Chapter 2

MR. PUNCH'S WAR CORRESPONDENCE.

NEW STYLE.

Hearing that the German troops were advancing from the North-East along the line Malines--Mons--Mezières--Soissons--Verdun--Belfort, I immediately made off due South-West for a reason I may not give. I managed with the utmost difficulty to find someone to carry my kit, but at length persuaded an old peasant whom I found weeding (probably the last weeds he would ever dig) to act as my courier, and even then I had to resort to the vulgar strategy of pretending to be a Uhlan.

We joined the throng boarding an old motor-bus (6-1/2 h.p.). There was nothing to show to outward appearance that the dreaded Germans were within 250 miles of the little townlet where I found myself (name suppressed). After booking my room at the only decent hotel in the place, I cast about for something to eat. Alas, the only eatables were roast duck and apple tart (the last probably we should ever see). I then unpacked my kit, and after folding my riding breeches I placed them under the mattress, wondering when I should take them out again. It is curious how even the simplest necessities of life mechanically assert themselves in the midst of the most strenuous and adventurous circumstances.

Troops, troops, troops, and yet again troops. And people still go on living their daily lives. I saw two men seated in a _café_ playing draughts, and they quarrelled over a move as though they had never heard tell of the KAISER. Such is _la guerre_. I am rapidly polishing up my French which I learnt at ----, how many years ago I may not say.

We know little of the German plans, and that much it is useless for me to communicate as the Censor is stopping all news of any interest. But this we do know here in our little town of ---- that the KAISER will undoubtedly defeat the English armies if he can. To-day I saw an officer who had been sent back to count the milk-cans on a large dairy-farm (probably the last cans he would ever count); as he clattered down the road, mounted on his charger, I stepped in front of him and held up my hand, in which was a recent copy of _The Daily Cry and Echo_. The officer with difficulty stopped, as his horse reared on seeing the paper in my hand. I then asked him where he would advise me to go, as I wanted to be where the fire was hottest. He at once told me to go to (name withheld). I often think of that gay young officer and wonder what he is doing.

To-night I sat up late (how late we used to sit up in London!) sewing a button on my (word excised) and darning one of the legs. I am now dashing this off to catch the morning post (probably the last post that will ever leave for England). I could not sleep for thinking that in a few days' time I may hear the boom-boom-boom of the German 17.44 guns, the sound of which has been likened to a puppy yelping. Such is war.

I hope later on to send an important document dealing with the dispositions of the various armies engaged. I have been fortunate enough to get a glimpse of plans not more than a month old which a Colonel of Howitzers carelessly left in the pocket of his bathing-suit.

* * * * *

Illustration: _Mabel._ "MOTHER, DEAR! I DO HOPE THIS WAR WON'T BE OVER BEFORE I FINISH MY SOCK!"

* * * * *

"HOT PURSUIT.

BRITISH PRESS ON HEELS OF ENEMY."

_People._

At last the British Press is getting to the front.

* * * * *

We are officially informed that, when every cat and dog in the German Empire has been enrolled and armed, each cat will be allowed to provide its own kit.

* * * * *

"Physically, Mr. Owen is a fine type, and his height is almost double that of the originator of the Welsh Army Corps--the Chancellor of the Exchequer.--_Western Mail._"

If we allow Mr. OWEN a generous 8 feet, this would make Mr. LLOYD GEORGE about 4 ft. 2 in. He _must_ be taller than that.

* * * * *

THE CHOICE.

The scene was Maida Vale--in the home of Julius Blumenbach, an Englishman of one generation.

"Well, my dear," said Mr. Blumenbach on his return from his office, "it won't do. The time has come to take the plunge. We have often talked about it, but now we must act. Only this morning I received five letters closing the account--all because of the name."

"You know I have urged it on you often enough," said Mrs. Blumenbach. "And not only have I thought it necessary, but my relatives have urged it too."

Mr. Blumenbach repressed a gesture of impatience. "I know, I know," he said. "Well, we must do it. _The Times_ has a dozen notices of changed names every day."

"The question is what shall the new one be?" his wife replied. "We must remember it's not only for ourselves and the business, but it will be so much better for the boys, too, when they go to Eton. A good name--but what?"

