TATERS AND VASELINE
Rations enough to go round;
Rations enough to go round;
Gawd, it's enough!
And it's horrible stuff;
But still there's enough to go round.
(_From "The Song of the Best Fed Army."_)
In the village the houses were fractured by high explosive shells, the
windows were paneless and the doors latchless, chimneys had been hurled
to the ground and pounded to dust. Now in the Summer it was sad to see
the fallen homes of the little people, especially in these days soft
with sunshine, glorious days when men whispered to themselves secretly:
"How good, how very good it is to be alive." The mad vitality of life
exulted itself amidst scenes of demolition and decay; young blood pulsed
warmly, the quick walked through the barren streets of the village,
young men pleased with their vigour and their calling. Man values
existence in haunts where he holds insecure purchase of life.
A solitary violet peeped coyly out from between two bricks which topped
a heap of rubble by the roadway near the church. The heap of rubble had
once been a home. The cataclysm of continents, the hatred of kings, the
mustering of armies, the thunder of guns, were all needed in the making
of this--a mean little nook on a rubble heap where a modest violet
blossomed.
Like cats to their accustomed haunts the natives clung to their village
and braved danger and death in preference to exile. But now in the day
of big things the authorities removed the villagers and sent them back
to localities further away from the firing line.
The villagers left the place without a moan; placid fatalists who had
lived and died midst the thunder of a thousand guns; they accepted the
change mutely and left in silence their native place when ordered to do
so. They took away much of their portable property and left much of it
behind. On the eve of Lammas Day Spudhole Bubb caught two homeless
chickens fluttering despairing wings outside the estaminet La Concorde
in the village.
"'Ow am I to kill these 'ere h'animals?" he asked Bowdy Benners, who
accompanied him. Bowdy's face still bore the marks of his encounter with
the German sniper.
"Put a bullet through them," answered Bowdy, looking at the chickens.
"That'll blow 'em to blazes," said Bubb.
"Then wring their necks."
"'Ow?"
"Like this," said Bowdy getting hold of a water-bottle by the neck and
swinging it round his head.
"I've a better plan," said Bubb gazing at the door of the estaminet.
"You open that there door and I'll 'old the neck of the 'en against the
jamb. I'll say 'One! two! free!' And at the word 'free' you swings the
door wiv a bang against the post an' you'll snick the neck of a 'en like
winkin'."
The operation was performed with great success, the chickens were
decapitated and Bubb's thumb was bashed into an ugly purple.
"That's a go," he muttered. "Not much of a gyme killin' chickens like
this."
"Not much of a gyme indeed," said Bowdy. "But they'll make a good meal,
these fowl."
"An' there's a bloomin' dawg too as was left behind," said Bubb,
pointing his finger at the top window of the estaminet.
It was looking down at the two soldiers, a lean dog with plaintive eyes
and a queer crooning cry which said as plainly as any doggie can say:
"Take me away from this place."
"Why doesn't it come down the stairs?" asked Bowdy Benners.
"Why?" said Bubb. "'Cos there ain't no stairs; they've been blown away
by a shell."
"Then we've got to get the poor thing down," said Bowdy.
"'Ow?" asked Bubb, then without giving Benners time to answer, he said:
"Oh, I knows 'ow. There's a ladder round the corner. We put it up and
take the beggar down."
Raising the ladder they placed it against the window sill, clambered up
and rescued the dog which they placed on the street. Then Bowdy and Bubb
went up the ladder again and entered the room.
"What's that thing under the bed?" asked Bowdy who had noticed a dark
bundle on the ground.
Bubb peeped under and drew back his head as suddenly as if somebody had
given him a blow on the face.
"It's a dead bloke," he said. "Let's get out."
They reached the street to find the dog lying on the pavement wagging
its tail.
"It's so pleased with us," said Bowdy. "It might have died with hunger
up there."
"Pleased!" echoed Bubb. "The damned ungrateful swine! Take that, and
that!"
The two kicks were neatly delivered on the animal's hindquarters and it
rushed off, howling.
