When an American man is away from his wife, I care not how respectable he be or how happily married, a change seems to creep all over him and he becomes at once the most boyish, lively, cheery person imaginable, even if he is sixty. He is not a dull person with Madame, but when he gets off by himself things begin to move. We British get hopelessly married, and our clubs never strike me as being particularly hilarious or buoyant sort of places. They always seem a little dull. I have been put up at a famous club in Philadelphia. Here mere man is supreme. No women may enter its sacred portals, no matter who she may be. Let me tell you about its habitués. Of course, it is impossible to say what sort of club it is in peace time; but, at the moment, all its members are well on the wrong side of thirty. The others have gone long ago.
The war has caused a great deal of depression amongst the remaining men of this club. When war broke out all the members from fifty downwards were thrilled. At last they were going to get a chance to fight for their country. Were they not all members of the City Troop? Certainly some of them needed pretty large horses to carry them, and some indeed found it difficult to button all the tiny buttons on their tunics. Still this would soon be made all right. Gee! it was fine to get a chance to fight those Huns.
Alas, the cold blooded doctor failed to pass some of them and the joy of belonging to the City Troop has left them. It is useless for the doctor to explain that unless a man is in the pink of condition it is impossible for him to last long in trench warfare. He collapses. They say that they don't object to this a bit, and then he has got to say brutally that a sick man costs the country at the front more money and more trouble than a single man is worth. So they are now convinced, but they hate it and go about helping all they can, but sadly. One day I was sitting in the club talking to three interesting men who were endeavouring to get as many horrors of war out of me as possible, when a cheery-faced gentleman appeared coming over towards us. The elderly man next to me brightened up and said: "Here comes a ray of sunshine down the cañon." He certainly was a ray of sunshine as he commenced to say quick, rapid funny things.
At this club there is a beautiful swimming pool with Turkish baths and other fancies attached. On the banks of the pool, so to speak, there are comfortable lounges and one can order anything one requires. There are generally several others there. On these occasions I always think that this world would have fewer wrecked homes if we went about dressed like Fijians. Just outside the pool is the dressing room with cubicles. It is a good idea to treat with respect all the members one sees here dressed in towels, especially during these military days.
But to return to the ladies—we had an interesting young person attached to our battery in France once. I'd like to tell you about her. Unfortunately she was merely a dream, an inspiration, or perhaps a rather vulgar, good-natured fairy who came from the "Never Never Land" to amuse and to interest the small group of officers living in the Vert Rue not very far from the city called by Thomas Atkins "Armon Tears."
One night after dinner the major, Wharton the senior subaltern, Taunton the junior subaltern, and I were sitting around the mess table in our billet. Suddenly in a thoughtful manner the major read aloud the following notice from one of the small batch of antique copies of the London Times which had been sent to him by a kindly wife: "Lady, young, would like to correspond with lonely subaltern. Address Box 411, London Times." After looking round at the three of us he remarked: "That seems to present possibilities; I think that Taunton had better answer it." The major, a wily person and one who never missed an opportunity to get something for his beloved battery, saw in the advertisement some amusement, and an opportunity to exploit kindness of heart on the part of some romantic young person. Taunton, young, good looking, nineteen, and woefully inexperienced in les affaires de cœur was obviously the man.
So the major commenced to dictate what seemed to us at the time to be a rather amusing letter. Taunton wrote rather slowly, as well as badly, so the major seized the pen and paper and did the job himself. As far as I remember the letter ran as follows:
"Dear Friend:
"The mail arrived this evening at the small hamlet from where my guns endeavour to kill and disturb the horrid Germans. I cannot, I fear, give you the exact geographical location, but you will doubtlessly regard our position as what 'our Special Correspondent, John Fibbs,' so originally calls 'Somewhere in France.'
"The mail arrived in a large canvas bag, and soon its sacred contents were safely deposited upon the ground by a gentle corporal, who seemed but little disturbed by the impatience displayed by sundry officers, as he endeavoured to sort the letters. Of course, I was there. I always am, but as usual there was nothing for me. Although I am hardened to such disappointments I felt my loneliness more keenly than ever to-night. I don't quite know why. Perhaps it was the obvious glee displayed by Sergeant Beetlestone as he unfolded a package of what he described as 'Tabs.' (You, dear friend, would call them cigarettes.) Perhaps it was the happiness on the face of Corporal Warner as he shared an anæmic meat pie with two friends.