MY DEAR CHARLES,--Things go on here from day to day in a businesslike
and orderly fashion, the comic relief being supplied by a temporary,
very temporary, man from overseas, who has operated for a while at our
telephone exchange. Most people, myself included, are overawed by the
dignity and significance of our environment here; not so this Canadian.
One of our very greatest was having words with his instrument the other
evening. He supposed, wrongly, that his antagonist was a hundred
kilometres away, and he adjusted his remarks and voice accordingly.
Imagine his pain on being informed, from the exchange, in quite a
cheerful and friendly tone, "I guess you're on the wrong string this
time, Mister."
There is also, of course, that never-failing source of satisfaction,
the military mess waiter. I think ours, the other night, excelled all
starters in the art of ellipsis. Our meal was interrupted by a loud
bump, crash, cataclysm and bang. We took it that two at least of the
enemy's great offensives had begun, centralising on us and opening with
the destruction of all our mess machinery, personnel and platter.
Shortly afterwards Alfred, slightly flushed, came into the room. We
asked him to let us know the worst. All we could get out of him was, "I
must 'a' trod on a bit o' fat, Sir."
You will be touched, I am sure, by the pretty story now current
concerning the earnest young subaltern and the Brigadier. The former was
responsible for the training of an expert section, in no matter what
particular black art; the latter called in person one morning to witness
an experimental display. The apparatus was produced, the Brigadier
inspected it delicately, and the section was fallen in, standing near by
in an attitude of modest pride. From them the Brigadier eventually
singled out a private to do a star turn; silence was enjoined while the
subaltern should give the private the necessary detail orders. Now the
subaltern was one of the many of us civilians who have a burning
ambition not only to achieve perfection always, but also to maintain on
all occasions a superlatively military bearing. Confronted by the
private and expected to order him about, he hesitated, blushed and at
last made it clear that he simply must, before beginning, have a few
words apart in the General's private ear. With kindly toleration the
General eventually conceded this, and it was then made more than
apparent to him why it was that the earnest young subaltern was
reluctant to give his orders to the private without some explanation in
advance to the Brigadier. "The man's _surname_ is Bhyll, Sir," he
whispered.
Red-hats may not always know much about life in the trenches, but they
can tell you at first hand what strafing was like when there were no
trenches to live in. You will perhaps care to hear of an adventure of
the good old days, when men wandered about Flanders on their own,
sometimes attaching themselves to English units, sometimes to French,
and sometimes marching inadvertently with the Central Powers. Maps in
those days didn't show you clearly which was your bit and which was the
other fellow's, and many a time different parties, meeting in the dark,
would be quite affable in passing, little knowing it was each other's
blood they were after. My man, at the moment when we take up the
narrative, was walking about in a wood, looking for a job. Half an hour
earlier he had been busily engaged in a brisk battle, but, owing to his
not keeping his mind on it, he'd got detached and now found himself in
one of those peculiarly peaceful solitudes which only exist in the heart
of the war zone. Whether the battle was over and, if so, who'd won it,
he couldn't say. In fact, those being the early confused days, he didn't
rightly know whether it had been a battle at all or just a little
personal unpleasantness between himself and his private enemies.
Everything appeared to be exactly as it should not be; he felt that he
ought to be exhilarated with victory or depressed with defeat, exhausted
or maimed, and not merely covered from top to toe with mud. He found
himself walking along in a wood, just as he might do at home, smoking a
cigarette and thinking that this would be a most convenient moment for a
wash and a cup of tea. As he said, the very last thing he seemed to be
at was war, when suddenly, climbing over a small ridge, he discovered
himself face to face with a hostile sentry, and near him were, at
repose, a knot of other equally repulsive Bosches.
It has struck everyone out here, sooner or later, that it is easy enough
to do the thing if only one could know at the moment what is the thing
to do. Here was a sentry whose whole recent education had been devoted
to learning exactly how to deal with new and unwelcome arrivals. He was
furnished for that very purpose with a rifle having a carefully
sharpened bayonet at one end of it and a nice new bullet at the other.
There he was, all prepared to deal with an emergency, and there was the
emergency confronting him. Having had a good look at it, he contented
himself with saying "_Halt! wer da?_" adding as an afterthought a
threatening move forward.
On the other hand, here was our friend, young and vigorous, in full
possession of all his faculties, too surprised to be even alarmed. His
first tendency was to pass haughtily on or, at the most, to stop and
tell the man to be more respectful when addressing an officer. His
second was to call to mind, in a confused mess, all the brilliant and
dashing things a hero of fiction would, without a moment's hesitation,
have done in the circumstances. Lastly, it was borne in on him that this
was indeed a German; that all Germans were, under the new arrangement,
sworn to do in all Englishmen at sight, and that he himself was, beneath
his mud, one of the last-named. Being rather the quicker-witted of the
two, he had put in three thoughts to the other fellow's one; but the
position showed no improvement in the result, and the enemy's second
thought, slowly dawning, was obviously of a more practical and drastic
nature. His undecided fidgeting with his rifle made this abundantly
clear. No time was to be lost. Our friend realised dimly that at all
costs he must conceal his nationality. This promised to be a matter of
languages, never his strong point. But, there again, he was carefully
prepared with a series of useful phrases in various tongues, which he
had learnt up in small and inexpensive hand-books. The difficulty was to
get on to the right one; his mind, having got him thus far, refused
further assistance. Instead of furnishing him with the appropriate
remark, it merely suggested to him a clearly defined picture of the
outside of the text-book, particularly emphasizing the elegant but inept
phrase, "One Shilling net at all Booksellers." And what was the use of
that with the sentry's bayonet rapidly coming to the "On guard"
position?
It's a long story, Charles, and it ended by our friend ingenuously
stating by way of a seasonable ruse, "_Pardon, monsieur, je suis
français._"
I'd prefer to leave it at that, but you are one of those detestable
people who insist on going on after the climax. So I may as well tell
you that at this point our friend's legs took to action on their own, no
doubt remarking to themselves as they did so that this was but another
instance of damned bad Staff work. I sometimes wonder whether possibly
it isn't easier to be a limb than a brain.
Yours ever,
HENRY.
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