Here is an average billet, and its personnel.
The central feature of our residence is the refuse-pit, which fills
practically the whole of the rectangular farmyard, and resembles
(in size and shape _only_) an open-air swimming bath. Its abundant
contents are apparently the sole asset of the household; for if you
proceed, in the interests of health, to spread a decent mantle of
honest earth thereover, you do so to the accompaniment of a harmonised
chorus of lamentation, very creditably rendered by the entire family,
who are grouped _en masse_ about the spot where the high diving-board
ought to be.
Round this perverted place of ablution runs a stone ledge, some four
feet wide, and round that again run the farm buildings--the house at
the top end, a great barn down one side, and the cowhouse, together
with certain darksome piggeries and fowl-houses, down the other. These
latter residences are occupied only at night, their tenants preferring
to spend the golden hours of day in profitable occupation upon the
happy hunting ground in the middle.
Within the precincts of this already overcrowded establishment are
lodged some two hundred British soldiers and their officers. The
men sleep in the barn, their meals being prepared for them upon the
Company cooker, which stands in the muddy road outside, and resembles
the humble vehicle employed by Urban District Councils for the
preparation of tar for road-mending purposes. The officers occupy any
room which may be available within the farmhouse itself. The Company
Commander has the best bedroom--a low-roofed, stone-floored apartment,
with a very small window and a very large bed. The subalterns sleep
where they can--usually in the _grenier_, a loft under the tiles,
devoted to the storage of onions and the drying, during the winter
months, of the family washing, which is suspended from innumerable
strings stretched from wall to wall.
For a Mess, there is usually a spare apartment of some kind. If not,
you put your pride in your pocket and take your meals at the kitchen
table, at such hours as the family are not sitting humped round the
same with their hats on, partaking of soup or coffee. (This appears
to be their sole sustenance.) A farm-kitchen in northern France is a
scrupulously clean place--the whole family gets up at half-past four
in the morning and sees to the matter--and despite the frugality of
her own home _menu_, the _fermière_ can produce you a perfect omelette
at any hour of the day or night.
This brings us to the kitchen-stove, which is a marvel. No massive and
extravagant English ranges here! There is only one kind: we call
it the Coffin and Flower-pot. The coffin--small, black, and highly
polished--projects from the wall about four feet, the further end
being supported by what looks like an ornamental black flower-pot
standing on a pedestal. The coffin is the oven, and the flower-pot is
the stove. Given a handful of small coal or charcoal, Madame appears
capable of keeping it at work all day, and of boiling, baking, or
roasting you innumerable dishes.
Then there is the family. Who or what they all are, and where they all
sleep, is a profound mystery. The family tree is usually headed by a
decrepit and ruminant old gentleman in a species of yachting-cap. He
sits behind the stove--not exactly with one foot in the grave, but
with both knees well up against the coffin--and occasionally offers
a mumbled observation of which no one takes the slightest notice.
Sometimes, too, there is an old, a very old, lady. Probably she is
some one's grandmother, or great-grandmother, but she does not appear
to be related to the old gentleman. At least, they never recognise one
another's existence in any way.
There are also vague people who possess the power of becoming
invisible at will. They fade in and out of the house like wraiths:
their one object in life appears to be to efface themselves as much
as possible. Madame refers to them as "_refugiés_"; this the
sophisticated Mr. Cockerell translates, "German spies."
Next in order come one or two farmhands--usually addressed as "'Nri!"
and "'Seph!" They are not as a rule either attractive in appearance or
desirable in character. Every man in this country, who _is_ a man, is
away, as a matter of course, doing a man's only possible duty under
the circumstances. This leaves 'Nri and 'Seph, who through physical or
mental shortcomings are denied the proud privilege, and shamble about
in the muck and mud of the farm, leering or grumbling, while Madame
exhorts them to further activity from the kitchen door. They take
their meals with the family: where they sleep no one knows. External
evidence suggests the cow-house.
Then, the family. First, Angèle. She may be twenty-five, but is more
probably fifteen. She acts as Adjutant to Madame, and rivals her
mother as deliverer of sustained and rapid recitative. She milks the
cows, feeds the pigs, and dragoons her young brothers and sisters. But
though she works from morning till night, she has always time for
a smiling salutation to all ranks. She also speaks English quite
creditably--a fact of which Madame is justly proud. "Collège!"
explains the mother, full of appreciation for an education which she
herself has never known, and taps her learned daughter affectionately
upon the head.
Next in order comes Émile. He must be about fourteen, but War has
forced manhood on him. All day long he is at work, bullying very large
horses, digging, hoeing, even ploughing. He is very much a boy, for
all that. He whistles excruciatingly--usually English music-hall
melodies--grins sheepishly at the officers, and is prepared at any
moment to abandon the most important tasks, in order to watch a man
cleaning a rifle or oiling a machine-gun. We seem to have encountered
Émile in other countries than this.
