No sooner had the decorators laid down their tools at midday for lunch than we bundled their ladders and paints outside and set to work to get the hall straight.
In spite of the rain and biting wind, our campaign for opening with sports in the afternoon was carried through; and after the many kindly speeches and wishes for the welfare of the work, I distributed the prizes from the platform, and we concluded with a concert.
July 18th. And now we are all suffering from a disease that might be called "Hut fever"; its symptoms, a readiness to do anything to get the place in order and (in spite of the still wet green paint that leaves anyone who is careless enough to lean against the doors a souvenir not easily eradicated) to make it into the finest centre at the Base.
The men themselves are equally enthusiastic, and one of them, the local versifier, brought us a poem penned for the occasion, which I quote as it stands:
"There's poets come and poets go,
You've heard of that no doubt,
But guess before you've heard much more—
You'll want to throw me out.
But still, here goes; I'll really try
And get outside the rut,
By putting into time and rhyme
The tale of OUR NEW HUT.
"What sauce to call it 'ours' I hear
A few outsiders say.
But we don't mean we own the scheme—
No, not a bit that way.
We only mean its our new home
It's the best way to put
Our thoughts about this new turn out
We've christened OUR NEW HUT.
"Now if perchance in Wimereux
You're looking for a treat,
Step off the road to our abode
And kindly take a seat.
You'll find it filled with khaki boys,
From ploughman to the knut.
But men of any mob, hob-nob
Alright, in OUR NEW HUT.
"I haven't got their names off pat;
These ladies and the gents,
Whose active work they never shirk,
No matter what events.
But I feel sure we'll bless their help
When peaceful lives we strut,
And trust that in our lives, survives
The good from OUR NEW HUT."
Thus the American journalist who called on us to-day won our hearts completely by designating the hut as the "Grosvenor Square of Boulogne."
The place is kept lively by the Canadians, who are stationed close by, and who, with their music and overseas songs that carry one straight out on to the prairies of "God's Own Country," never leave us a dull moment.