In this little story the author sets down the facts of a very remarkable affair--how a child saved a British battalion from annihilation, thereby giving rise to yet more legends of the "Angels of Mons" description. A true story from the _Wide World Magazine_.
In the days to come the historian will find fruitful scope for a work on faith, as shown in the Great War. And among the "Angels of Mons" and other celestial visitants I hope he will find a niche for the "Child of Terbeeke."
I came across the story--and the child himself, for that matter--when I was billeted with my battalion at Durdegem. Durdegem is as ugly a little Walloon village as you need look for, but, internationally speaking, it is as interesting as ugly. It stands on French soil; you could almost throw a tin of bully-beef, if you were so unpatriotically wasteful, into Belgium; what is, for all practical purposes, temporarily Germany is not more than three miles away; yet English is almost the only language you will hear in the streets. Even the children, those who are left of them, speak English; they say "Na poo" or "No bon," and sometimes, it is to be feared, a swearword, as patly as a bombardier. This is really less surprising than that there should be any children at all, with the German lines so close; but things have been comparatively quiet thereabouts for months past, and though some of the houses are still ruinous and others have had their windows blocked with sandbags so long that already the grass is beginning to grow upon them, the inhabitants have settled down to the not unprofitable task of selling comforts to the British soldiers who are always passing and repassing.
I was billeted upon Madame Tavernier, who owned the Blanchisserie du Cygne and was rapidly making her fortune out of the laundry bills she rendered to British officers, who are notoriously millionaires and well able to pay for the privilege of defending Northern France. With Madame Tavernier there was also staying--while other arrangements were being made for him--Hippolyte, otherwise famous as the Child of Terbeeke.
Hippolyte was not yet six, but already he could say "Slee-o-pums" and "Stunt-ease" and "Fum-fers" so plainly that any drill-sergeant would have wept with pride to hear him. Also he wore the full uniform of a British sergeant-major, with puttees and a walking-stick and the badge of a famous Line regiment, all specially made and presented to him for his very own. Also, although he was temporarily the paying-guest of Madame Tavernier and allowed himself to be petted by a whole serial-story of British officers, he had a service-battalion to act as his father and to fight for him any battles he might wish fought. It is to be feared that a precocious understanding of these facts had made him rather conceited, and I do not think I should have liked him very much had I remained with Madame Tavernier longer than three days. Anyhow, this was his story, as related to me by that excellent lady and vouched for by a cloud of witnesses.