"That's it," said Mr. Blumenbach. "That's the difficulty. Now I've got a little list here. I have been jotting down names that took my fancy for some time past. Of course there are many people who merely translate their German names, but I think we ought to go farther than that. We ought to be thorough while we are about it."

"Yes, and let us be very careful," said Mrs. Blumenbach. "It's a great responsibility--a critical moment. It's almost as critical as--for a woman--marriage. Let us take a really nice name."

"Of course," said her husband. "That goes without saying."

"Yes," she continued, "but a name that goes well with 'Sir' or 'Lady.' You never know, you know."

"I don't see, myself, that 'Sir Julius Blumenbach' would sound so bad," said her husband; "I've heard worse."

"But 'Sir Julius Kitchener,' for example, would sound better," said Mrs. Blumenbach.

Mr. Blumenbach started. "You don't really suggest--" he began.

"No, I don't," she replied. "But I want you to see that while we're about it we may as well be thorough. If at the present moment we have a name which is disliked here, how much wiser, when taking another, to choose one which is popular!"

"True," Mr. Blumenbach said. "But 'Kitchener.' Isn't that----"

"Too far? Perhaps so," said his wife. "Then what about 'French'?"

"A little too short," said her husband. "I favour three syllables."

"Then 'Smith-Dorrien'?"

"Oh, let's be shy of hyphens," he replied.

"Why?" she asked. "I've always had rather a partiality for them. They're very classy in England, too, as you would know if you were as English as I am."

"I am English!" said Mr. Blumenbach fiercely.

"Yes, dear, but not quite so---- Still, let us pass that over. The point is----"

"No hyphens, anyway," said Mr. Blumenbach. "They're dangerous. They carry too much family history. No, a straightforward plain name is best. Like, say, 'Macdonald.'"

"Scotch?"

"Yes, why not?"

"I hadn't been thinking that way," said Mrs. Blumenbach, "but I agree--why not 'Sir Julius Macdonald'? Yes, that's all right."

"Or 'Mackenzie'?" said Mr. Blumenbach, consulting his list.

"I prefer 'Macdonald.'"

"Or 'Macintosh'?"

"No, no."

"Or 'Abercrombie'?"

"Too long."

"'Lauder'?"

"No, I think not."

"He's very popular."

"I know; but the music-hall? No," said Mrs. Blumenbach, taking up a pen, "let it be 'Macdonald.'" She traced the name. "Good heavens!" she exclaimed suddenly, dropping the pen and pushing away the paper with a gesture of finality, "of course it can't be that."

"Why ever not?" Mr. Blumenbach insisted.

"Fancy you not knowing!" Mrs. Blumenbach replied. "You of all people! Why, think of the linen and the silver--all the monograms. Everything would have to be marked afresh. It must begin with B, of course."

"Of course," said Mr. Blumenbach, mopping his brow as the terrible truth broke on him, "of course! What an idiot I have been! Of course it must begin with B. The expense!"

"But fancy you not thinking of that!" Mrs. Blumenbach insisted.

"Yes, fancy. It's worry over the war. I'm not myself."

"Poor dear! You can't be," said his wife. "Well, what shall we do now?"

"It's all right," said Mr. Blumenbach. "I'll go to the British Museum to look out the B's in the Edinburgh Directory."

"Do, dear, do!" said his wife, and he hurried for his hat. "Just to think of you not thinking of that!" she repeated, as he bade her farewell.

"Yes, indeed!" he replied. "But it's the war, I'm sure. I'm sure it's the war."

Later in the day he returned, a potential Sir Julius Bannockburn.

* * * * *

Illustration: _Enthusiast_ (_explaining the situation_). "LET THIS 'ERE MEAT-AXE BE THE RUSSIANS A-COMIN' IN ON THE EAST; THE CARVIN'-KNIFE'S THE FRENCHIES ALONG 'ERE; OUR BOYS IS THE MUSTARD-POT; AND 'ERE'S THE GERMANS--THIS 'ERE PLATE O' TRIPE."

* * * * *

SHAKSPEARE GERMANISED.

