Chapter 2

"What does it feel like to go over the top? The first time it's a rotten feeling, but you get used to that too. War teaches you what you can get used to, by George it does! He wouldn't have believed it, but there--"

And so on. All coming quite naturally and simply; no swank, no false modesty.

"This is his first leave since he went to France, and he thought he must come to see the firm first of all. Sad about poor old Parkins, wasn't it? Killed directly. And Smithers' leg--that was bad too. Rum to see such a lot of girls all over the place, doing the boys' jobs. Well, well, it's a strange world, and who would have thought all this was going to happen?..."

Such is his conversation on the carpet. In the great clerks' room, where there are now so many girls, he is a shade more of a dog. The brave, you know, can't be wholly unconscious of the fair, and as I pass through I catch the same words, but spoken with a slightly more heroic ring.

"Lord, yes, you get used even to going over the top. A rotten feeling the first time, but you get used to it. That's one of the rum things about war, it teaches you what you can get used to. You get apathetic, you know. That's the word--apathetic: used to anything. Standing for hours in water up to your knees. Sleeping among rats." (Here some pretty feminine squeals.) "It is a fact," he swears to them. "Rats running over you half the night, and now and then a shell bursting close by."

Standing at his own old desk as he talks, he looks even taller and stronger than before--by way of contrast, I suppose, and as I pass out I wonder if he will ever be able to bring himself to resume it.

Having occasion, a little while later, to go downstairs among the warehousemen, where female labour has not yet penetrated. I hear him again, and notice that his language has become more free. Safely underground he extends himself a little.

"Over the top?" he is saying. "Yes, three blinking times. What does it feel like the first time? Well--" and he tells them how it feels, in a way that I can't reproduce here, but vivid as lightning compared with his upstairs manner. And still he remains the clean forthright youth who sees his duty a dead sure thing, and does it, even though he may be perplexed now and then.

"So long!" they say, old men-friends and new girl-acquaintances crowding round him as at last he tears himself away (and watching him from the distance I am inclined to think that, if he gets through, he will come back to us after all). "So long!" they say. "Take care of yourself."

"You bet!" he replies. "But the question is, Shall I be allowed to? What price the Hun?" And with a "So long, all!" he is gone.

All over London, in the big towns all over Great Britain, are these triumphant progresses going on.

* * * * *

"Wanted, a good Private Wash; good drying place."--_High Peak News_.

We respect the advertiser's dislike of publicity.

* * * * *

"JONG."

_(Lines suggested by an Australian aboriginal place-name commonly known by its last syllable.)_

Fine names are found upon the map-- Kanturk and Chirk and Cong, Grogtown and Giggleswick and Shap, Chowbent and Chittagong; But other places, less renowned, In richer euphony abound Than the familiar throng; For instance, there is Beeyah-byyah-bunniga-nelliga-jong.

In childhood's days I took delight In LEAR'S immortal Dong, Whose nose was luminously bright, Who sang a silvery song. He did not terrify the birds With strange and unpropitious words Of double-edged _ontong_; I'm sure he hailed from Beeyah-byyah-bunniga-nelliga-jong.

_Prince Giglio's_ bag, the fairy's gift, Helped him to right the wrong, Encouraged diligence and thrift, And "opened with a pong;" But though its magic powers were great It could not quite ejaculate A word so proud and strong And beautiful as Beeyah-byyah-bunniga-nelliga-jong.

I crave no marble pleasure-dome, No forks with golden prong; Like HORACE, in a frugal home I'd gladly rub along, Contented with the humblest cot Or shack or hut, if it had got A name like Billabong, Or, better still, like Beeyah-byyah-bunniga-nelliga-jong.

Sweet is the music of the spheres, Majestic is Mong Blong, And bland the beverage that cheers, Called Sirupy Souchong; But sweeter, more inspiring far Than tea or peak or tuneful star I deem it to belong To such a place as Beeyah-byyah-bunniga-nelliga-jong.

