THE FUN OF IT
One incident, although nearly tragic, makes me laugh when I think of
it. In our platoon we had a very peculiar character; he was (as most
of us were) an Englishman, but I strongly suspect he had a big splash
of Gypsy blood in his veins. In spite of all orders to the contrary,
this boy would wander away and be gone for hours, and would return
laden with all kinds of souvenirs--helmets, bayonets, bottles--almost
every conceivable thing, and one day he came in with a woman's full
rig-out of clothes. Another day he was missing and came back at dusk
with a string of six beautiful fresh fish. Two of us accidentally
fell on the place where these fish abounded; it was a kind of fish
preserve, after the fashion of the fish ponds around old mansions in
England, but this fellow, I believe, found them by instinct. The
boys who knew him would have wagered their shirts or their last
nickels that if he was asked he would fetch Von Kluck's sword from
out of the German lines in broad daylight. Of course around Ypres he
was in the seventh heaven and at the back of his dugout such a
bewildering mass of junk was never collected by living man. Old
clocks, pieces of shrapnel, sabots, wine bottles, needles and a host
of other things, including all kinds of clothing. Of course he could
not take them with him, but he was to my idea a kind of left-handed
kleptomaniac.
He was very busy ferreting along the canal banks and in the orchard
one afternoon, when Fritz sent over five whiz bangs in rapid
succession. With a yell he clapped his hand to that part of his
anatomy where a kick is usually administered, staggered a few paces
and fell. The apple tree above my head was cut to pieces, but when
the banging commenced I lost no time investigating the innermost
corner of my dugout and escaped unhurt; greased lightning was a slow
freight to the way I dived for safer regions.
After waiting a few seconds to let the splinters settle, I looked for
Gypsy. He was severely wounded, but not of a too serious nature, and
in spite of his being so badly hurt, I could not help saying, "Tahn,
son, that got you right in the proper place."
The story went up and down the line many times afterwards, because it
seemed so funny for a man who was always poking his nose in forbidden
places, that he should get hit just where a boy would, who had been
stealing apples.
Tahn and I had a good laugh afterwards at the convalescent camp over
the incident, although he said that at the time he couldn't see my
side of the joke at all.
The ignorance of some of the native peasantry of this part of France
concerning Canada was comically exemplified. The officer went to the
house of an old lady for the purpose of finding out how many men she
could take care of, and she asked him, "What kind of men are you
going to put in my barn?"
"Canadians, madam," he replied.
"Oh, no, Monsieur, I will not have any more black men here."
The officer hastened to assure her that our skin was as white as hers
and the native courtesy of the old French lady was trebled to make
amends for her mistake.
This same officer was keenly desirous of showing his knowledge of
French, which was at its best quite limited, and he would converse
always in that language with the French soldiers or people with whom
he came in contact. He inquired at an _estaminet_ in his best French
for some red pepper, and the good housewife, who happened to speak
only patois handed him a nicely folded little paper package of
cootie, or lice killer. Of course he had to endure a laugh. But his
enthusiasm for displaying French was most marked when I heard him at
the close of a short talk with a French soldier, who happened to be
equally desirous of displaying his knowledge of English. When they
were parting, our quartermaster shook his hand and said, "Oh,
reservoir."
"Tanks," replied Frenchy.