This combination of courage and fair-dealing has
had its reward. The town has become a local Mecca. British soldiers
with an afternoon to spare and a few francs to spend come in from
miles around. Mess presidents send in their mess-sergeants, and
fearful and wonderful is the marketing which ensues.
In remote and rural billets catering is a simple matter. We take what
we can get, and leave it at that. The following business-card, which
Bobby Little once found attached to an outhouse door in one of his
billets, puts the resources of a French hamlet into a nutshell:--
HERE
SMOKING ROM
BEER
WINE {WITHE
{RAID
COFFE
EGS
But in town the shopper has a wider range. Behold Sergeant Goffin, a
true-born Londoner, with the Londoner's faculty of never being at
a loss for a word, at the grocer's, purchasing comforts for our
officers' mess.
"Bong jooer, Mrs. Pankhurst!" he observes breezily to the plump
_epiciere_. This is his invariable greeting to French ladies who
display any tendency to volubility--and they are many.
"Bon jour, M'sieu le Caporal!" replies the _epiciere_, smiling.
"M'sieu le Caporal desire?"
The sergeant allows his reduction in rank to pass unnoticed. He does
not understand the French tongue, though he speaks it with great
fluency and incredible success. He holds up a warning hand.
"Now, keep your 'and off the tap of the gas-meter for one minute
_if_ you please," he rejoins, "and let me get a word in edgeways.
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