"Ate our two blurry chickens and us rescuin' 'im. Anyway we've the
taters. We'll get back to the trench and cook 'em."
"I'll be back as soon as you," said Bowdy. "But I'll run down to Rentoul
and get a bottle of champagne. I've a few francs to spare."
On reaching the trenches Bubb found Flanagan just finishing a good
dinner of fried potatoes and onions.
"Blimey, I've taters, lots of 'em and if you give me some h'onions I'll
make myself a bit of a feed," said Bubb to Flanagan. "I do feel empty
inside."
"Yes, I've got some onions to spare," said Flanagan. "Are you going to
cook now?"
"I'm goin' to cook now," said Bubb, "but I want some lard or something
greasy for fryin'."
"Good idea," said Flanagan.
"What did you fry the taters in?" asked Bubb.
"Oh, I fried them in--vaseline," was Flanagan's reply.
"Git out!"
"Yes, I did."
"Truth?"
"Oh, it's quite true," Flanagan lied, "you should try it."
"So I will," said the simple Bubb, and so he did. He used a whole box of
vaseline, frying his taters on a mess-tin lid placed over a little fire
at the base of a traverse. He ate his portion with great zest, vowing
that he never had had a better repast in all his life. Part of the feed
he kept for Bowdy.
Flanagan, delighted with the little joke, told Sergeant Snogger how
Spudhole Bubb had used vaseline in frying potatoes. Snogger came up to
Bubb as the latter sat smoking a Woodbine in the corner of the dug-out.
"Spudhole Bubb," he said, "what's wrong with ye?"
"Wiv me?" asked Bubb. "There's nuffink wrong wiv me."
"Ye're lookin' very pale," said Snogger. "I never saw a man look as bad.
Have ye had no dinner?"
"No dinner!" exclaimed Bubb. "I 'ad the best meal ever I 'ad."
"It can't have agreed with you," said Snogger. "You look as white as a
ghost."
The sergeant walked away and Flanagan poked his head through the door.
"Good God, Bubb!" he exclaimed, "what has happened to you?"
"'Appened to me!" said Bubb. "Nuffink, man. Wot gyme are yer up to?"
"No game at all," said Flanagan. "But you look bad. You should go and
see the doctor this evening."
Bubb looked in the little mirror which he always carried about with him
(he was really a devil for the girls), and he thought that he was
looking white.
"But I don't feel bad," he said to Flanagan.
"You mayn't feel bad," said the Irishman, "but by heaven! you look bad.
Is it yer nerves that are givin' way?"
"I've no nerves," said Bubb.
Bowdy, who had just returned, was the next to pass a remark on Bubb's
condition.
"What has happened to you, matey?" he asked. "You look like a dead hen."
"I'm orl right," said Bubb, but there was a note of concern in his
voice. "I 'ad the best dinner ever I 'ad a moment ago. There's some left
for you."
"Has it disagreed with you?" asked Bowdy. "What kind of dinner was it?"
"Taters and h'onions fried in vaseline," was Bubb's reply. "The same
taters that we got...."
"Vaseline!" Bowdy repeated, "Vaseline! Vaseline!"
"Wot's wrong wiv vaseline?" Bubb enquired.
"What's wrong with it, man," said Bowdy, "everything's wrong with it.
Devil blow me blind, it's poison, pure poison. No wonder you're looking
white."
Bubb cast an imploring look on Bowdy. He was now evidently frightened.
"I do feel something wrong with me inside," he said.
"I will see the M.O. this evening."
* * * * *
Bubb had a temperature that evening, whether due to fright or the ill
effects of potatoes fried in vaseline it was impossible to say. The
doctor sent him back to the hospital at ----, a shell-stricken town
where the wounded were confined to cellars before going further back
from the firing line.
Wrapped in blankets, Bubb went to sleep on the floor, and about one
o'clock in the morning he woke up and looked around him. A candle stuck
on the cold ground burned timidly and big black shadows lurked in the
corners of the apartment. Opposite Bubb an R.A.M.C. orderly sat on a
biscuit box dozing, the unlighted stump of a cigarette between his
fingers. Near Bubb another patient lay asleep, his mouth wide open, and
his knees hunched up so that they formed a little hill that dominated
the cold clammy floor of the cellar.
