"THE NON-COMBATANT"
I
We will call the village St. Grégoire. That is not its real name;
because the one thing you must not do in war-time is to call a thing
by its real name. To take a hackneyed example, you do not call a spade
a spade: you refer to it, officially, as _Shovels, General Service,
One_. This helps to deceive, and ultimately to surprise, the enemy;
and as we all know by this time, surprise is the essence of successful
warfare. On the same principle, if your troops are forced back from
their front-line trenches, you call this "successfully straightening
out an awkward salient."
But this by the way. Let us get back to St. Grégoire. Hither,
mud-splashed, ragged, hollow-cheeked, came our battalion--they call
us the Seventh Hairy Jocks nowadays--after four months' continuous
employment in the firing-line. Ypres was a household word to them;
Plugstreet was familiar ground; Givenchy they knew intimately; Loos
was their wash-pot--or rather, a collection of wash-pots, for in
winter all the shell-craters are full to overflowing. In addition to
their prolonged and strenuous labours in the trenches, the Hairy Jocks
had taken part in a Push--a part not altogether unattended with glory,
but prolific in casualties. They had not been "pulled out" to rest and
refit for over six months, for Divisions on the Western Front were not
at that period too numerous, the voluntary system being at its last
gasp, while the legions of Lord Derby had not yet crystallised out of
the ocean of public talk which held them in solution. So the Seventh
Hairy Jocks were bone tired. But they were as hard as a rigorous
winter in the open could make them, and--they were going back to rest
at last. Had not their beloved C.O. told them so? And he had added, in
a voice not altogether free from emotion, that if ever men deserved a
solid rest and a good time, "you boys do!"
So the Hairy Jocks trudged along the long, straight, nubbly French
road, well content, speculating with comfortable pessimism as to the
character of the billets in which they would find themselves.
Meanwhile, ten miles ahead, the advance party were going round the
town in quest of the billets.
Billet-hunting on the Western Front is not quite so desperate an
affair as hunting for lodgings at Margate, because in the last
extremity you can always compel the inhabitants to take you in--or at
least, exert pressure to that end through the _Mairie_. But at the
best one's course is strewn with obstacles, and fortunate is the
Adjutant who has to his hand a subaltern capable of finding lodgings
for a thousand men without making a mess of it.
The billeting officer on this, as on most occasions, was our
friend Cockerell,--affectionately known to the entire Battalion as
"Sparrow,"--and his qualifications for the post were derived from
three well-marked and invaluable characteristics, namely, an imperious
disposition, a thick skin, and an attractive _bonhomie_ of manner.
Behold him this morning dismounting from his horse in the _place_
of St. Grégoire. Around him are grouped his satellites--the
Quartermaster-Sergeant, four Company Sergeants, some odd orderlies,
and a forlorn little man in a neat drab uniform with light blue
facings,--the regimental interpreter. The party have descended, with
the delicate care of those who essay to perform acrobatic feats in
kilts, from bicycles--serviceable but appallingly heavy machines
of Government manufacture, the property of the "Buzzers," but
commandeered for the occasion. The Quartermaster-Sergeant, who is
not accustomed to strenuous exercise, mops his brow and glances
expectantly round the _place_. His eye comes gently to rest upon a
small but hospitable-looking _estaminet_.
Lieutenant Cockerell examines his wrist-watch.
"Half-past ten!" he announces. "Quartermaster-Sergeant!"
"Sirr!" The Quartermaster-Sergeant unglues his longing gaze from the
_estaminet_ and comes woodenly to attention.
"I am going to see the Town Major about a billeting area. I will meet
you and the party here in twenty minutes."
Master Cockerell trots off on his mud-splashed steed, followed by the
respectful and appreciative salutes of his followers--appreciative,
because a less considerate officer would have taken the whole party
direct to the Town Major's office and kept them standing in the
street, wasting moments which might have been better employed
elsewhere, until it was time to proceed with the morning's work.
* * * * *
"How strong are you?" inquired the Town Major.
Cockerell told him. The Town Major whistled.
"That all? Been doing some job of work, haven't you?"
Cockerell nodded, and the Town Major proceeded to examine a
large-scale plan of St. Grégoire, divided up into different-coloured
plots.
"We are rather full up at present," he said; "but the Cemetery Area
is vacant. The Seventeenth Geordies moved out yesterday. You can have
that." He indicated a triangular section with his pencil.
Master Cockerell gave a deprecatory cough.
"We have come here, sir," he intimated dryly, "for a change of scene."
The stout Town Major--all Town Majors are stout--chuckled.
"Not bad for a Scot!" he conceded. "But it's quite a cheery district,
really. You won't have to doss down in the cemetery itself, you know.
These two streets here--" he flicked a pencil--"will hold practically
all your battalion, at its present strength. There's a capital
house in the Rue Jean Jacques Rousseau which will do for Battalion
Headquarters. The corporal over there will give you your _billets de
logement_."
