Page:Punch Vol 148.djvu/211

Ancient and Philosophic Mariner. "Ay, ay. This War has come on us for our vanity. Babylon fell for its vanity. And there never was as much vanity in Babylon as there was in Port Mugglesby last summer."

When you are in the throes of War the great thing is to eat like a horse. Organisation is the keynote of efficient eating; hence our Mess. We are seven, and take turns at the duties of Mess orderly. When we get into a town, even horses aren't in it with us―for one thing they don't billet horses in towns much. But we have our failures. Witness our stay at Grande Choupe. (Note to Censor.―This name does not exist).

Grande Choupe is a town of no mean aspirations. It can sell you wine and vinegar under the same name. We went there for a seven days' rest, and the cooks promised roast meat nightly.

Wilmot was Mess orderly the first day; he got wine and prunes and hot fried potatoes and other exotics. The meat was a dream, but we had no salt. We almost expelled Wilmot from the Mess to get it; but War has softened us, and we forbore.

Robbins was on next day; he bettered Wilmot by finding a pot of Blunker's Manchester Marmalade in an obscure épicerie―an achievement which impressed us that we all but forgave him for forgetting the salt; but some hard things were said to Maynard, who produced neither salt nor marmalade on the third day.

On the fourth Whipple alleged that he had bought salt and left it in the shop; he put on a great many airs about it and seemed to expect a D.S.O. His behaviour encouraged Decker to make the same omission on the next night.

Then came my turn. I made a knot in my equipment the night before, and thought on the morrow of nothing but salt until I met Warne of the North-East Yorkshires. What with having to salute Warne, and fixing up to feed with his Mess, and swopping lies with him, I somehow―well, anyhow, I was quite glad afterwards I hadn't to dine chez nous.

Then came the seventh and last day, with Dixon on duty. Dixon is one of those thorough men. He does his shopping with little bits of paper. Had Dixon been on earlier our stay would have been a perfect oasis of salt. Dixon went straight out after breakfast and bought salt―a good deal of salt―enough for anything between a battalion and a brigade. We all came and inspected it; we boasted of it to the rest of the section; its fame spread to the rest of the platoon. The rest of the platoon lacks initiative; it accepts saltless roasts in a spirit of dull acquiescence. We took pity on them and lent them salt―as much as they wanted.

That night the cooks―thanks to the A.S.C., and to a great effort on the part of our quartermaster―gave us a change, boiled salt beef.

We never speak of salt in our Mess now.

"Stories of the liner Orduna having flown the American flag on the last stage of her voyage from America, were told by passengers landing at Liverpool last night....

When the Oruna arrived at the landing stage she was not flying the American flag; it was said she lowered it before entering the Mersey.

The Ondura was not bearing her name in the usual prominent places."

Daily Dispatch.

We believe the above vessel is leaving Liverpool again in a few days as the Odruna, and returning from America as the Orduan. It is hoped that before the possible variations of the name have been fully exhausted submarines will have ceased from troubling.

Report from Berlin:―

"Air Raid on Colchester.

Many thousands of natives destroyed in their beds."