The Visiting Brigadier cracked a walnut and glanced towards the
General. "I wonder if you remember a French interpreter by the name of
de Blavincourt, Sir? He was with you once, I believe."
The A.P.M. across the way paused in the act of tapping a cigarette on
his case. "Little gunner man, wore red plush bags and a blue velvet
hat? Yes, up in the salient in '17."
The General puffed three perfect smoke rings towards the chandelier
(an accomplishment he had acquired thirty-five years previously at the
"Shop" and was still proud of) and smiled. "De Blavincourt? why, yes,
I remember him. He knew more about cooking than all the _chefs_ in
Europe and taught my poisoner to make rations taste like food. Of
course I remember him. Why?"
"Because he came my way just at the end of the War and had rather
a curious adventure," said the Brigadier, stirring his coffee. "I
thought you might be interested."
"I am," the General replied. "What happened?"
The Brigadier cleared his throat. "We were in front of Tournai at the
time, scrapping our way from house to house through Faubourg de Lille,
the city's western suburb. My Brigade Major stumped into H.Q. one
afternoon looking pretty grim. 'We'd best move out of here, Sir,' said
he, 'before we're wafted.'
"'What's the matter now?' I asked.
"'That unutterable little fool de Blavincourt has walked into Germany
with a large scale-map in his hand, showing every H.Q. mess and
billet.' He tapped a despatch from the forward battalion.
"De Blavincourt, it appeared, had been at work all the morning
evacuating unfortunate civilians from the cellars. At noon or
thereabouts he sidled along the wall, past a Lewis gun detachment
that was holding the street. The corporal shouted a warning, but de
Blavincourt sidled on, saying that he was only going to the first
house round the corner to rescue some old women he heard were in it.
And that was the last of him. Seeing that the Bosch opened fire from
the said house seven minutes later his fate was obvious.
"It was also obvious what our fate would be if we continued in those
marked billets, so we moved out, bag and baggage, into a sunken road
near by and spent the night there in the rain and muck, and were most
uncomfortable. What puzzled us rather was that the Hun did not shell
our old billets that night--that is, nothing out of the ordinary. 'But
that's only his cunning,' we consoled ourselves; 'he knows we know he
knows, and he's trying to lure us back. Ah, no, old friend.'
"So we camped miserably on in that sunken sewer. He dropped a lucky
one through a barn the same afternoon and lobbed a few wides over
during the next night, but again nothing out of the ordinary.
"We were more and more puzzled. Then, just about breakfast-time on
the second morning, in walks de Blavincourt himself, green as to the
complexion and wounded in the arm, but otherwise intact. I leapt upon
him, snarling, 'Where's that map?'
"'I got 'im, Sir,' he gulped, 'safe' (gulp).
"This was his story. He had remembered the corporal shouting
something, but so intent on his work was he that he hardly noticed the
warning until suddenly, to his horror, he perceived a party of Huns
creeping out of a passage _behind him_. He was cut off! They had not
seen him for the moment, so quick as thought he slipped into the
nearest house, turned into a front room--a sort of parlour place--and
crouched there, wondering what to do.
"He was not left wondering long, for the Bosches followed him into
that very house. There was a small table in one corner covered with
a large cloth. Under this de Blavincourt dived, and not a second too
soon, for the Bosches--seven of them--followed him into that very room
and, setting up their machine gun at the window, commenced to pop
off down the street. Charming state of affairs for little de
Blavincourt--alone and unarmed in a room full of bristling Huns with
that fatal map in his possession.
"Sweating all over he eased the map out of his pocket and slowly and
silently commenced to eat it.
"You know what those things are like. A yard square of tough paper
backed by indestructible calico--one might as well try to devour a
child's rag book.
"Anyhow that's what de Blavincourt did. He ate it, and it took him
forty hours to do the trick. For forty hours day and night he squatted
under that table, with the Huns sitting upon and around it, and gnawed
away at that square yard of calico.
"Just before the dawn of the third day he gulped the last corner down
and peeped out under the tablecloth. The Bosch on guard was oiling
the lock of the machine-gun. Two more he could hear in the kitchen
clattering pots about. The remaining four were asleep, grotesquely
sprawled over sofas and chairs.
"De Blavincourt determined to chance it. He could not stop under the
table for ever, and even at the worst that map, that precious map, was
out of harm's way. He crept stealthily from his hiding-place, dealt
the kneeling Bosch a terrific kick in the small of the back, dived
headlong out of the window and galloped down the street towards our
Lewis gunners, squealing, '_ Friend! Ros'bif! Not'arf!'_--which, in
spite of his three years of interpreting, was all the English he could
muster at the moment. The Huns emptied their automatics after him, but
only one bullet found the target, and that an outer.
"'I weesh it vos t'rough my 'eart,' he told me later, tears rolling
down his cheeks. 'Vot more use to me my life, hein? My stomach she is
for ever ruin.'"