One touch of NIETZSCHE makes the whole world sin.

* * * * *

SOUND AND FURY.

A double Dutch Agency circulates a report of a great patriotic concert recently held in Berlin. The programme, which is printed on a mere scrap of paper, was as follows:--

A GRAND PRUSSIAN PATRIOTIC CONCERT

IN AID OF THE GERMAN GOVERNMENT WAR FUND

Will be held in the DISMANTLED BRITISH EMBASSY.

* * *

PROGRAMME.

I.

SELECTION: "Hail, Smiling Marne." _Band of the Imperial Prussian Guard._

II.

SONG: "Father, dear Father, come Home with me now." _Words and music by the GERMAN CROWN PRINCE._

III.

BANJO RECITAL: "The Sally of our Ally." _Words and music by the Emperor FRANCIS JOSEPH._

IV.

CHORUS: "Forty Years On." _Setting arranged by Count VON MOLTKE the Second._

V.

SONG: "Oft in the Stilly Night." _Words and music by COUNT ZEPPELIN, composer of "What does little Birdie say?"_

VI.

RECITAL: "The Blue Carpathian Mountains." _The Viennese Orchestra._

VII.

HUMOROUS SONG: "The Bonny Bonny Banks." _Arranged by the Imperial Minister of Finance._

VIII.

SONG: "And Nobody cares for Me!" _Respectfully dedicated to the GERMAN EMPEROR._

IX.

GRAND PATRIOTIC CHORUS (in which the audience is requested to join):

"PRUSSIA EXPECTS THAT EVERY MAN THIS DAY WILL GRAB HIS BOOTY."

* * * * *

Illustration: "GREAT SCOTT! I MUST DO SOMETHING. DASHED IF I DON'T GET SOME MORE FLAGS FOR THE OLD JIGGER!"

* * * * *

THE STEEPLE.

There's mist in the hollows, There's gold on the tree, And South go the swallows Away over sea.

They home in our steeple That climbs in the wind, And, parson and people, We welcome 'em kind.

The steeple was set here In 1266; If WILLIAM could get here He'd burn it to sticks.

He'd burn it for ever, Bells, belfry and vane, That swallows would never Come home there again.

He'd bang down their perches With cannon and gun, For churches is churches, And WILLIAM'S a Hun.

So--mist in the hollow And leaf falling brown-- Ere home comes the swallow May WILLIAM be down!

And high stand the steeples From Lincoln to Wells, For parsons and peoples, For birds and for bells!

* * * * *

"It makes things clearer, for example, if one knows that a howitzer gun drops its shells, while an ordinary field gun fires them to all intents and purposes vertically."

_Weekly Dispatch._

Much clearer.

* * * * *

Illustration: _Youthful Patriot._ "Oh, mummy, you _must_ speak to baby: he's most awfully naughty. He won't let nurse take his vest off, and (_in an awe-struck voice_) he keeps on screaming and yelling that _he likes the Germans_! _Anybody_ might hear him."

* * * * *

A WAR-HORSE OF THE KING.

I knew you in the first flight of the Quorn, One who never turned his gallant head aside From bank or ditch, from double rail or thorn, Or from any brook however deep and wide; I know the love your owner on you spent; I know the price he put upon your speed; And I know he gave you freely, well content, When his country called upon him in her need.

I have seen you in the bondage of the camp With a heel-rope on a pastern raw and red, Up and fighting at the stable-picket's tramp With the courage of the way that you were bred; I have seen you standing, broken, in the rain, Lone and fretting for a yesterday's caress; I have seen your valour spur you up again From the sorrow that your patient eyes express.

Now in dreams I see your squadron at the Front, You a war-horse with a hero on your back, Taking bugles for the horn-blast of the hunt, Taking musketry for music of the pack; Made and mannered to the pattern of the rest, Gathered foam--and maybe blood--upon your rein, You'll be up among the foremost and the best, Or we'll never trust in Leicestershire again!

* * * * *

IN A GOOD CAUSE.