* * * * *

OUR STYLISTS.

"It is the desire of the Management that nothing of an objectionable character shall appear on the stage or in the auditorium, and they ask the co-operation of the audience in suppressing same by apprising them of anything that may escape their notice."

_From a provincial Hippodrome programme._

* * * * *

From the evidence in a juvenile larceny case:--

"The Father: Devils seem to be getting into everyone nowadays, not only in boys, but in human beings."

_Devon and Exeter Gazette_.

A delicate distinction.

* * * * *

* * * * *

A MIXED LETTER-BAG.

(_Prompted by "Thrifty Colleen's" letter in "The Times" of September 12._)

CRUELTY TO VEGETABLES.

SIR,--May I be allowed to protest with all the vigour at my command against the revolting suggestion that, with the view of making cakes from potatoes they should be first boiled in their skins. I admit that this is better than that they should be boiled without them, but that is all. The potato is notoriously a sensitive plant. Personally I regard it more in the light of an emblem than a vegetable. That it is not necessary as an article of food can be conclusively proved from the teaching of history, for, as a famous poet happily puts it--

"In ancient and heroic days, The days of Scipios and Catos, The Western world pursued its ways Triumphantly without potatoes."

If, however, the shortage of cereals demands that potatoes should be used as a substitute for wheat, I suggest that, instead of being subjected to the barbarous treatment described above, they should be granted a painless death by chloroform or some other anæsthetic.

I am, Sir, yours truly,

POTATOPHIL.

* * * * *

ERIN'S INCUBUS.

SIR,--A great deal of fuss is being made over Irish potato-cakes. Why Irish? The tradition that the potato is the Irish national vegetable is a hoary fallacy that needs to be exploded once and for all. It is nothing of the sort. The potato was introduced into the British Isles by Sir WALTER RALEIGH, a truculent Elizabethan imperialist of the worst type, transplanted into Ireland by the English garrison, and fostered by them for the impoverishment of the Irish physique. The deliberations of the National Convention now sitting in Dublin will be doomed to disaster unless they insist, as the first plank of their programme, on the elimination of this ill-omened root. If ST. PATRICK had only lived a few centuries later he would have treated the potato as he did the frogs and snakes.

I am, Sir, Yours rebelliously,

SHANE FINN.

***

A DANGEROUS DISH.

SIR,--May I put in a mild _caveat_ against excessive indulgence in potato-cakes, based on an experience in my undergraduate days at Trinity College, Cambridge, when WHEWELL was Master? One Sunday I was invited to supper at the MASTER'S, and a dish of potato-cakes formed part of the collation. WHEWELL was a man of robust physique and hearty appetite, and I noted that he ate no fewer than thirteen, considerably more than half the total. Whether it was owing to the unlucky number or the richness of the cakes I cannot say, but the fact remains that the MASTER was seriously indisposed on the following day and unable to deliver a lecture on the Stoic Philosophy, to which I had greatly looked forward. I cannot help thinking that PYTHAGORAS, who enjoined his disciples to "abstain from beans," would, if he were now alive, be inclined to revise that cryptic precept and bid us "abstain from potatoes," or, at any rate, from over-indulgence in hot potato-cakes.

I am, Sir, Yours faithfully,

CANTAB.

***

WANTED--A NEW NAME.

SIR,--If a thing is to make a success a good name is indispensable. The potato has been handicapped for centuries by its ridiculous name, which is almost as cumbrous as "cauliflower" and even more unsightly to the eye. It is futile to talk of a "tuber" since that means a hump or bump or truffle. No, if you are to get people to eat potato-cakes you must devise a more dignified and attractive name; and it would be good policy for the FOOD CONTROLLER to offer a large prize for the best suggestion, Mr. EUSTACE MILES, Mr. EDMUND GOSSE and Mr. HALL CAINE to act as adjudicators.

I am, Sir, Yours obediently,

EARTH-APPLE.

* * * * *

* * * * *

THOROUGHNESS.

