Page:Punch Vol 148.djvu/296

Study of a Patriotic Gentleman in his Home Turkish Bath―of course bought before the War.

Dear Charles,―Agréez, M'sicur, mes what-d'-you-call-'ems, and have the goodness to believe that your old watch dog has broken loose from his kennel, swum the English Channel, and is now pushing along in cattle trucks or on his flat feet towards the dog-fight proper. Up to now we have heard no more of it than the barking of very distant guns, but by the time you read this we hope to be getting our own first bite. I may say now that I think we should have had some difficulty in keeping our pack in order had it not been for this move to the area of more serious activities.

Our first performance upon landing in France was to whistle "The Maseillaise," an act of friendship and courtesy long premeditated in the ranks. This created a deep impression, but mostly among ourselves. In fact all of us were a little disappointed at the lack of enthusiasm upon our arrival; we had expected the inhabitants to turn out en masse (or bloc) and shout themselves hoarse at the sight of us. Two facts had, however, escaped our anticipation; the first, that the hour would be 7 A.M., an early time for wild enthusiasm; the second, that we should not be the first to arrive by some hundreds of thousands.

Our military ardour was not the only thing about us to be damped on that morning. There was a light drizzle, also sent from heaven to make us realise from the start that this outing is not a picnic; and when eventually we reached our temporary canvas home and nestled down as best we might amongst the mud, there were not a few of us who felt that there was, after all, something to be said for the dull but comfortable round of home life. From what I have seen already, I doubt if the domestic side of war has ever before been so well catered for, but even so it is distinguishable from a pure beano. It has, however, its lighter side, as for instance when I go shopping in the villages for the officers' mess. One has to have read with deep concentration to be able to remember at the pinch how to demand a dish-cloth in an intelligible fashion. We feed almost entirely off pork chops at the moment, owing to my personal tendency to crack my little jest with the village butchers. For when I have done with business my butchers and I turn to discuss the friendship of the Allies and the detestability of the foe. It is always, "À bas le Kaiser!" from me; "C'est un cochon," from them, and the rejoinder from myself "Ça me gere un peu d'acheter des côtelletes de cochon." And so that no butcher in France may miss this jeu de mot, my unhappy mess must continue eating pork chops till we have settled down.

I started composing this letter in a first-class carriage. I continued it in a lonely tent, writing upon a biscuit box. again in a cattle truck, again in an expansive château, deserted by its owner but furnished splendidly with every modern convenience. I conclude in the sole tap-room of a not unthirsty village. The room is fifteen feet square; it is at once the local bar, the battalion headquarters, the mess and the bedroom of half-a-dozen officers, including myself. And when you consider further that le patron and his family of five also inhabit it you may imagine that at times it is almost congested. But for the competence of Madame his wife I think we should not long survive. M'sieur stands always in the middle of the room contemplating the complex situation with an expression of inscrutable gloom. By the stove, upon which the meals of all of us are cooked, sits permanently the pallid eldest son, who is said to be an invalid but is really a wastrel. He is there when I go to sleep; he is there when I wake up. But I have my suspicions that he moves about a little in the meanwhile, when there is no one awake to be interested in his maladies. The younger son is as bright a lad as you could wish to meet. He smokes a pipe (with some inner reluctance, I think), swears in English, and has innumerable boon companions among the early-rising labourers of the place. I woke up this morning to find a couple of them sitting on the end of my valise and me, drinking their first cup of café. By the time I was thoroughly roused the whole family were at their several posts in various corners of the room. It was essential for me to rise and shave myself; it was also essential for la patronne to cook upon the stove. But "toujours la politesse," and the worst may be passed off with a jest, so as I lay upon the floor and Madame bustled about I conversed affably with her, starting with her business, proceeding to the general excellence of her cooking, suggesting dishes most worth eating, specifying pork chops in particular, and ending triumphantly with the cochon jest. After that an atmosphere was created in which anything might be done without offence.

Meanwhile, always in the distance (now the nearer distance) is the booming of the guns. I suppose the trenches are about a dozen miles away and that we may be in them at any time now. Well, we are all ready for it and are asking no questions. For my part, however, I cannot help wondering inwardly how it is that men can keep on killing each other in this methodical and deliberate fashion. Nobody is in a hurry; nobody is in the least excited, and I am quite sure that if there was a picture palace in the place we should all crowd into it for the sake of distraction. Châteaux or tap-rooms, battles or marketing, one takes it, apparently, as it comes, trusting that Mr. Asquith or someone has his eye on the progress of events. However, by the next time I write I hope I'll have something more moving to write about; but I doubt it, Charles, I doubt it. We shall have got there all right, but I am beginning to suspect that even when we do we shall find nothing but a turnip field and a deep ditch in which shall stay till we are told to come out. There'll be a noise, of course; but what good will that be? Nobody will be able to look over the top and see what the noise is all about. None the less I will tell you the facts as soon as I get news of them.

Yours ever, Henry.