Canada in war-paint

by Ralph W. Bell

There is a little story told of two young subalterns, neither of whom could speak the lingua Franca, who went one day to the Estaminet des Bons Copins, not five thousand miles from Ploegstraete woods, to buy some of the necessities of life, for the Estaminet was a little store as well as a road-house. Both of the said subalterns had but recently arrived in Flanders, from a very spick and span training area, and neither was yet accustomed to the ways of war, nor to the minor discomforts caused by inhabitants other than those of the country, albeit native to it from the egg, as it were.

They entered the Bons Copins, and having bought cigarettes and a few odds and ends, one of them suddenly remembered that he wanted a new pair of braces, to guarantee the safety of his attire. But the French word for braces was a knock-out. Neither himself nor his friend could think of it, and an Anglo-French turning of the English version met with dismal failure.

At last a bright idea smote him. He smiled benignly, and vigorously rubbed the thumbs of both hands up and down over his shoulders and chest. Madame beamed with the light of immediate understanding. “Oui, Monsieur, mais oui ... oui!” She disappeared into the back of the store, to return a moment later, bearing in her hand a large green box, labelled distinctly: “Keating’s Powder!”

There are few things that will have the least effect on a vigorous young section of “other inhabitants.”

Those good, kind people who send out little camphor balls, tied up in scarlet flannel bags, and tins of Keating’s without number, little know what vast formations in mass these usually deadly articles must deal with. We have suspended camphor balls—little red sacks, tapes, and all—in countless numbers about our person. We have gone to bed well content, convinced of the complete route of our Lilliputian enemies. And on the morrow we have found them snugly ensconced—grandmamma, grandpapa, and their great-great-grandchildren—right plumb in the centre of our batteries. Making homes there; waggling their little legs, and taking a two-inch sprint now and then round the all-red route. What is camphor to them? This hardy stock has been known to live an hour in a tin of Keating’s powder, defiant to the last! What boots it that a man waste time and substance on a Sabbath morn sprinkling his garments over with powders and paraffins. He is sure to miss a couple, and one of them is certain to be the blushing bride of the other.

From deep below the calf comes the plaintive wail, spreading far and wide, to the very nape of the neck: “Husband, where are you? I am lost and alone, and even off my feed!” With no more ado hubby treks madly down the right arm and back again, hits a straight trail, and finds the lost one.

And the evening and the morning see the grandchildren.

Grandpa leads them bravely to the first collision mat, an area infected with coal-oil. “Charge, my offspring!” he cries, waggling his old legs as hard as he can, “prove yourselves worthy scions of our race!” And the little blighters rush madly over the line—with their smoke-helmets on, metaphorically speaking—and at once set about establishing a new base.

Henry goes to Mabel, and says: “Mabel, darling! I have found a sweet little home for two—or (blushing!) perhaps three—in the crook of the left knee. Will you be my bride?” And Mabel suffers herself to be led away, and duly wed, at once. So they dance a Tarantelle under the fifth rib, and then proceed to the serious business of bringing up little Henrys and Mabels in the way they should go!

There is only one way to deal with them, cruel and ruthless though it be. Lay on the dogs! Remove each garment silently, swiftly, relentlessly. Pore over it until you see Henry hooking it like Billy-oh down the left leg of your—er, pyjamas. Catch him on the wing, so to speak, and squash him! Then look for Mabel and the children, somewhere down the other leg, and do ditto! Set aside two hours per diem for this unsportsmanlike hunt, and you may be able to bet evens with the next chappy inside a couple of months! Even then the odds are against you, unless you hedge with the junior subaltern, who gets the worst—and therefore most likely to be tenanted—bed!