An Interpreter
I now coil myself up in the “O.P.” corner of the stage of the municipal theatre. It is curious to see by the dim light of the pilot lights forty or fifty men sleeping on the boards with their rifles stacked between them. The curtain is up, but the auditorium is dark and empty, for what is probably the most realistic and interesting scene that has ever been set between its proscenium. I am surrounded by a crowd of French people of every age and of all shapes and sizes. The fact that I am writing a letter seems to strike them as an incident of extraordinary interest. “Here’s one writing a letter,” they call to their friends, and they all flock round. The people of this town press round us when we feed, sleep, wash, dress, and, in fact, at every moment of the day. Until we were quartered in the theatre some of the more modest soldiers were compelled to wait till it was dark before they could summon up sufficient courage to change their clothes. One old lady has just come up and tested the quality of the material of my tunic and has moved off nodding her head in approbation. Their interest in our welfare is practical, nevertheless: Pte. F. J. St. Aubyn, Interpreter.