After Émile, Gabrielle. Her age is probably seven. If you were to give
her a wash and brush-up, dress her in a gauzy frock, and exchange
her thick woollen stockings and wooden sabots for silk and dancing
slippers, she would make a very smart little fairy. Even in her native
state she is a most attractive young person, of an engaging coyness.
If you say: "Bonjour, Gabrielle!" she whispers: "B'jour M'sieur le
Capitaine"--or, "M'sieur le Caporal"; for she knows all badges of
rank--and hangs her head demurely. But presently, if you stand quite
still and look the other way, Gabrielle will sidle up to you and
squeeze your hand. This is gratifying, but a little subversive of
strict discipline if you happen to be inspecting your platoon at the
moment.
Gabrielle is a firm favourite with the rank and file. Her particular
crony is one Private Mackay, an amorphous youth with flaming red hair.
He and Gabrielle engage in lengthy conversations, which appear to be
perfectly intelligible to both, though Mackay speaks with the solemn
unction of the Aberdonian, and Gabrielle prattles at express speed
in a _patois_ of her own. Last week some unknown humorist, evidently
considering that Gabrielle was not making sufficient progress in her
knowledge of English, took upon himself to give her a private lesson.
Next morning Mackay, on sentry duty at the farm gate, espied his
little friend peeping round a corner.
"Hey, Garibell!" he observed cheerfully. (No Scottish private ever yet
mastered a French name quite completely.)
Gabrielle, anxious to exhibit her new accomplishment, drew nearer,
smiled seraphically, and replied--
"'Ello, Gingeair!"
Last of the bunch comes Petit Jean, a chubby and close-cropped
youth of about six. Petit Jean is not his real name, as he himself
indignantly explained when so addressed by Major Wagstaffe.
"Moi, z'ne suis pas Petit Jean; z'suis Maurrrice!"
Major Wagstaffe apologised most humbly, but the name stuck.
Petit Jean is an enthusiast upon matters military. He possesses a
little wooden rifle, the gift of a friendly "Écossais," tipped with a
flashing bayonet cut from a biscuit-tin; and spends most of his time
out upon the road, waiting for some one to salute. At one time he used
to stand by the sentry, with an ancient glengarry crammed over his
bullet head, and conform meticulously to his comrade's slightest
movement. This procedure was soon banned, as being calculated to bring
contempt and ridicule upon the King's uniform, and Petit Jean was
assigned a beat of his own. Behold him upon sentry-go.
A figure upon horseback swings round the bend in the road.
"Here's an officer, Johnny!" cries a friendly voice from the farm
gate.
Petit Jean, as upright as a post, brings his rifle from stand-at-ease
to the order, and from the order to the slope, with the epileptic
jerkiness of a marionette, and scrutinises the approaching officer
for stars and crowns. If he can discern nothing but a star or two, he
slaps the small of his butt with ferocious solemnity; but if a crown,
or a red hatband, reveals itself, he blows out his small chest to its
fullest extent and presents arms. If the salute is acknowledged--as it
nearly always is--Petit Jean is crimson with gratification. Once, when
a friendly subaltern called his platoon to attention, and gave the
order, "Eyes right!" upon passing the motionless little figure at the
side of the road, Petit Jean was so uplifted that he committed the
military crime of deserting his post while on duty--in order to run
home and tell his mother about it.
* * * * *
Last of all we arrive at the keystone of the whole fabric--Madame
herself. She is one of the most wonderful women in the world.
Consider. Her husband and her eldest son are away--fighting, she knows
not where, amid dangers and privations which can only be imagined.
During their absence she has to manage a considerable farm, with the
help of her children and one or two hired labourers of more than
doubtful use or reliability. In addition to her ordinary duties as a
parent and _fermière_, she finds herself called upon, for months
on end, to maintain her premises as a combination of barracks and
almshouse. Yet she is seldom cross--except possibly when the
_soldats_ steal her apples and pelt the pigs with the cores--and no
accumulations of labour can sap her energy. She is up by half-past
four every morning; yet she never appears anxious to go to bed at
night. The last sound which sleepy subalterns hear is Madame's voice,
uplifted in steady discourse to the circle round the stove, sustained
by an occasional guttural chord from 'Nri and 'Seph. She has been
doing this, day in, day out, since the combatants settled down to
trench-warfare. Every few weeks brings a fresh crop of tenants, with
fresh peculiarities and unknown proclivities; and she assimilates them
all.
The only approach to a breakdown comes when, after paying her little
bill--you may be sure that not an omelette nor a broken window will
be missing from the account--and wishing her "Bonne chance!" ere
you depart, you venture on a reference, in a few awkward, stumbling
sentences, to the absent husband and son. Then she weeps, copiously,
and it seems to do her a world of good. All hail to you, Madame--the
finest exponent, in all this War, of the art of Carrying On! We know
now why France is such a great country.