War or no war, the children must have their Christmas presents, and they wouldn't look at the usual toys made in Germany, even if they could be had this year. The Women's Emergency Corps has the matter in hand. Some fascinating models have been designed and registered, and many women who were in need of work are engaged in copying them under skilled direction. Funds are needed badly at the start, though the scheme will eventually support itself. For the children's sake, and even more for the sake of the women-breadwinners to whom the war has brought distress, _Mr. Punch_ begs his generous friends to help this work. Gifts should be sent to The Duchess of Marlborough, Old Bedford College, 8, York Place, Baker Street, W.

* * * * *

IN MEMORY.

TO THOSE WHO DIED IN THE EARLY DAYS OF THE WAR.

Not theirs to triumph yet; but, where they stood, Falling, to dye the earth with brave men's blood For England's sake and duty. Be their name Sacred among us. Wouldst thou seek to frame Their fitting epitaph? Then let it be Simple, as that which marked Thermopylæ:-- "_Tell it in England, thou that passest by, Here faithful to their charge her soldiers lie._"

* * * * *

Illustration: THE GREAT GOTH.

DESIGN FOR A STAINED-GLASS WINDOW IN A NEO-GOTHIC CATHEDRAL AT POTSDAM.

* * * * *

Illustration: _Newly-gazetted Subaltern._ "GIRLS! GIRLS! YOU REALLY MUSTN'T CROWD ROUND ME LIKE THIS. I'VE MISSED TWO SALUTES ALREADY."

* * * * *

OUR DUMB ENEMIES.

Although the German army already owes much of its efficiency to useful hints garnered from the animal kingdom--such as the goose-step, which has been employed with such conspicuous success in the streets of Brussels--we were hardly prepared for the far-reaching mobilisation of the more familiar mammals which is now foreshadowed. It is true that we had already been much impressed by the KAISER'S threat to continue the war to the last breath of man and horse, but it is none the less startling to learn, on American authority, that the German Government would, at a pinch, be prepared to arm every cat and dog in the Empire. It will thus be open to the future historian to speak of "the cats of war."

There is another branch of the community which should not be overlooked--if the KAISER is willing to take a suggestion--in the form of the domestic cattle of the Fatherland. These, we believe, are admirably adapted to attack in close formation upon entrenched positions. And much might be done with the rats from the cellars of Munich--than which no finer natural warriors exist.

But the new menace must be met. Fortunately, if zoological warfare is to become an accomplished fact, the British Empire has great untapped resources. It is rumoured that a Camel Corps has been despatched from India already, and a squadron of elephants should be a match for a whole Army Corps of dachshunds.

On the whole we welcome the new departure. It may lead--who knows?--to the establishment of a higher standard in German civilized warfare.

An interesting light has been thrown on this new mobilisation by a letter concealed in the whiskers of the captured mascot (a Tortoiseshell) of a Bavarian regiment. It runs as follows:--

POTSDAM. (Can't divulge address.)

DEAR GRETCHEN,--Awful bad luck for poor Schneider. He went to enlist and was told to register! Of course he's got a streak of the Persian in him on his mother's side, and used to brag about it, as we all know; but now it's done him in the eye, and he's fairly mad. Carl is in the commissariat and tells me we've got three million tins of sardines; so that's all right as far as it goes; but, if there's any weakness in the victualling department, I shall be the first to leave the colours.

They're making one huge mistake. The dogs are called out too. You know what German dogs are--sausage-food, we call them. Of course they'll be cut up and give the show away. But, if they're in the first line with us behind them, they'll have to fight somebody.

Albrecht is in the Royal Blacks (Empress's own). Max has joined the 3rd Tabbies, and I've got a command in the 10th Tortoiseshells.

Your one and only PUSS IN PRUSSIANS.

P.S.--It's a joke with the Tabby regiments that they've got their stripes already.

* * * * *

"Ste. Menehould is 32 miles due west of Verdun. Montfaucon is 18 miles north-east of Ste. Menehould and a dozen miles north-west of Verdun."--_Manchester Guardian._

The War has changed many things; among them the triangle's old habit of having two of its sides together greater than the third. But there; "necessity," as the IMPERIAL CHANCELLOR says, "knows no law."

* * * * *

Illustration: _Humorist (to Cinema Commissionaire)._ "NOW VEN, WILHELM, GIVE US ONE OR TWO GOOSE-STEPS!"

