I met my friend, the French battery commander, yesterday. He was
cantering a showy chestnut mare over the turf, humming a tune aloud.
He looked very fit and very much in love with the world. I asked him
what he meant by it. He replied that he couldn't help it; everybody
was combining to make him happy; his C.O. had fallen down a gun-pit
and broken a leg; he had won two hundred francs from his pet enemy; he
had discovered a jewel of a cook; and then there was always the Boche,
the perfectly priceless, absolutely ridiculous, screamingly funny
little Boche. The Boche, properly exploited, was a veritable fount of
joy. He dreaded the end of the War, he assured me, for a world without
Boches would be a salad sans the dressing.
I inquired as to how the arch-humourist had been excelling himself
lately.
The Captain passaged his chestnut alongside my bay, chuckled and told
me all about it. It appeared that one wet night he was rung up by
the Infantry to say that the neighbouring Hun was up to some funny
business, and would he stand by for a barrage, please?
What sort of funny business was the Hun putting up?
Oh, a rocket had gone up over the way and they thought it was a signal
for some frightfulness or other.
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