Part 18

It may all seem intensely foolish to you, and childish; it may strike you that our men at the front are attempting to bribe Fate, or that we are returning to the days of witches and sorcerers. But it is not without its good points, this growth of superstition. Man is such a little, helpless pawn in the ruthless game of war, and death is so sudden and so strange, that the soul gropes instinctively in search of some sign of a shielding arm and a watchful power. The Bible, the Crucifix, a cheap little charm--any of these may bring comfort to the man in the trench, and give him the illusion that he is not one of those marked for the sickle of Death.

A man who is confident that he will come through a battle unhurt generally does so, or, if Death comes, he meets it with a smile on his lips. The man who expects to be killed, who has no belief in some shielding power--though it be but symbolised by a common shoe button--is taken by Death very soon, but, even then, not before he has gone through those long, morbid hours of waiting that breed the germs of fear.

The penny lucky charm that can bring comfort to a man in danger is not a thing to be ridiculed. It may be a proof of ignorance, but to the man it is symbolical of his God, and is therefore worthy of all respect and reverence from others.

XVI

THE TEA SHOP

Baker came to me directly after lunch. "Look here," he said, "I'm not satisfied."

"What's the matter now?"

"I want something respectable to eat. Let's go into Poperinghe and get a properly cooked tea."

"It's six miles," I objected, "and a confoundedly hot day."

"All the better for an omelette appetite."

I thought of the omelettes in the tea shop of Poperinghe, and I knew that I was lost. "Can't you get horses?" I asked.

"No luck. The transport has to shift to-day and there's nothing doing in that line. I asked just before lunch."

The omelettes danced up and down before my eyes until the intervening miles over hard cobble stones dwindled to nothing. "All right," I said. "Will you go and get leave for us? I'll be ready in a minute." And I went off to borrow some money from Jackson with which to pay for my omelettes.

The church tower of Poperinghe shimmered in the heat and seemed to beckon us on along the straight road that led through the miles of flat country, relieved here and there by stretches of great hop poles or by little red-roofed farms where lounged figures in khaki.

In every field grazed dozens of horses and in every lane were interminable lines of motor lorries, with greasy-uniformed men crawling about underneath them or sleeping on the seats. In one place, a perspiring "Tommy" hurried round a farmyard on his hands and knees, and barked viciously for the benefit of a tiny fair-haired girl and a filthy fox-terrier puppy; and right above him swung a "sausage" gleaming in the sunlight. Just outside Poperinghe we met company after company of men, armed with towels, waiting by the roadside for baths in the brewery, and, as we passed, one old fellow, who declared that his "rheumatics was that bad he couldn't wash," was trying to sell a brand-new cake of soap for the promise of a drink.

The sun was hot in the sky, and the paving, than which nothing on earth is more tiring, seemed rougher and harder than usual; motor lorries, or cars containing generals, seemed, at every moment, to compel us to take to the ditch, and we were hot and footsore when we tramped through the Grande Place to the tea shop.

But here we were doomed to disappointment, for not a chair was vacant--"Not room for a flea," as Madame explained to us, and we had to curb our appetites as best we could.

The tea shop at Poperinghe! Where could you hope to find a more popular spot than was the tea shop in the early part of 1915? Where could you get better omelettes served by a more charming little waitress?--was she really charming, I wonder, or did she merely seem so faute de mieux? Where could you find a nicer place to meet your friends from other regiments, to drink coffee, to eat quantities of dainty French cakes? It is not surprising that the shop at Poperinghe was always crowded by four in the afternoon in those old days before the second battle of Ypres.

As patiently as might be, Baker and I waited, lynx-eyed, until two chairs were vacated.

"Mademoiselle," we called, "deux omelettes, s'il vous plait."

"Bien, messieurs, tout de suite."

But we were far too hungry to wait, and before the omelettes arrived we had cleared a great plate of cakes. After weeks of indifferent trench cooking the first well-done omelette is a great joy, and, as I put down my fork, I glanced inquiry at Baker.

"Rather," he answered to my unspoken question.

"Mademoiselle, encore deux omelettes, s'il vous plait," I ordered. "Nous avons une faim de loup."

"Je m'en aperçois, messieurs les officiers," answered our fair enchantress, as she hurried off to repeat our order in the kitchen, while a crowd of predatory officers glared murder at us when they found we did not intend to leave our places so soon. "Some fellows are pigs," murmured one.

"That was splendid," said Baker when we started off on our homeward walk. "But six miles is a hell of a long way."

Personally, though, I enjoyed those six miles through the dusk, for we seemed to hear the hum of the traffic and the shouts of newsboys. Our tea brought back souvenirs of England, and we talked of London and of home, of theatres, and of coast patrol on the southern cliffs, until the little low huts of our camp showed up ahead.

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