"Are there any other troops in the area, sir?" asked Cockerell, who,
as already indicated, was no child in these matters.
"There ought not to be, of course. But you know what the Heavy Gunners
and the A.S.C. are! If you come across any of them, fire them out. If
they wear too many stars and crowns for you, let me know, and I will
perform the feat myself. You fellows need a good rest and no worries,
I know. Good-morning."
At ten minutes to eleven Cockerell found the Quartermaster-Sergeant
and party, wiping their mustaches and visibly refreshed, at the exact
spot where he had left them; and the hunt for billets began.
"A" Company were easily provided for, a derelict tobacco factory being
encountered at the head of the first street. Lieutenant Cockerell
accordingly detached a sergeant and a corporal from his train, and
passed on. The wants of "B" Company were supplied by commandeering
a block of four dilapidated houses farther down the street--all in
comparatively good repair except the end house, whose roof had been
disarranged by a shell during the open fighting in the early days of
the war.
This exhausted the possibilities of the first street, and the party
debouched into the second, which was long and straggling, and composed
entirely of small houses.
"Now for a bit of the retail business!" said Master Cockerell
resignedly. "Sergeant M'Nab, what is the strength of 'C' Company?"
"One hunner and thairty-fower other ranks, sirr," announced Sergeant
M'Nab, consulting a much-thumbed roll-book.
"We shall have to put them in twos and threes all down the street,"
said Cockerell. "Come on; the longer we look at it the less we shall
like it. Interpreter!"
The forlorn little man, already described, trotted up, and saluted
with open hand, French fashion. His name was Baptiste Bombominet ("or
words to that effect," as the Adjutant put it), and may have been so
inscribed upon the regimental roll; but throughout the rank and file
Baptiste was affectionately known by the generic title of "Alphonso."
The previous seven years had been spent by him in the congenial and
blameless atmosphere of a Ladies' Tailor's in the west end of London,
where he enjoyed the status and emoluments of chief cutter. Now,
called back to his native land by the voice of patriotic obligation,
he found himself selected, by virtue of a residence of seven years in
England, to act as official interpreter between a Scottish Regiment
which could not speak English, and Flemish peasants who could not
speak French. No wonder that his pathetic brown eyes always appeared
full of tears. However, he followed Cockerell down the street, and
meekly embarked upon a contest with the lady Inhabitants thereof, in
which he was hopelessly outmatched from the start.
At the first door a dame of massive proportions, but keen business
instincts, announced her total inability to accommodate _soldats_, but
explained that she would be pleased to entertain _officiers_ to any
number. This is a common gambit. Twenty British privates in your
_grenier_, though extraordinarily well-behaved as a class, make a good
deal of noise, buy little, and leave mud everywhere. On the other
hand, two or three officers give no trouble, and can be relied upon to
consume and pay for unlimited omelettes and bowls of coffee.
That seasoned vessel, Lieutenant Cockerell, turned promptly to the
Sergeant and Corporal of "C" Company.
"Sergeant M'Nab," he said, "you and Corporal Downie will billet here."
He introduced hostess and guests by an expressive wave of the hand.
But shrewd Madame was not to be bluffed.
"_Pas de sergents, Monsieur le Capitaine!_" she exclaimed.
"_Officiers!_"
"_Ils sont officiers--sous-officiers_," explained Cockerell, rather
ingeniously, and moved off down the street.
At the next house the owner--a small, wizened lady of negligible
physique but great staying power--entered upon a duet with Alphonso,
which soon reduced that very moderate performer to breathlessness. He
shrugged his shoulders feebly, and cast an appealing glance towards
the Lieutenant.
"What does she say?" inquired Cockerell.
"She say dis' ouse no good, sair! She 'ave seven children, and one
_malade_--seek."
"Let me see," commanded the practical officer.
He insinuated himself as politely as possible past his reluctant
opponent, and walked down the narrow passage into the kitchen. Here he
turned, and inquired--
"Er--_ou est la pauvre petite chose?_"
Madame promptly opened a door, and displayed a little girl in bed--a
very flushed and feverish little girl.
Cockerell grinned sympathetically at the patient, to that young lady's
obvious gratification; and turned to the mother.
"_Je suis tres--triste_," he said; "_j'ai grand miséricorde. Je ne
placerai pas de soldats ici. Bon jour!_"
By this time he was in the street again. He saluted politely and
departed, followed by the grateful regards of Madame.
No special difficulties were encountered at the next few houses. The
ladies at the house-door were all polite; many of them were most
friendly; but naturally each was anxious to get as few men and as many
officers as possible--except the proprietess of an _estaminel_, who
offered to accommodate the entire regiment. However, with a little
tact here and a little firmness there, Master Cockerell succeeded in
distributing "C" Company among some dozen houses. One old gentleman,
with a black alpaca cap and a six-days beard, proprietor of a
lofty establishment at the corner of the street, proved not only
recalcitrant, but abusive. With him Cockerell dealt promptly.