It is generally agreed that the War has given women great chances, and that women for the most part have taken them. Where they have not, but have preferred frivolity, it is not always their own fault, but the result of outside pressure. Such a paragraph, for example, as the following, by "Lady Di," in _The Sunday Evening Telegram_, is hardly a clarion call to efficiency:--

"This recurrence of night raids has made business brisk in the lingerie salons, especially among flatland dwellers, for it's quite the thing now to have coffee and cake parties after a raid, with brandy neat in liqueur glasses for those whose nerves have been shaken. And such parties do give chances for the exhibition of those dainty garments that usually you have to admire all by yourself. Which reminds me. Don't forget an anklet and a wristlet of black velvet--the wristlet on the right and the anklet on the left!"

Since "Lady Di" is out for making the most of every opportunity, and since even she might forget something, I am minded to help her, two heads being often better than one. Air raids are not the only unforseen perils. Surely some such paragraph as this would be useful and indicate zeal:--

The escape of German prisoners being of almost daily occurrence, it would be well for all women who wish never to be taken unawares to be prepared to look their best should one of these creatures meet them. For nothing is lost by looking nice; indeed it is one's duty to be smart, lest dowdiness should give him the impression that England really is suffering from the War. A costume which I have designed to be seen in by escaping German prisoners is a "simple" one-piece (not peace) frock--which, when built by a real artist, can be so intriguing. Of ninon, for choice, with a Duvetyn hat. Carry a gold purse and lift the skirt high enough to show the finest silk stockings.

* * * * *

THE CROSSBILLS.

A Northern pinewood once we knew, My dear, when younger by some lustres, Where little painted crossbills flew And pecked among the fir-cone clusters; They hobnobbed and sidled In coats all aflame, While young Autumn idled, And we did the same.

They're cutting down the wood, I hear, To make it into war material, And, where the crossbills came, this year Their firs are lying most funereal; There's steam saw-mills humming And engines at haul, A new Winter coming And more trees to fall.

Ah, well, let's hope when Peace at length Is here, and when our young plantations In days unborn have got the strength And pride of ancient generations, The red birds shall show there From tree to dark tree, If two folk should go there As friendly as we!

* * * * *

* * * * *

* * * * *

BELLAIRS ON MAN-POWER.

MR. BELLAIRS, it will be remembered, was the first to discover the possibilities of proving (by figures) the dwindling reserves of hostile man-power. His estimates, based upon pure reason, personal experience and some two tons of figures, have been carefully revised and brought to date, more especially for the benefit of those busy people who cannot take a holiday by the sea, but like to solace themselves at home with a weekly immersion in _Mud and Water_.

_Germany_.

Here Mr. BELLAIRS is the first to admit a slight inaccuracy in his previous calculations. Germany has now eight men, instead of four, on the Western Front. It would appear from these numbers that the enemy attaches greater importance to defending his line on this Front than on any other.

_Russia_.

There are five (and one in reserve) on the Russian Front. The Russian retreat is explained to be due to artfully inculcated Christian Science (made in Germany), which has persuaded the Russians to entertain the belief that they are being heavily attacked.

_Austria_.

Austria is reputed on her last legs (three altogether). Her one man and a boy are fighting with the nonchalance of despair to resist the Allied pressure. Good news may be expected from this Front shortly.

_Bulgaria_.

The warfare of attrition has never shown such excellent results as in the case of Bulgaria. Her army of trained goats is now the only barrier to the vengeance of the Serbs.

_Turkey_.

According to the latest report the Turkish Army has lost its rifle. It is hoped that every advantage will be taken of our momentary superior armament.

_China_.

As a last resort Germany is sending her remaining Hun to attack the Chinese. What they can hope to achieve by so prodigal a waste of "cannon-fodder" is difficult to see.

_Rumania_.

There is no news on the Rumanian Front. It is thought that there is nobody there.

_Palestine_.

