Every detail of that room lives with me yet. One went up two steps into the room. The fireplace faced the door with a window to the right of the fireplace. There was a table between us with newspapers on it, and tobacco and pipes. And two armchairs faced the fire.
He asked me what I wanted the interpretership for. I told him I was sick of the ranks, that I had chucked a fascinating job to be of use to my King and country, and that any fool trooper could shovel mud as I did day after day.
He nodded. “But interpreting is no damned good, you know,” he said. “It only consists in looking after the forage and going shopping with those officers who can’t talk French.—That isn’t what you want, is it?”
“No, sir,” said I.
“Well, what other job would you like?”
That floored me completely. I didn’t know what jobs there were in the squadron and told him so.
“Well, come and have dinner to-night and we’ll talk about it,” said he.
Have dinner! My clothes reeked of stables, and I had slept in them ever since I arrived.
“That doesn’t matter,” said the Major. “You come along to-night at half-past seven. You’ve been sick all this week. How are you? Pretty fit again?”
He’s Brigadier-General now and has forgotten all about it years ago. I don’t think I ever shall.