And there it was I met again a man I had spoken to once at Tidworth, who knew French and was now squadron interpreter. He was a charming man of considerable means, with a large business, who had joined up immediately on the outbreak of war. But being squadron interpreter he messed with the officers, had a billet in a cottage, slept on a bed, had a private hip bath and hot water, and was in heaven, comparatively. He suggested to me that as my squadron lacked an interpreter (he was doing the extra work) and I knew French it was up to me.
“But how the devil’s it to be done?” said I, alight with the idea.
“Why don’t you go and see the Colonel?” he suggested.
He laughed. “This is ‘Kitchener’s Army,’” he said, “not the regular Army. Things are a bit different.” They were indeed!
So I slept on the idea and every moment it seemed to me better and better, until the following evening after tea, instead of going to the _estaminet_, I went down to squadron headquarters. For about five minutes I walked up and down in the mud, plucking up courage. I would rather have faced a Hun any day.
At last I went into the farmyard and knocked at the door. There were lights in the crack of the window shutters.
He peered at me. “What the perishin’ ’ell do _you_ want to know for?”
“And what the ’ell do _you_ want to see him for?”
I was annoyed. It seemed quite likely that this confounded servant would do the St. Peter act and refuse me entrance into the gates.
“Look here,” I said, “it doesn’t matter to you what for or why. You’re here to answer questions. Is the Colonel _in_?”
The man snorted. “Oh! I’m ’ere to answer questions, am I? Well, if you want to know, the Colonel ain’t in.--Anything else?”
I was stumped. It seemed as if my hopes were shattered. But luck was mine--as ever. A voice came from the inner room. “Thomson! Who is that man?”
The servant made a face at me and went to the room door.
“A trooper, sir, from one of the squadrons, askin’ to see the Colonel.”
The servant returned to me and showed me into the room.
I saw three officers, one in shirt sleeves, all sitting around a fire. Empty tea things were still on a table. There were a sofa, and armchairs and bright pictures, a pile of books and magazines on a table, and a smell of Egyptian cigarettes. They all looked at me as I saluted.