In Palestine both sides have withdrawn their troops and the battle is proceeding without them.

When one realises that against these weakening and ever decreasing forces our Allies will still have a reserve of 80,000,000 by the Spring of 1925, it is impossible to take an otherwise than optimistic view of the situation.

* * * * *

INTENSIVE RAINFALL.

"CUMBERLAND and WESTMORELAND.--After a ten weeks' drought we have had three weeks' rain every day."--_Daily Paper_.

* * * * *

"Officer's camp kit wanted, in good condition, Sam Browne belt (5 ft. 7), haversack, &c."--_Scotsman_.

In readiness for this hero's arrival at the Front the communication-trenches are being specially widened.

* * * * *

"I WISH--

"That it were possible to get frying-pans that would stand LEVEL when one is cooking in them."--_Home Chat_.

It is so awkward to be tilted out of the frying-pan into the fire.

* * * * *

* * * * *

THE GREAT OFFENCE.

As everybody knows, a Gurkha is first of all a rifleman, but apart from his rifle (which to a hill-man is both meat and raiment) there are two other treasures very dear to the little man's heart. These are his kukri and his umbrella--symbols of war and peace; and, although he knows the weapon proper to each state and can dispense (none better) with superfluities, there must have been many times in France when the absence of his umbrella has caused him a bitter nostalgia. "Battle is blessed by Allah and no man tires thereof," but trenches are of the Shaitan, and from the same malevolent one comes the ever-raging bursat, the pitiless drenching rain, that falls where a man may not strip.

With his kukri he did wonders out there on stilly nights, when he wriggled "over the top," gripping its good blade in his teeth. Then No Man's Land became a jungle and the Bosch a beast whose dispatch was swift and sure under his cunning wrist. Dawn would find him squatting in the corner of his dug-out sleeping as one who has sweet dreams--dreams maybe of counting the decapitated before an admiring crowd in his native city, himself again the dapper young dog of Darrapore.

No kilted Jock goes with more swagger down Princes Street than Johnny Gurkha down the bazaar of Darrapore, particularly in the evening, when he doffs khaki for the mufti suit of his clan--the spotless white shorts, coat of black sateen, little cocked cap and brightly bordered stockings--a _mode de rigueur_ that would be robbed of its final _cachet_ without the black umbrella, tucked well up under the arm.

A splendid warrior; in private life a bit of a _Don Juan_, perhaps; but his womenfolk bear him no grudge on this score, liking themselves to sail easy through matrimonial seas.

When I returned to the depôt a month ago there were tales, but, as our old Subadar-Major observed, "War brought little disturbances. The mischief was unfortunate, perhaps, but not irremediable," and, as the Subadar had himself been on service in China for a matter of three years, he knew what he was talking about.

As for the tales, well, I was reminded of them a few days ago on making a tour of the lines to see that quarters were clean and habitable for the next batch of invalids. There would be hospital for some, for others the sunny little married quarters, and round there wives were bustling with glee, making no secret of their late coquetries, but manifestly glad of the return of their former lords.

Brass pots were being scoured in the doorways; babies sprawled in the sun; a smell of cooking sweetmeats filled the air; a band of small urchins in the roadway, wearing the sham accoutrements of war, was prancing blithely to the song of "Lang-taraf-Tippalaerlee," and as their leader pulled up to give me a grave and perfect salute I recognised the son of old Bahadur Rai.

Now Bahadur Rai would be returning, and, as I recalled the man, I wondered how he would take the news of Bibi, his capricious wife, for I had heard (unofficially) that she had no intention of leaving the lines of the 2nd Battalion, or the dashing young Naik Indrase. This might be a bit awkward, I mused, remembering the tough little chap who had been so popular with us all by reason of being the best _shikari_ in the regiment. His incorrigible love of sport may have made the defaulter's sheet ugly (and there's no denying that "Absent with leave" does not lead to quick promotion); but that was in the good old days. Now he was returning covered with glory, and I was sorry about Bibi.

