Eventually, well pleased with ourselves and each armed with a brand of cigar which one can buy at the rate of nine inches for twopence, we adjourned to the smoking concert in the barn. The stage was our old friend the G.S. wagon; the lights, siege lamps, hung round at intervals. Bottled beer and cigarettes were in constant circulation; the performers were above the average, and the choruses vociferous but always tuneful.
Every unit has its amateur comedian; but we have got a real professional one—a "lad fra' Lancasheer" who is well known in the north of England. I will not divulge his stage name, but he is a corporal now. His voice is exceptional, his good-nature unlimited, and as for his stories—well! Moreover, he is gifted enough to be always topical, often personal, but never disrespectful.
The Child also performed. He has no great voice and had dined well, but, since he is the Child and sang a song about any old night being a wonderful night, was wildly applauded. Then the saddler-sergeant, a quaint character of whom more anon, brought the house down by playing a quavering solo upon a penny whistle. Finally, the sergeant-major made a speech which ended as follows:—
"Now there's just one point I want to remind you of. We all wear a badge in our caps with a gun on it—those of us that is who haven't gone against orders and given them away as souvenirs" (audible giggles—although as a matter of fact this has not occurred). "We're all members of the Royal Regiment. It's got a fine history—let's play up to it. We'll now sing 'the King,' after which there'll be an issue of tea and rum...."
The windows of our mess-room, as I have said, face the courtyard. We were enjoying supper and a welcome drink whilst the long queue of men waited for their tea at the cook-house door outside, when suddenly in a dark corner of the yard a chorus started. But it was not an ordinary chorus, raucous and none too tuneful. Neither was it music-hall sentiment. It was Grand Opera, sung by a dozen picked men and sung beautifully. We threw open the window to listen.
The effect was extraordinarily striking. It was a gorgeous starlit night, and against the sky the farm buildings opposite looked like silhouettes of black velvet. The voices of these unseen artists (for they were artists) came to us softly out of the darkness, rising and falling in perfect cadence, perfect harmony. They sang two selections from Il Trovatore and then the "Soldiers' Chorus" from Faust. Meanwhile the battery sipped its hot tea and rum and listened critically. Then there followed a solo, "He like a soldier fell," from Maritana. As a finale, most wonderful of all, they sang "Land of my Fathers" in Welsh. The occasion, the setting, the way they put their very souls into every note of it, made me catch my breath as I sat on the window-sill and listened. And I went to bed feeling that there is yet a thread of romance running through all the sordid horror which vexes our unhappy world.
A BATTERY IN BEING
The author of a little red book "War Establishments," labelled "For Official Use Only" (presumably a gentleman with a brain like an automatic ready-reckoner), probably thought of nothing whatever, certainly of no human being, when he penned the decree "Farrier-Sergeants—per battery—1." But if he could only see the result of his handiwork! For our farrier-sergeant David Evans is simply splendid. He is small and sturdy and middle-aged, with grizzled hair that shows at all times in front of his pushed-back cap. His soft Welsh accent is a joy to hear; his affection for the horses is immense, his industry unflagging, and his workmanship always of the very best. He knows nothing about guns or drill or any kind of soldiering, he is an indifferent rider and in appearance he would never be mistaken for a guardsman! But we have only cast one shoe since he joined us months ago, and he has been known to sit up all night with a sick horse and carry on with his work as usual on the following day, whistling merrily (he always whistles while he works) and hammering away as if his very ration depended upon his shoeing the whole battery before dusk. The Child summed him up with his customary exactitude.
"I love the old farrier," he said, "he's such a merry old man. I bet he's a topping uncle to somebody!"