* * * * *

THE WATCH DOGS.

IV.

Dear Charles,--Half-a-dozen officers of _the_ battalion, including your own pet terrier, have got cut off from the main body, but are all alive and well, as you shall hear. We have come down from our war to our peace station in order to gather together the few hundred recruits who have been enrolled to bring up the brigade to its proper establishment, and fill the places of those luckless fellows whose flesh was too weak for Imperial service, however willing their spirit might have been. I must say I was more sorry for the "medically unfit" than I have ever been for anyone in this hard world, when we took affectionate leave of them.

The recruit is an excellent fellow, whose only fault is that he didn't start before. Now and then he is a plutocrat, as I have found to my cost. It was my first job to prearrange the lodging of two hundred of them in their temporary billet, an unoccupied mansion originally designed to house twenty persons at the outside. There was an overflow, as you may imagine, which had to be lodged in the outhouses. The garage I marked out for twenty-five, leaving it to themselves to decide whether or not the inspection-pit was the place of honour reserved for the N.C.O. in charge. Other business prevented my receiving them at the front gate and conducting them to their several rooms. When I did arrive on the scene it was my heartrending duty to explain to Privates Anstruther and Vernon that the reason why they couldn't find their bedroom was because they had filled it with their motor-cars. But it is wonderful how people can settle down to anything; an hour later I found the twenty-five of them comfortably tucked in for the night, crooning unanimously, "There's no place like home!" To-day they have chalked up on the wall, "The Ritz Private Boarding Establishment; well-aired beds; bring your own straw. Excellent cuisine. _No_ garage."

This is the sort of remark which, as you go the rounds of the mess tables, you have to pretend you have not heard: "The officer wants to know if you have all got plenty of potatoes. Every man stand up and say 'I have';" and, to demonstrate the _camaraderie_ which exists in the hard circumstances of military life, "George, lend me your slice of bacon to clean my knife with." The most moving reply I have personally received came from one of the less-educated section. I asked to what company he was attached, and he didn't know. "Who is your captain?" I said. "'Im with the scuppered 'at," was the descriptive reply. Captain Herne has since lectured his gang on the rudiments of military discipline, first, however, replenishing his neglected equipment.

And now let us turn from the domestic aspect to the infantry training, and let me tell you all about outposts, their duty and their manner of performing it. Outpost companies, it must be remembered, do their work at night. I don't know, Charles, whether you have ever sat under a hedge for hours on end in the dark, waiting the approach of the enemy. It must be bad enough in real warfare, where there is a chance of his turning up; but in practice it is worse, for there is the certainty that he _must_ turn up. He left the camp an hour before you did yourself, and, if he does succeed in getting through your lines, he'll never let you hear the last of it.

Now you must remember that my fellows had spent many weary days "sloping arms," only to unslope them again almost immediately, and in other sufficiently bloodless pursuits. They are naturally of a pugilistic breed, and the attacking party comprised old-time opponents. Constant efforts to keep a watch in the dark are trying to the nerves, and when something substantial does emerge which one may get a grip on ... what use is it for an officer to say that no violence is required and enough is done for present purposes if the enemy is successfully observed and quietly apprehended? The first enemy to approach turned out, on arrest, to be just an innocuous cow; but this disappointment served only to make the aspect of my men even more menacing. The next arrival was a hapless scout of the attacking party: he had come to surprise, but was himself violently surprised. What advice and exhortations I had to give were lost in the hubbub. "Put up your fists, chaps, and let him have it!" was the order, which was obeyed. The necessity for silence was forgotten; here was something upon which to wreak all the pent-up feelings consequent upon a month's perusal of German atrocities. It was excusable, if unsporting, for the scout to bite the thumb of his nearest assailant--and a good thorough bite it was. It fell to my lot later to dress the wound; as I did so the casualty explained to me fully and often the exact circumstances of the case. But he was not angry about it; far from it. With an expression of feature combining interested enquiry with perfect readiness to accept whatever might be in the proper order of infantry training, he said, "And then 'e bit me thumb, Sir. Was that right?"