OUR FARM
July 30th, 1916.
Weare staying at a farm; quite an orthodox, Bairnsfather farm, except that in lieu of one (nominal) dead cow, we possess one (actual) portion of Dried Hun. The view from our doorway is somewhat extensive, and full of local colour! There are “steen” other farms all around us, all of which look as though they had been played with by professional house-wreckers out on a “beno.” “AK” Company—what there is left of it—has at present “gone to ground,” and from the lake to “Guildhall Manor” (we are very Toney over here!) there is no sign of life. A Fokker dropped in to call half an hour ago, but Archie & Sons awoke with some alacrity, and he has gone elsewhere. It is too hot even to write, and the C.O. of “AK” Coy., whowillwash every day, is a disturbing influence. He splashes about in two inches of “wipers swill” as though he really liked it, and the nett result is that somewhere around 4 “pipemma” the rest of us decide to shave also, which ruins the afternoon siesta.
This is a great life. Breakfast at 2A.M., lunch at noon, dinner at 4P.M., and supper any old time.
Macpherson—one of those enthusiastic blighters—insisted on taking me for a walk this morning. Being pure Edinburgh, Mac collects rum, whisky, and miscellaneous junk of all descriptions. When he returns to Canada he intends to run a junk shop in rear of a saloon.
The Boche was in a genial mood this morning. As we squelched along Flossy way, “out for bear,” he began to tickle up poor old Paradise Wood with woolly bears, and Mount Sparrow with Minnies. Mac has no sense of humour, he failed to see the joke. “There is a pairfectly good pair of field-glasses to the left of Diamond Copse,” he said mournfully, “and we cannot get them.” Diamond Copse is the sort of place one reads about, and wishes one had never seen. It is about an acre and a half in extent, and was once a pretty place enough, with a few fine oak trees, and many young saplings. Nowadays,it can hardly show a live twig, while shell-holes, bits of shrapnel, stinking pools tinged with reddy-brown, and forlorn remnants of trench—not to speak of dead bodies—make it into a nightmare of a place.
“There is a sniper in Paradise Wood, and I do not like him,” Mac announced gravely, after the fifth bullet, so we dodged over a grave, under a fallen oak, and into a shell-wrecked dug-out full of torn web equipment, machine-gun belts, old bully-beef, biscuits, a stained blanket, and a boot with part of the wearer’s leg in it. The horse-flies were very annoying, and a dead donkey in a narrow street of Cairo would be as violets to patchouli compared with the smell. Mac kept nosing around, and finally retrieved a safety razor and a box of number nine pills from an old overcoat. “There is some one over there in need of burial,” he said, “I can see the flies.” The flies were incidental, but Mac is that kind of chap.
We found what was left of the poor fellow near by. There was nothing but bone and sinew, and torn remnants of clothing. It was impossible to identify the man, andequally impossible to move him. By his side lay a bunch of letters, dirty and torn, and in a pocket which I opened gingerly with a jack-knife, a photograph of a girl—“With love, from Mary.” The letters had no envelopes, and all began, “Dear Jimmy.” Mac read one, and passed it over to me: “Dear Jimmy,—Enclosed you will find a pair of socks, some chewing gum, and a pair of wool gloves I knitted myself. The baby is well, and so am I. Peraps you will get leeve before long. Take care of yourself, Jim dear. The pottatoes have done good, an’ I am growing some tommatos. My separashun allowence comes reglar, so don’t worry. You will be home soon, Jim, for the papers say the Germans is beaten. I got your letter written in May. Alice is well. Your lovin’ wife, Mary.” “Och, it’s a shame,” said Mac, not looking at me. “A Tragedy, and but one of thousands.”
We covered poor Jim over with old sand-bags, as best we might, and his letters and photograph with him. Then we came back to our farm to lunch.