The train arrived at noon with what our travelled Babu calls the "blissies." They were nearly all marked "P.D.", and I hope it may be given to me to look as cheerful when my turn comes to be Permanently Disabled.

It was worth a week's pay to see the grins on their brown puckered faces and hear their husky contented salaams as they were lifted from the train. Blankets, top-coats, pillows, and other items belonging to the State were gaily abandoned, but every man clung with tenacity to his tunic and his water-bottle, for was there not a collection of trophies in those bulging pockets and sea-water in those battered bottles? Real salt sea-water, for the taste and enlightenment of incredulous elders.

Outside the station the usual crowd had gathered, where it disported itself like a herd of wild elephants. Veteran bandsmen played the regimental march; casual minstrels blew conches or banged tom-toms; and when at last the ambulance waggons moved off, drawn by oxen that wore blue bead necklaces, and marigolds over their ears, one had the proud satisfaction of feeling that the most perfect organisation in the world could not have given our fine fellows a reception more after their own hearts.

When we reached the parade-ground the scene was still merry and bright, for there Gurkha ladies were massed in their many-coloured _saris_, chattering for all the world like the parrakeets they resembled. Dogs barked; pet names were squealed; old men waved their staffs; children clung to the waggons and whooped, and when the cortège finally turned into the hospital compound and I cantered back to the lines I wondered what a London bobby would have made of the heterogeneous traffic that littered the Darrapore Road. I had to sit tight in office to get level with work that evening, and the mess bugle was dwelling maliciously on its top note when at last I put down my pen.

Then the door opened and with a confederate mysterious air the orderly announced Bahadur Rai. (Heavens!)

"And the Sahib?" the Bahadur was asking in swift Nepalese after a wealth of salutations was over. "Can but one arm do all this?" waving towards my bulging files.

"One does not want two hands to write with, you know, Bahadur."

"True. But the shooting?" he added sadly.

"We'll have that again too some day. Great things are done in Vilayat, where I go when peace comes. And you? You have done well, Bahadur."

"Well enough," he admitted with a trace of pride, Then, after a pause, "The 2nd Battalion starts on service to-morrow, Sahib?"

"Yes. A few men will be left at the depôt--not those of any use."

"And Naik Indrase, does he go?"

"No. The Colonel-Sahib put his name down long ago for station duty."

"Then I desire leave, your Honour. I want to visit 2nd Battalion lines."

"Ah! Put it off a bit," I urged weakly. "It's rough getting across the nullah, and with that crutch--"

There was silence. "Your son?" I began irrelevantly.

"My son does well and grows fast, Allah be praised. Later he will come to the hills to learn the ways of a gun. Even now he has the heart of a lion," added the proud father with a return of the old twinkle in his eyes. "But of this other matter. Perhaps the Sahib has heard what the Naik has done?"

"Yes," I admitted reluctantly. "I visited your house this morning. All was in order, and I gave instructions about the roof, which--"

"It is already repaired," interrupted the old fellow quickly, "and my mother has arranged all things well within. But the Naik, Sahib. It is necessary that I should beat him. The Sahib has heard--"

"About Bibi? Yes. But he will give her up," I said confidently.

"Bibi? He can keep Bibi. She was ever swift with her tongue and liked not the ways of _shikaris_. Yes, he can keep Bibi," added Bahadur Rai without bitterness. "But, Sahib"--and here the little man's voice rose almost to a scream of indignation--"that was not the _worst_. The Naik must be beaten, and _well_ beaten, for he took, not Bibi alone--he took _my umbrella!_"

* * * * *

* * * * *

PROPAGANDA FRIGHTFULNESS.

(_It is reported that the German Minister to Patagonia, with the assistance of the Swedish Chargé d'Affaires, has caused the following Proclamation to be distributed, along with a translation into the vernacular, among the natives; alleging that it reproduces a leaflet composed by the ALL-HIGHEST and dropped from a German aeroplane over the London district._)