Page:Punch Vol 148.djvu/154
SELECT CONVERSATIONS.
(At about three o'clock in the morning.)
At the War Office.
Myself. I want to see Lord Kitchener, please.
Policeman. Quite impossible, Sir.
Myself (coldly handing card). I don't think you realise who I am.
Policeman (much impressed). This way, Sir.
[I ascend the secret staircase, pat the bloodhounds chained outside the sanctum, and enter.
Kitchener (sternly). Good morning; what can I do for you?
Myself (simply). I have come to offer my services to the War Office.
Kitchener. Have you had any previous military experience?
Myself. None at all, Sir.
Kitchener (warmly). Excellent. The very man we want. You will bring an absolutely fresh and unbiassed mind to the problem before us. Sit down. (I sit down.) You have a plan for defeating the Germans? Quite so. Now—er—roughly, what would your idea be?
Myself (waving arm). Roughly, Sir, a broad sweeping movement.
Kitchener (replacing ink-pot and getting to work with the blotting-paper). Excellent.
Myself. The details I should work out later. I think perhaps I had better explain them personally to Sir Joyn French and General Joffre.
Kitchener. I agree. You will be attached to Sir John's Staff, with the rank of Major. I shall require you to leave for the Front to-night. Good day, Major.
[We salute each other, and the scene changes.
At General Headquarters.
French. Ah, how do you do, Major? We have been waiting for you.
Myself. How do you do, Sir? (To Joffre, slowly) Comment vous portez-vous?
Joffre. Thank you; I speak English.
Myself (a little disappointed). Good.
French. Now then, Major, let us hear your plan.
Myself. Well, roughly it is a broad sweeping move——— I beg your pardon, Sir!
Joffre (with native politeness). Not at all, Monsieur.
Myself (stepping back so as to have more room)—a broad sweeping movement. More particularly my idea is———
[It is a curious thing, but I can never remember the rest of these speech when I wake up. I know it disclosed a very masterly piece of tactics... the region of the Argonne, a point d'appui... Nom, it has gone again. But I fancy the word "wedge" came in somewhere.]
French. Marvellous!
Joffre. Magnifique!
Myself (modestly). Of course it's only an idea I jotted down on the boat, but I think there's something in it.
French. My dear Major, you have saved Europe.
Joffre (unpinning medal from his coat). In the name of France I give you this. But you have a medal already, Monsieur?
Myself (proudly). My special constable's badge, General. I shall be proud to see the other alongside it.
The scene fades.
[I can only suppose that at this moment I am moved by the desire to save useless bloodshed, for I next find myself with the enemy.]
At Potsdam.
Kaiser (eagerly). Ah, my good Tirpitz, what news of our blockade?
Myself (removing whiskers). No, William, not Tirpitz!
Kaiser. An Englishman!
Myself. An Englishman—and come to beg you to give up the struggle.
Kaiser. Never, while there is breath in man or horse!
Myself. One moment. Let me tell you what is about to happen. On my advice the Allies are making a broad swee——— Put back your sword, Sire. I am not going to strike you—a broad sweeping movement through Germany.
Kaiser (going pale). We are undone. It is the end of all. And this was your idea?
Myself. My own, your Majesty.
Kaiser (eagerly). Would an Iron Cross and a Barony tempt you to join us? Only a brain like yours could defeat such a movement.
Myself (with dignity). As a Major and a gentleman———
Kaiser. Enough. I feared it was useless. (Gloomily) We surrender.
The scene closes.
[The final scene is not so clear in my memory that I can place it with confidence upon paper. But the idea of it is this.]
At ——— Palace.
A Certain Person. Your country can never sufficiently reward you, Major, but we must do what we can. I confer on you the V.C., the D.S.O., the M.V.O., the P.T.O. and the P. and O. The payment of a special grant of £5,000 a year for life will be proposed in the House to-morrow.
Myself. Thank you, Sir. As for the grant, I shall value it more for the spirit which prompted it than for its actual——— Did you say five thousand, Sir?
[At this point I realise with horror that I have only a very short vest on, and with a great effort I wake... The papers seem very dull at breakfast.]
A. A. M.
THE SOLDIER'S ENGLAND.
And seemed to be the place to fit
My size of man; and I'd to stop
And make believe I fancied it—
That and a yearly glimpse of mountain blue,
A book or two.
I see it well in one who's come
From where he left his home and boat
By Cornish coasts, whose rollers drum
Their English music on an English shore
Right at his door.
Has found an England he can love,
Hacking out coal. He's learnt her well
Though mines are narrow and, above,
The dingy houses set in dreary rows,
Seem all he knows.
Says England, stretching far beyond
Her narrow borders, means a host
Of countries where her word's her bond
Because she's steadfast, everywhere the same,
To play the game.
Thinks England is a garden where
There blooms in English speech and ways,
Nurtured in faith and thought we share,
A fellowship of pride we make our own,
And ours alone.
Too big for shallow words to hold.
We tell our bit and halt, ashamed,
Feeling the things that can't be told;
And so we're one and all in camp to-night,
And come to fight.
"No judgment of recent years has aroused more widespread interest than that of Mr. Justice Bargrave Deane, in which he decided that the Slingsby baby was the son of his mother."—Evening News.
Wonderful men our judges.