easily purloined from round about him without his knowledge; and what
is more, frequently are.
For instance, a certain bungalow in our village was stolen as
frequently as three times in one night. This was the way of it. One
Todd, a foot-slogging Lieutenant, foot-slogged into our midst one
day, borrowed a hole from a local rabbit, and took up his residence
therein. Now this mud-pushing Todd had a cousin in the same division,
one of those highly trained specialists who trickles about the country
shedding coils of barbed wire and calling them "dumps"--a sapper, in
short. One afternoon the sapping Todd, finding some old sheets of
corrugated iron that he had neglected to dump, sent them over to his
gravel-grinding cousin with his love and the request of a loan of a
dozen of soda. The earth-pounding Todd came out of his hole, gazed
on the corrugated iron and saw visions, dreamed dreams. He handed
the hole back to the rabbit and set to work to evolve a bungalow. By
evening it was complete. He crawled within and went to sleep, slept
like a drugged dormouse. At 10 P.M. a squadron of the Shetland Ponies
(for the purpose of deceiving the enemy all names in this article are
entirely fictitious) made our village. It was drizzling at the time,
and the Field Officer in charge was getting most of it in the neck.
He howled for his batman, and told the varlet that if there wasn't a
drizzle-proof bivouac ready to enfold him by the time he had put the
ponies to bye-byes there would be no leave for ten years. The batman
scratched his head, then slid softly away into the night. By the time
the ponies were tilting the last drops out of their nosebags the
faithful servant had scratched together a few sheets of corrugated,
and piled them into a rough shelter. The Major wriggled beneath it
and was presently putting up a barrage of snores terrible to hear. At
midnight a battalion of the Loamshire Light Infantry trudged into the
village. It was raining in solid chunks, and the Colonel Commanding
looked like Victoria Falls and felt like a submarine. He gave
expression to his sentiments in a series of spluttering bellows. His
batman trembled and faded into the darkness _à pas de loup_. By the
time the old gentleman had halted his command and cursed them "good
night" his resourceful retainer had found a sheet or two of corrugated
iron somewhere and assembled them into some sort of bivouac for the
reception of his lord. His lord fell inside, kicked off his boots and
slept instantly, slept like a wintering bear.
At 2 A.M. three Canadian privates blundered against our village and
tripped over it. They had lost their way, were mud from hoofs to
horns, dead beat, soaked to the skin, chilled to the bone, fed up
to the back teeth. They were not going any further, neither were
they going to be deluged to death if there was any cover to be had
anywhere. They nosed about, and soon discovered a few sheets of
corrugated iron, bore them privily hence and weathered the night out
under some logs further down the valley. My batman trod me underfoot
at seven next morning, "Goin' to be blinkin' murder done in this camp
presently, Sir," he announced cheerfully. "Three officers went to
sleep in bivvies larst night, but somebody's souvenired 'em since an'
they're all lyin' hout in the hopen now, Sir. Their blokes daresent
wake 'em an' break the noos. All very 'asty-tempered gents, so I'm
told. The Colonel is pertickler mustard. There'll be some fresh faces
on the Roll of Honour when 'e comes to."
I turned out and took a look at the scene of impending tragedy. The
three unconscious officers on three camp-beds were lying out in the
middle of a sea of mud like three lone islets. Their shuddering
subordinates were taking cover at long range, whispering among
themselves and crouching in attitudes of dreadful expectancy like
men awaiting the explosion of a mine or the cracking of Doom. As
explosions of those dimensions are liable to be impartial in their
attentions I took horse and rode afield. But according to my batman,
who braved it out, the Lieutenant woke up first, exploded noisily and
detonated the Field Officer who in turn detonated the Colonel. In the
words of my batman--"They went orf one, two, three, Sir, for orl the
world like a machine gun, a neighteen-pounder and an How-Pop-pop!
Whizz-bang! Boom!--very 'eavy cas-u-alities, Sir." PATLANDER.
* * * * *
[Illustration: _First unhappy Passenger._ "OH, I SAY, _CAN'T_ WE GO
BACK NOW?"
_Boatman._ "NOT YET, SIR. THE GENTLEMAN IN THE BOWS INSISTS ON 'AVING
'IS SIXPENNORTH."]
* * * * *
[Illustration: _Sergeant (in charge of the raw material)._ "NOW,
NUMBER TWO, WE'LL HAVE THAT MOVEMENT ONCE AGAIN. DON'T FORGET THIS
TIME--NECK LIKE A SWAN, FEET LIKE A FAIRY."]
* * * * *
"A man who was looking at some sheep under the wire saw the flash
pass close to him with simultaneous thunder, the sheep being
unharmed. Still one or two complained of their legs feeling numb."
--_Parochial Magazine._
Who said Baalamb?
* * * * *
"There is no saying how Kinglake's history might have otherwise
read had not a round shot put a premature end to Korniloff's
career at the Malakoff whence M'Mahon was to send his famous
message, 'J'y, j'reste.'"--_Manchester Evening Chronicle._
There is no saying how anybody's history will read if time-honoured
sayings may be treated like this.
* * * * *
"We are inclined to attribute the form as well as the substance
of the Note to the aloofness from the practical affairs of the
outside world which seems to exist in the Vatican."--_Times._
The POPE may or may not be behind the times, but as our contemporary
signed the Papal Peace Note, "BENEDICTUS XVI." it is plain that _The
Times_ is ahead of the POPE.
* * * * *