A LIMPET OF WAR.
(With the British Army in France.)
The day on which that fine old crusted warrior, Major Slingswivel, quits the hospitable confines of Nullepart Camp will be the signal that the British Army in France has completed its work, even to the labelling and despatching of the last bundle of assorted howitzers. A British army in France without Major Slingswivel would be unthinkable. It is confidently asserted that Nullepart Camp was built round him when he landed in '14, and that he has only emerged from it on annual visits to his tailor for the purpose of affixing an additional chevron and having another inch let into his tunic. Latest reports state that he is still going strong, and indenting for ice-cream freezers in anticipation of a hot summer.
But for an unforgivable error of tact I might have stood by the old brontosaurus to the bitter end. One evening he and I were listening to a concert given by the "Fluffy Furbelows" in the camp Nissen Coliseum, and a Miss Gwennie Gwillis was expressing an ardent desire to get back to Alabama and dear ole Mammy and Dad, not to speak of the rooster and the lil melon-patch way down by the swamp. The prospect as painted by her was so alluring that by the end of the first verse all the troops were infected with trans-Atlantic yearnings and voiced them in a manner that would have made an emigration agent rub his hands and start chartering transport right away. She had an enticing twinkle which lighted on the Major a few times, so that I wasn't surprised when the second chorus found him roaring out that he too was going to take a long lease of a shack down Alabama way.
"Gad—she's immense! We must invite her to tea to-morrow," he said to me in a whisper that shook the Nissen hut to its foundations. Slingswivel was no vocal lightweight. Those people in Thanet and Kent who used to write to the papers saying they could hear the guns in the Vimy Ridge and Messines offensives were wrong. What they really heard was Major Slingswivel at Nullepart expostulating with his partner for declaring clubs on a no-trump hand.
"Very well," I answered sulkily. It wasn't the first time the Major had been captivated by ladies with Southern syncopated tastes, and I knew I should be expected to complete the party with the other lady member of the troupe, Miss Dulcie Demiton, and listen to the old boy making very small talk in a very large voice. I could see myself balancing a teacup and trying to get in a word here and there through the barrage.
Still, there was no getting out of it, and next afternoon found our quartette nibbling petits gâteaux in the only pâtisserie in the village. The Major was in fine fettle as the war-worn old veteran, and Gwennie and Dulcie spurred him on with open and undisguised admiration.
"Now I'm in France," gushed Gwennie, "I want to see everything—where the trenches were and where you fought your terrible battles."
"Delighted to show you," said Slingswivel, bursting with pride at being taken for a combatant officer. "How about to-morrow?"
"Just lovely," cooed Gwennie. "We're showing at Petiteville in the evening, but we shan't be starting before lunch."
"That gives us all morning," said the Major enthusiastically. "Miss Gwennie, Miss Dulcie, Spenlow, we will parade to-morrow at 9.30."
I couldn't understand it. Naturally Gwennie, with her mind constantly set on Alabama, couldn't be expected to be up in war geography, but the Major knew jolly well that all the battles within reasonable distance of Nullepart had been fought out with chits and indents. I put it to him that it wasn't likely country for war thrills.
"Leave it to me," he said confidently.
So I left it, and when we paraded next morning where do you think the wily old bird led us? Why, to the old training ground on the edge of the camp, where the R.E.'s used to lay out beautifully revetted geometrical trenches as models of what we were supposed to imitate in the front line between hates. Having been neglected since the Armistice they had caved in a bit and sagged round the corners till they were a very passable imitation of the crump-battered thing.
Old Slingswivel so arranged the itinerary that the girls didn't perceive that the sector was bounded on one side by Père Popeau's turnip field and on the other by a duck-pond, and he showed a tactical knowledge of the value of cover in getting us into a trench out of view of certain stakes and pickets that were obviously used by Mère Popeau as a drying-ground. To divert attention he gave a vivid demonstration of bombing along a C.T. with clods of earth, with myself as bayonet-man nipping round traverses and mortally puncturing sand-bags with a walking-stick. It must have been a pretty nervy business for the Major, for any minute we might have come across a notice-board about the hours of working parties knocking off for dinner that would have given the whole show away. But he displayed fine qualities of leadership and presence of mind at critical moments, notably when Gwennie showed a disposition to explore a particular dug-out.
"I shouldn't advise you to go in there, Miss Gwennie," he said gravely.
"Why?" asked Gwennie apprehensively.
"Not a pleasant sight for a lady," said the Major gruffly. "It upset me one day when I looked in."
This was probable enough, for the Mess steward used it as a store for empty bottles.
Gwennie shuddered and passed on.
The Major mopped his forehead with relief and set the ladies souveniring among old water-tin stoppers, which he alleged to be the plugs of hand-grenades.
Taking it all round, it was a successful morning's show, which did credit to the producer, and it was only spoiled when, so to speak, the curtain rolled down amidst thunders of applause.
"We don't realize what we owe to gallant soldiers like you," said Gwennie admiringly.
The Major waved a fat deprecating hand.
"And Captain Spenlow has just been telling me," continued Gwennie, "that you occupied this sector all through the War and that you hung on right to the very last, notwithstanding incredible efforts to dislodge you."
At this crude statement of the naked facts Slingswivel's face went a deeper shade of purple, and you can appreciate why I put in an urgent application for immediate release, on compassionate grounds, and why the Major gladly endorsed it.
The New Minister. "Boy, do ye no ken it's the Sawbath?"
Boy. "Oh ay, fine. But this is work o' necessity."
Minister. "An' hoo is that?"
Boy. "The meenister's comin' tae dinner an' we've naethin' tae gie 'im."
"WAR CRIMINALS.
THE THREE PREMIERS MEET ALONE TO-DAY."—Evening Paper.
We suspect Mr. Keynes' hand in these headlines.
"Information wanted as to whereabouts of Mrs. J.O. Plonk (Blonk) wife of J.O. Plonk (Clonk)."—Advt. in Chinese Paper.
This should go very well with a banjo accompaniment.