STEENVOORDE
After a stay of a week at E---- we again got orders to move,
eventually arriving in the little town of Steenvoorde. We sported
here for a few days at cricket, football, and baseball.
I acquired in this burg a repugnance for restaurant coffee that I
have not yet been able to overcome. The sergeants of my platoon were
in the habit of consulting together directly after duty at the house
of a good old dame who was renowned for her excellent _cafe au lait_,
and the non-coms. seldom missed an opportunity of partaking.
On one occasion when they were there, seeing me pass the window, they
hailed me to come in and join them. As I was broke at the time, I
hastened to accept the invitation.
"Want a good cup of coffee, son," said Campbell.
"Thanks, I will."
Campbell pointed to the cup and I drained it down.
"Have another, Shorty," said Britton.
"Don't mind," says I.
"Hop to it, son," and another went the same route.
They could hold themselves no longer and roared with laughter. I was
at a loss to understand their mirth, and happening to glance at the
old lady, a light broke in upon me. The poor lady had one very bad
eye from which tears, copious tears, dripped with sickening
regularity, and as she busied herself around the coffee cups, the
tears would drop now and again into the cups.
In spite of my disgust, I couldn't help joining in the laugh,
although I had an almost ungovernable desire to vomit. The secret of
it all was that they themselves had been up against the same dose and
they wanted someone else to share with them the burden of the coffee
and tears.
Sometimes on the march, should I happen to be grouchy about anything,
Campbell, with his winning smile, would say, "Never mind, son, it
won't be long before we'll be back having a good cup of coffee." And
then the memory of that treat would dispel my grouch.
One of our boys, McBean, had an instinctive horror of rats; it was a
marked fear that he could not overcome. Returning from parade one
day, Mc was lying on the straw in the barn, reading a letter, with
the thatched roof of the barn directly at the back of his head. His
cap was lying beside him and suddenly, a huge rat scuttled past his
head. He sprang to his feet with a deafening shout of terror. The
rat took refuge in the thatch of the roof. Fixing his bayonet to his
rifle, while one of the boys sounded "Charge," Mc lunged ferociously
into the thatch. We never imagined he would get the creature, but to
our astonishment, at about the third lunge, he drew back the bayonet,
with the rat kicking its last kick on the bayonet's point.
Soon after this Mc had a splendid opportunity of demonstrating his
ability to stick his needle (as the bayonet was termed) into the
bodies of our German foes and he ably exemplified his skill.
An inspection of the officers and non-commissioned officers by
General Smith-Dorrien and a general inspection of the whole division
by the general officer ended our stay at Steenvoorde, and one morning
we were packed aboard London omnibuses, with the advertisements still
upon them asserting the superiority of Pears' Soap to any other soap
on the market, and rode for some distance, finally being dumped at a
small hamlet where the Royal Welsh Fusileers were resting. These
good fellows showed us the greatest hospitality, sharing their
rations and making us big draughts of the inevitable, but none the
less welcome tea.
Our battalion football team played the Welshmen, winning by the odd
goal in three.
With mutual expressions of good will, we parted from the Royal Welsh,
resuming our journey on foot.
One of our diversions from the horrors of war here was unique, to say
the least. We bought up every fighting rooster in the neighborhood
from the natives and made arrangements to have an exhibition of
cockfighting worthy a Roman celebration. We backed B Company's bird
to the limit of our resources as our bird was selected by a lad who
was an expert on the game and a past-master on all its points. So we
felt perfect confidence in his judgment, and our faith was not
disappointed.
A proper cockpit was made in an orchard and the reserved seats were
in apple trees and brought two francs apiece per man. Every reserved
seat in every tree was occupied; there wasn't room for half the
patrons. I lost mine before the performance was over through the
collapse of the blooming tree and every man on that tree lost the
seat that he had bought and paid for, but, owing to my convenient
size, I was able to get a good view of the balance of the show seated
on Big Bill Skerry's shoulders.
To the huge delight of us all, B Company's bird emerged a dilapidated
but triumphant winner from all its contests, coming out with final
honors. In addition to the rooster fight there were several
differences of opinion between connoisseurs as to the points involved
in the game of cockfighting, which finally resulted in heated
fisticuffs and black eyes, and altogether we easily had our two
francs' worth.