My dear Charles,--I am afraid you'll be worrying about me again,
wondering why I'm lying doggo, what mischief I'm up to, or whether
anything has happened to me. Something has happened, but I'm not quite
sure myself what it is. Anyhow, I'll tell you all I know. It wasn't in
the _Gazette_ proper; it was in the "Memoranda." It referred to a Second
Lieutenant (Temporary Lieutenant), intimating that he was to hold the
acting rank of Captain while engaged in present duties, which looks to
me as if they are giving nothing away but want to keep in with me till
they have settled up matters with the Bosch. When the trouble shows
signs of being about to end, they'll either make me a Temporary General
and hand me over to the enemy as a sop, or else they will turn round on
me and tell me that, being a Temporary Memorandum, I'm nothing at all;
am I going quietly or must they put the handcuffs on me? As the saying
is, "it ain't 'ardly safe"; at any moment one may find oneself in a
bowler hat being jostled by the crowd and wholly estranged from Mr. Cox,
of Charing Cross. Meanwhile I'm a Captain, or parading as such, and I
carry in my pocket a leash of "crowns" and a yard of braid (with
adhesive back) in case of further developments.
Talking of civilian hats, by the way, my particular class of soldier,
never spoilt by over-fussing, has dismal expectations as to the
_finale_. We feel that, when the other side sees light and is prepared
to submit to judgment, with costs, we shall be the last to leave for
home, and when we get there all the beer will be sold out.
Meanwhile I'm going along nicely, and by saying nothing but looking a
lot I've created quite an air of importance around me, which induces all
sorts of regimental officers to salute me at first sight and to wish
they hadn't on further acquaintance. It's an ever-increasing difficulty,
this matter of saluting: in a part of the world where there's a General
round every other corner I can never make up my mind on the spur of the
moment what to do about Majors and suchlike. Some like a salute, others
don't. I have invented a gesture of my own which is entirely
non-committal and gives satisfaction to both. Those who don't look for a
salute put it down to an excess of geniality; those who do expect one
put it down to ignorance combined with anxiety to please.
Only once has it got me into trouble so far. The occasion is worth
mentioning, since I was at the time talking to a General in a public
place. (Yes, there we were, talking away about nothing in particular,
"conversing," I might say, just as it might have been you and myself
passing the time of day. _Very_ impressive). A Major, one of the
expectant sort, came up from behind the General; when he was within
distance of the august back he saluted it. It was one of those salutes
which could be felt, but, as it happened, the General didn't feel it.
The problem at once arose, what was I to do, with the Major's stony eye
full upon me? The waggle, obviously, but in a modified degree, since it
doesn't do to be fidgetting with your hands when you're being talked to
by your elders and betters. I went through the motions, therefore,
meaning them to mean that, though I was chatting with a General, yet I
wasn't above saluting a Major. He mistook the movement, however, and
thought that I thought that, because I was chatting with a General,
therefore he'd saluted me! My goodness, we nearly lost the War that
time!
But don't you believe all this talk about military discipline. Take the
case of my own Colonel, for instance, a man who, before he took to staff
work, had probably dug enough trenches, put out enough barbed wire and,
generally, made enough mess of respectable agricultural land to earn for
himself a special vote of censure from the United Association of French
and Belgian Farmers. Now, there's a soldier, if ever there was one; but
are his orders obeyed when they don't fit in with the convenience of his
subordinates?
You shall judge for yourself. The other day he made up his mind, not
casually or by the way, but in writing, duly signed, sealed and
circulated, that "The moon will rise to-morrow at 4.43 A.M." Did the
moon comply? No, Sir, it did not; I'm told it was absent from parade
altogether. Did my Colonel put it under arrest? Did he even call for its
reasons in writing? Again, no. On the contrary, he weakly gave in,
saying that he'd got the time out of an almanack supplied by his
Insurance Company, and that "the man from the Insurance" was to blame
for sticking the pages together and getting him into an inappropriate
month. What I say is an order's an order, and it is nothing to do with
the moon where the Colonel gets his ideas from.
Call it fear or favour, I only know that when I'm informed that I am to
rise at 5 A.M. to-morrow morning, and, with no intention of disobeying,
I ask very quietly and very politely if they remember that this is March
and not July, at the very least I shall be told that I ought to be
ashamed of being a civilian instead of openly behaving as such. Yours
ever, HENRY.
* * * * *
ANOTHER INDISPENSABLE.
[Illustration: The war artist's model.]
* * * * *
Herodias?
"Any lady requiring Head of two Parlourmaids or Under
Parlourmaid, we know of several."--_Morning Paper._
* * * * *
"Bombardier G. Dougherty, R.A.M.C. ... has been given the D.C.M.
... for twice repairing telephone wires under a terrific storm
of fire."--_Morning Paper._
Conscientious objectors will note the new rank and duty of R.A.M.C. men.
* * * * *
"Two large jewel robberies in London, in which property to the
value of several thousands of pounds has been stolen, are being
invested by the police."--_Morning Paper._
In Exchequer Bonds, no doubt. But we hope they have reserved a few pairs
of bracelets for the thieves when they catch them.
* * * * *