“Didn’t you know? Why every housemaid in Béthune can tell you that much.”
It was then September the eleventh!
The two cousins passed into the Mess-room. M. de Morency, a tall French interpreter, black-moustachioed, the bronze sphinx of his calling on the lapel of his khaki tunic, had arrived the day before; stood superintending the lighting of the lamp, Bombardier Michael’s arrangement of the dinner-table.
Peter introduced his cousin, and the two began a voluble conversation in slangy French. Stark stamped down from his upstairs bed-room; Purves and the Doctor arrived together.
“Lodden and Torrington are late.” The Weasel looked at his watch. “Phone down for them, will you, Purves?”
The Balliol man stepped to a tiny, black telephone on a shelf in the corner, began buzzing on the key. “Is that you, Beer Battery. . . . Oh, is Captain Torrington there? Just left for H.Q.—with Major Lodden. Thanks.”
Shortly afterwards, the two arrived; and dinner began with “Gong” soups served in enamel mugs. Followed tinned salmon, mayonnaise sauce and lettuce salad prepared by Caroline, a large ration joint of beef, baked potatoes, rice-pudding. They drank sparingly, from newly-bought glasses, of white wine. Talk ran steadily on the forthcoming operations.
“I hear we shall use gas for the first time,” announced the interpreter.
“And a damned mess we shall probably make of it.” Lodden wiped black moustaches contemptuously with his paper napkin. “Don’t you think so, Gordon?”
“I’m afraid I don’t know much about actual warfare,” remarked Francis, “you see I’m on the Staff.”