Spudhole looked up at the roof where the light played in little ghostly
ripples. As he watched, a spider slipped out of a hole directly overhead
and dropped slowly down towards his face. In the half light the spider
looked an immense size and its legs spread out as if endeavouring to
clutch something. Fascinated Bubb watched it draw nearer, nearer, until
it almost touched his face.
"Git out ye lobster!"
He raised his hand as he spoke and aimed a blow at the insect and
missed. The spider clambered up again and disappeared.
"Blast the bloomin' thing!" he muttered and turned on his side. "Oh,
blimey!... Good mornin'!"
A large toad was sitting on the corner of his blanket, a mere hand's
breadth away, and looking at him with a pair of big glistening eyes. For
a moment the man and the toad looked fixedly at one another, then the
toad hopped away and disappeared round the corner of the bed.
"Well, blimey," said Bubb, cuddling up in the clothes and trying to
sleep. He was unsuccessful for his mind followed the toad. "Where 'as it
gone?" he muttered. "Spiders as big as lobsters, and toads as big as
helephants. This 'ere place is 'aunted. Now where 'as that 'ere vermin
gone?"
He turned round on his side and again his gaze fell on the toad. The
thing had ascended the hill formed by the knees of Bubb's mate, and
there on the eminence it sat, its eyes fixed on the open mouth of the
sleeper.
"Blimey! It's goin' to jump in," said Bubb. "Raise the foresight a
little you bounder and 'op!... Ten to one that you miss it."
Moodily contemplative, the toad sat silent, its big shining eyes fixed
on the cavern in front.
"Jump, you beggar!" yelled Bubb, shouting at the top of his voice. "One
good 'op and you'll score a bull."
He fell into a paroxysm of mirth; the R.A.M.C. orderly awoke, rubbed his
eyes, lifted the cigarette end which had fallen to the floor, put it in
his mouth, and came across to Bubb.
"What's amusin' you, chummy?" he asked.
"The spider and the toad," said Bubb. "A big lobster of a spider and
then the toad. It's tryin' to jump into the man's mouth. Look there! Ten
to one it misses!"
"That's all right," said the orderly with a bland smile of
understanding. "You just lie down quietly and try and have a little
sleep."
"But the toad," Bubb remonstrated. "It's just goin' to jump."
"I know, I know," said the orderly. "I see it myself. But try and
compose yourself, chummy."
"But, man, it's real," said Bubb sitting up. "Look yourself and you'll
see it. Don't think I'm off my napper."
"I don't think anything of the sort," said the orderly still smiling. "I
often see things 'ere, myself. You lie down again and you'll be as right
as rain in the morning."
He put his fingers on Bubb's pulse, held them there for a moment, then
pressed the boy gently back into the blankets.
"I tell you there's a toad," said Bubb, struggling to get up again.
"Look at that man lyin' there and see the toad on 'is knees. It's goin'
to 'op into the bloke's mouth in a minute."
To humour the patient, the orderly looked as he was directed and sure
enough there was the toad, a real one, not a phantom originating from
the disordered imagination of a sick man, perched on the knees of the
sleeping patient.
"So there is," said the orderly. "I thought you were delirious, matey.
Well, we'll put the thing out," he said and shoved it off the blanket on
to the floor.
"Ye're not a sport," said Bubb and his voice was charged with contempt.
"Why didn't you let it 'op? I was bettin' on it. Now my bloomin' toad
'as gone. Bet yer it'll not come in again either," said Bubb sadly.
"I'll bet you it doesn't," said the orderly, but in a different tone.
Bubb returned to his regiment three days later, a healthy and wiser man.
Afterwards he would never take part in a conversation wherein vaseline
was mentioned, but the sight of a frog always brought memories of toads
to his mind, and all conversation had to be cut dead until Bubb had
narrated for the hundredth time the tale of a toad in a cellar.