Chapter LXIV

MY DEAR CHARLES,--Since I last wrote to you I have enjoyed
seeing again an officer with whom I had many curious dealings in
the past, and who, if half the facts he divulges about himself
were true, would certainly be the wickedest Colonel in the
B.E.F., notwithstanding that he fought busily in the early
stages and had the best part of himself knocked out in so doing.
He has performed many strange duties since, and the steps he
took to qualify for one of them will, I think, illustrate for
you his wickedness.

It has been found, on experience, that modesty is out of place
when you are being called upon to state your qualifications for
a post. The knowing, upon being asked if they possess certain
attributes, reply in an immediate affirmative and add others,
just to be on the safe side. It is felt that what is really
required in this War is thrust and ingenuity, things which
adequately make up for the absence of any specialist knowledge.
Accordingly my friend found himself described as possessing,
among other things, "French, fluent." It was not until he was
informed that the Official Interpreter would like to hear a
little of this that he looked more closely into the matter and
discovered that he knew no French at all. Undismayed, he spent
the two days' interval before the _vivâ-voce_ examination in
learning some. You might suppose that two days is a short time
in which to become so familiar with a strange language that you
may be able to understand and answer any question which may be
put to you in it. Sly friend, however, did not let this worry
him. He learnt by heart a long and detailed narrative, embracing
all the most impressive idioms and all the most popular slang,
the subject of which was an accident which had occurred to him
in the earlier days of the campaign, a long and a vivid story,
which, once started, would last indefinitely and could not be
interrupted meanwhile.

Armed with no other knowledge of the French language than this,
my friend duly presented himself before the Official
Interpreter, greeted him with a genial salute and waited
throughout his opening speech, which was in French and contained
many inquiries.

My friend made no endeavour to follow these simple questions. He
knew he couldn't succeed and had no intention of giving himself
away by an attempt. Advancing towards the Interpreter's table
and putting his right hand to his ear, "Pardon, monsieur," he
said, "mais je suis un peu sourd, depuis mon accident."

"Quel accident?" said the Interpreter; after which my friend did
not stop talking until he was passed out with a "French,
garrulous."

We met quite recently and talked over things in general, telling
each other, in confidence and on the best authority, all those
exciting details of the progress of the War which men go on
saying and believing until they are officially contradicted.
Getting down to realities, he told me that he has now the
greatest difficulty in believing in the War at all, though he is
within ear-shot of it all the time. His difficulty is due to the
last thing he saw before he left his office: three men standing
at his gate, in that attitude of contented and contemplative
leisure which one associates with Saturday afternoons and
village pumps, looking at nothing in particular and spitting
thoughtfully as occasion required. One of them was a British
soldier, one a French soldier and one a German soldier. The
whole picture suggested anything but war; if there was a war on,
which nation was fighting against which? My friend, however, is
somewhat oddly situated in this respect, since he commands for
the moment a detachment of German prisoners in our back area.
Some of them, he tells me, are extraordinarily smart. One
Prussian N.C.O. in particular was remarkable. Dressed in his
impressive overcoat, hatted for all the world like our Staff and
carrying under his arm his dapper cane, this N.C.O. went round
from group to group of working prisoners, accompanying the
English sergeant in charge of the party and interpreting the
latter's orders to the men. So striking was his get-up that all
paused to look at him.

Thinking it might please you, my friend showed me an official
memo., which he had just received from one of his officers in
command of an outlying detachment, and of course of the odds and
ends of British personnel adhering thereto: cooks, guards, etc.
The memo. ran as follows, and it repays careful study and
thinking out; I give you the whole of it:--

"_To the Commanding Officer, Orderly Room, Hqrs._"

The undermentioned is in my opinion entirely unfitted
for the duty to which he has been detailed with this
detachment. He shows no signs of either intelligence or
industry, and I propose, with your approval, to take the
necessary steps to get rid of him forthwith.

A. B. SMITH,

_Capt. i.c. 'B' Detachment._

My friend was much concerned to hit upon exactly the right form
of reply. Eventually we agreed:--

"_To Capt. A. B. Smith, i.c. 'B' Detachment._

Good-bye.