He had composed it, after a fourth whisky, on a cottage piano in his Nissen hut. In crashing chords he had revealed the soul of a general preparing a plan of battle—over the telephone. It never failed to make me laugh, except that day in Lille when it was out of tune, I thought, with the spirit about us.
“Let’s put the bitter taste out of our mouth to-day,” I said.
Fortune made his sheep-face, saluted behind his ear, and said, “Every inch a soldier—I don’t think!”
III
It was then we bumped straight into Wickham Brand, who was between a small boy and girl, holding his hands, while a tall girl of sixteen or so, with a yellow pig-tail slung over her shoulder, walked alongside, talking vivaciously of family experiences under German rule. Pierre Nesle was on the other side of her.
“In spite of all the fear we had—oh, how frightened we were sometimes!—we used to laugh very much. Maman made a joke of everything—it was the only way. Maman was wonderfully brave, except when she thought that father might have been killed.”
“Where was your father?” asked Brand. “On the French side of the lines?”
“Yes, of course. He was an officer in the artillery. We said good-bye to him on August 2nd of the first year, when he went off to the dépôt at Belfort. We all cried except maman—father was crying, too, but maman did not wink away even the tiniest tear until father had gone. Then she broke down, so that we all howled at the sight of her. Even these babies joined in. They were only babies then.”