I cannot conceal from myself that I am a great acquisition to the
Army of Occupation. My knowledge of the language being far and away
superior to that of any other British officer for miles around, I am
looked upon by the natives as a sort of high military authority in
whom they may have the privilege and the pleasure of confiding all
their troubles. According to the intensity of their various desires
I am addressed _crescendo_ as "Herr Ober-Leutenant," or "Herr
Hauptmann," or "Herr Majeur," or "Herr Commandant." They always
approach me in a becomingly servile attitude--cap or hat in hand--and
await with obvious tension my weighty pronouncements. They hide round
corners and wait behind doors or down narrow passages until I come
past, and then they spring out on me.
"What about the coal we are burning? The electric light we are using?
Who is going to pay?" "So-and-so's charlady, who was out obliging
another lady, had a breadknife pinched while she was away from home.
Was it one of my _Soldaten_, perhaps? Did I know anything about it,
and if so, would I punish the evildoer and restore the implement?"
The village expert in calf-delivery wants to know whether, in the case
of the happy event taking place after 9 P.M. (which it usually does),
I would give him permission to leave his home after closing hours, so
that he might assist at the function.
The local yokels of this spot and its neighbouring villages want to
resume their bi-weekly choral society meetings but cannot reach
the rendezvous until 8.45 P.M., which leaves them just a
quarter-of-an-hour to have their practice and to take cover for the
night. "Would the high-well-born be so fearfully gracious as to allow
them to continue until 10 P.M.?"
To be suddenly taken unawares and to have such conundrums volleyed at
you in a strange tongue is apt to be rather exhausting. However I have
a reputation to live up to and must be as frightful as possible.
I find the best thing to do is to refer them to the nearest
notice-board, which reads:--