"_Ça suffit_!" he announced. "_Montres-moi votre grenier!_"
The old man, grumbling, led the way up numerous rickety staircases
to the inevitable loft under the tiles. This proved to be a noble
apartment thirty feet long. From wall to wall stretched innumerable
strings.
"We can get a whole platoon in here," said Cockerell contentedly.
"Tell him, Alphonso. These people," he explained to Sergeant M'Nab,
"always dislike giving up their lofts, because they hang their laundry
there in winter. However, the old boy must lump it. After all, we are
in this country for his health, not ours; and he gets paid for every
man who sleeps here. That fixes 'C' Company. Now for 'D'! The other
side of the street this time."
Quarters were found in due course for "D" Company; after which
Cockerell discovered a vacant building-site which would serve
for transport lines. An empty garage was marked down for the
Quartermaster's ration store, and the Quartermaster-Sergeant promptly
faded into its recesses with a grateful sigh. An empty shop in the
Rue Jean Jacques Rousseau, conveniently adjacent to Battalion
Headquarters, was appropriated for that gregarious band, the
regimental signallers and telephone section; while a suitable home for
the Anarchists, or Bombers, together with their stock-in-trade, was
found in the basement of a remote dwelling on the outskirts of the
area.
After this, Lieutenant Cockerell, left alone with Alphonso and the
orderly in charge of his horse, heaved a sigh of exhaustion and
transferred his attention from his notebook to his watch.
"That finishes the rank and file," he said. "I breakfasted at four
this morning, and the battalion won't arrive for a couple of hours
yet. Alphonso, I am going to have an omelette somewhere. I shall want
you in half an hour exactly. Don't go wandering off for the rest of
the day, pinching soft billets for yourself and the Sergeant-Major and
your other pals, as you usually do!"
Alphonso saluted guiltily--evidently the astute Cockerell had "touched
the spot"--and was turning away, when suddenly the billeting officer's
eye encountered an illegible scrawl at the very foot of his list.
"Stop a moment, Alphonso! I have forgotten those condemned
machine-gunners, as usual. _Strafe_ them! Come on! Once more into the
breach, Alphonso! There is a little side-alley down here that we have
not tried."
The indefatigable Cockerell turned down the Rue Gambetta, followed by
Alphonso, faint but resigned.
"Here is the very place!" announced Cockerell almost at once. "This
house, Number Five. We can put the gunners and their little guns into
that stable at the back, and the officer can have a room in the house
itself. _Sonnez_, for the last time before lunch!"
The door was opened by a pleasant-faced young woman of about
thirty, who greeted Cockerell--tartan is always popular with French
ladies--with a beaming smile, but shook her head regretfully upon
seeing the _billet de logement_ in his hand. The inevitable duet with
Alphonso followed. Presently Alphonso turned to his superior.
"Madame is ver' sorry, sair, but an _officier_ is here already."
"Show me the _officier_!" replied the prosaic Cockerell.
The duet was resumed.
"Madame say," announced Alphonso presently, "that the _officier_ is
not here now; but he will return."
"So will Christmas! Meanwhile I am going to put an _Emma Gee_ officer
in here."
Alphonso's desperate attempt to translate the foregoing idiom into
French was interrupted by Madame's retirement into the house, whither
she beckoned Cockerell to follow her. In the front room she produced a
frayed sheet of paper, which she proffered with an apologetic smile.
The paper said:--
_This billet is entirely reserved for the Supply Officer of this
District. It is not to be occupied by troops passing through the town.
By Order_.
Lieutenant Cockerell whistled softly and vindictively through his
teeth.
"Well," he said, "for consummate and concentrated nerve, give me the
underlings of the A.S.C.! This pot-bellied blighter not only butts
into an area which doesn't belong to him, but actually leaves a chit
to warn people off the grass even when he isn't here! He hasn't
signed the document, I observe. That means that he is a newly joined
subaltern, trying to get mistaken for a Brass Hat! I'll fix _him_!"
With great stateliness Lieutenant Cockerell tore the offending
screed into four portions, to the audible concern of Madame. But the
Lieutenant smiled reassuringly upon her.
"_Je vous donnerai un autre, vous savez_," he assured her.
He sat down at the table, tore a leaf from his Field Service Pocket
Book, and wrote:--
_The Supply Officer of the District is at liberty to occupy this
billet only at such times as it is not required by the troops of the
Combatant Services.
Signed, F.J. Cockerell,
Lieut. & Asst. Adj.,
7th B. & W. Highes_.
"That's a pretty nasty one!" he observed with relish. Then, having
pinned the insulting document conspicuously to the mantelpiece, he
observed to the mystified lady of the house:--
"_Voilà, Madame. Si l'officier reviendra, je le verrai moi-même, avec
grand plaisir. Bon jour_!"
And with this dark saying Sparrow Cockerell took his departure.