One dish of meat with cabbage and a potato. The meat was almost always pork, disguised in strange manner. Once a week we had "beef," very tough and quite uneatable. Probably horse-flesh.
Dinner—Cold pork and cabbage, sometimes varied by scrambled eggs and salad.
Lights out at 10.
II.
The English Club usually spent the interval between dinner and bed in a game of cards, but on this my first night I was too tired to make a fourth at bridge, and hobbled off to my own quarters under the severe gaze of three unfortunate sentries who had to spend most of the night marching up and down the cold clammy corridor.
On arriving at "Room 52" the noisiest game of cards in the world, known as "La Manille," was in full swing, the air was thick with tobacco smoke, and empty bottles of beer stood in serried ranks on the table. Monsieur l'Abbé was playing with the Doctor against Colonel Lepeltier and another officer whom I privately nicknamed "Granny." Granny's main ambition in life seemed to be to escape from fresh air, and even in the close atmosphere of tobacco smoke and fumes from the red-hot stove he was wearing all the underclothing he could put on, and round his neck a huge muffler.
The presence of M. l'Abbé in the uniform of a private soldier was the result of an appeal by the Pope to the German Emperor to allow priests serving in the French army the same privilege when taken prisoners as are accorded to officers.
I cannot describe Colonel Lepeltier better than by saying that he represented the typical soldier of Napoleonic days. His career in Saharan and Moroccan campaigns had already proved him to be a leader of no ordinary merit. He possessed a great number of medals, which, as a prisoner, he did not wear, and had been wounded almost as many times as he had been decorated. It was impossible to get from him any account of his adventures in the present campaign, but I gathered from what his brother officers told me that he had behaved with extraordinary gallantry at Charleroi, and fell riddled with bullets when leading the last remnant of his regiment in a counter-attack to save the rest of the Brigade. He had been hit in the leg, his right arm, pierced by a bullet, was withered and useless, and three other bullet-holes in different parts of his body brought to fifteen the total number of wounds received during his military career. His wonderful cheerfulness was an example and a consolation to us all. I remember when we were all discussing how long the war would last—this problem was always a subject of speculation and conversation—Colonel Lepeltier declared that no one should give any thought to themselves, or worry about the probable length of their imprisonment. "I don't care," said he, "if we are here for seven years. J'ai confiance dans la France. La France triomphera et tout le reste m'est egal." The doctor was quite remarkably like the white rabbit in 'Alice in Wonderland,' plump, short, blonde, closely-cropped hair, a tiny moustache, an apologetic air, and an aggravating habit of continually saying, "Ah, pardon." At 10 o'clock M. l'Abbé, who was the last up, put out the lamps on the table. Candles were blown out one by one until the only light left was that of a single candle by the bedside of a young cavalry officer who spent most of his time reading in spite of the continual noise. To keep a candle alight after "lights out" was an offence which, in our room, met with instant punishment. "Rosteau, Rosteau!" some one shouted, and I never knew if this was a slang word of warning, but it was always followed, as in this instance, by a whizzing boot hurled at the offender's head. This was the signal for the despatch of projectiles of all kinds,—tin boxes with a bit of coal inside hurtled across the room and fell on or by the enemy with a deafening crash, hair-brushes, slippers, stale rolls of bread, were flying in the dark from one side of the room to the other. The performance was generally closed by Colonel Lepeltier, whose orders for silence were always instantly obeyed. To break the silence of the night was against the unwritten law, except for one purpose—to stop snoring. Here it was Granny that was the chief offender. In spite of the hardness of my bed, and the impossibility of turning round without falling out, I think that I might have got some sleep if it had not been for Granny—a most kindly, lovable man by day, but an aggressive, vulgar fellow at night, for whose blood I have often thirsted in the early hours of the morning. The usual method for stopping snoring was to whistle loudly. If this did not produce the desired effect, a clever shot with a boot was sure to be successful in rousing not only the snorer but the whole room.
Shortly after six o'clock the day began with the entry of our French orderly—we had one to each room—with the morning ration of bread on a large tray: two small rolls to each man. After the rolls had been distributed round the five rooms, the cups of coffee, tea, or milk were brought along in the same way. This was breakfast. I tried the coffee one morning, found the tea just as bad, and finally settled down to hot milk. Getting up was of necessity regulated by the fact that we only possessed two washhand-stands among ten people. With washing, dressing, and shaving, I generally managed to spin the time out to about 10 o'clock, at which hour I used to take up quarters in the English Club for the rest of the day. The room which my English comrades occupied possessed many advantages over my own: it was far larger, and owing to the presence of a strong fresh-air party, the windows were kept open continually. In my room, where the stove was always at a white heat, fresh air was looked upon with disfavour; the windows were opened a few inches while the room was being dusted, or when tobacco smoke was too thick, and I, as a lover of fresh air, was in a minority of one. In "53" room the partisans of fresh air included not only the three Englishmen but the senior and more assertive of the French officers. In spite of the unanimity which reigned in room "53" on this debatable subject of windows open or windows shut, party strife was nevertheless very much in evidence, and centred chiefly round the question of noise. The room was divided into as many sections of opinion as the French Chamber of Deputies. Five officers hailing from or about Marseilles, who lived in a row at the far end of the room, represented the ultra Radicals. They declared for the unlimited freedom of man, and elected to make as much noise as suited them at all times of the day or night. O—— belonged to a party by himself. He was to sing and whistle whenever the spirit moved, but when he engaged in writing and reading, as fortunately was often the case, the rest of the world was not expected to interrupt. The English party, openly setting its face against noise of any kind at all times, was supported somewhat weakly by two or three adherents who were not strong-minded enough to accept the whole of our Party Policy, and were inclined to advise moderation in all things. Our political opponents—the Meridional ultra Radicals—were known as the Gollywog, the Calendar, the Owl, the Pup, and Consul. The Owl and the Calendar (so called because he only shaved on Sundays, and the day of the week could therefore be known from the colour of his chin) were comparatively silent partners to the conspiracy of noise, but the Gollywog, Consul, and Pup made up amply for their deficiencies. Their favourite occupation consisted of inane discussion shouted across the room. "Et autremain je dis que dans le service il faut tutoyer les hommes. J'ai trente-cinq ans et je sais ce que dis." "Eh! mon bon." This to the protesting Pup. "Vous n'avez pas le droit de parler, vous êtes jeune, vous sortez de l'œuf, vous sortez de l'œuf." This expression of contempt for the youth of the Pup was always the last word of the Gollywog, who would strut up and down the room shouting, "Maintenant vous n'avez rien à dire, vous sortez de l'œuf, vous sortez de l'œuf." Consul, so called chiefly on account of his agility and quickness of movement, famous also for an entirely original method of consuming bread and cheese, took part in noise along with the others of his party more often in chorus than in solo, but none of them except the Gollywog had any idea what a nuisance they were to the whole room.