The Brown Brethren. Patrick MacGill

       Patrick MacGill

      The Brown Brethren

      Published by Good Press, 2019

       [email protected]

      EAN 4064066200053

Table of Contents

       Cover

       Titlepage

       Text

      THE BROWN BRETHREN

       Table of Contents

      THE

       BROWN BRETHREN

      CHAPTER I

       AT THE CAFÉ BELLE VUE

      Strict on parade! When I'm on it I'm ready

       To shove blokes about if they do not keep steady!

       Comin' the acid! Stow it there! or it

       Won't do with me and then you'll be for it!

       Swingin' the lead! Them, the dowsiest rankers

       That ne'er 'ad C.B. or a dose of the jankers,

       Swing it on Snoggers! I'd like them to do it

       And good God Awmighty then, I'll put them froo it!

      Off it, I'm off. Then I'll brush up my putties,

       Try and look posh and get off wiv my butties,

       A drink at the Café, a joke wiv the wenches,

       Last joke per'aps, for we're due for the trenches.

       Then stick to wiv pride as our mateys have stuck it

       When kissin' the wenches or kickin' the bucket.

      (From "A Service Song.")

      The night had fallen and the Café Belle Vue was crowded with soldiers in khaki. The day's work was at an end, and the men had left their billets to come out and spend a few hours in the wine-shop of Jean Lacroix. A whole division was quartered in the district; it had come back from the firing-line and was enjoying a brief period of rest prior to its departure for the trenches again.

      Even here, back near the town of Cassel, the men were not free from the sights and sounds of the fighting. At night they could see the red agony of war painting the distant horizon, and hear the far-off rumbling of the big guns as the thunder and tumult of the conflict smote across the world. The men back from the line of slaughter tried not to think too clearly of what was happening out there. In the Café Belle Vue, where the wine was good, men could forget things.

      The Café was crowded. Half-a-dozen soldiers stood at the bar and the patronne served out drinks with a speedy hand. Behind her was a number of shelves on which stood bottles of various sizes. Over the shelves were two photographs; one was her own, the other was that of her husband when he was a thinner man and a soldier in the army. In the house there was one child, a dirty, ragged little girl, who sat in a corner and fixed a dull meaningless stare on the soldiers as they entered the café.

      Jean Lacroix sat beside the long-necked stove stroking his beard, a neat white little beard which stood perkily out from his fat chin. Jean Lacroix was fat, a jelly blob of a man with flesh hanging from his sides, from his cheeks and from his hands. He was a heap of blubber wrapped in cloth. When he changed his locality he shuffled instead of walking, when he laughed he shivered and shook his fat as if he wanted to fling it off. He was seldom serious, when he was, all those near him laughed. A serious Jean was a ridiculous figure.

      His wife was an aggressive female with a dark moustache, the tongue of a shrew and the eye of a money-lender. She worked like an ant and seldom spoke to her husband. Jean, wise with the wisdom of a well-fed man, rarely said a word to her; he sat by the fire all day and spoke to anyone else who cared to listen.

      A sergeant and three men entered and going up to the bar called for drinks. These soldiers were billeted at Y—— Farm which stood some three kilometres away from the Café Belle Vue. They belonged to the London Irish Regiment. The battalion had just come down from Hulluch for a rest. Having procured their drinks the four men sat down, lit their cigarettes and entered into a noisy conversation.

       Before going any further it will be well to say a few words about these men, the principal personages of my story.

      The sergeant's name was Snogger. He was a well-built man, straight as a ramrod and supple as an eel. He was very strict on parade, a model soldier, a terror to recruits and a rank disciplinarian. "When you're on parade you're on parade," was his pet saying. He had a tendency to use the letter "w" a little too often when speaking. Once he said admonishing a dilatory squad: "You blokes in the wear wank must wipe your wifles wiv woily wags in future!"

      Sergeant Snogger was a handsome man, proud as Lucifer and very careful about his person. His moustache was always waxed, his finger nails were always clean, and whenever possible he slept with his trousers placed under his bed and neatly folded. Thus a most artistic crease was obtained.

      Snogger had peculiar ears. Their tops pressed very closely into the head and the lobes stood out. Looking at the ears from the side they had an appearance similar to that of a shovel stretched out to catch something; seen from behind they looked as if crouching against a parapet waiting for an oncoming shell.

       The men liked Snogger and the sergeant preferred the company of riflemen to that of his brother N.C.O.'s.

      Bowdy Benners was a different type of man. A young fellow of twenty-four, slightly over medium height, but thick-set and sturdy. He had remarkably long arms, heavy buttocks and broad shoulders. The latter he swung vigorously when marching. This motion imparted a certain defiant swagger to the man which his placid nature utterly belied. He was of a kindly disposition, extremely good-humoured, but very self-conscious and blushed red as a poppy when spoken to. There was something very amiable and kind in his face; something good and comforting in his sleepy eyes, his rather thick lips and full cheeks. His ears perhaps were out of keeping with the repose which found expression on the rest of his features. They stood out from his head alert and ready, as it seemed, to jump from their perch on to the ground.

      Bowdy could drink like a fish, but French beer never made him drunk and champagne merely made him merry. When merry he swore and his companions laughed at this unaccustomed violence.

      "Devil blow me blind," he would say, stretching his long arm across the table at which he might be sitting and bringing down his massive fist with a thundering bang. "Devil blow me stone blind for a fool!" And all the soldiers around would laugh and wink at one another, as much as to say: "Is he not a big silly fool; not half as clever as we are."

      Bowdy was not indeed particularly clever; he lacked excessive sharpness of wit. But his mates loved him, for his spirit of comradeship was very genuine and he had a generous sympathy for all things good and noble. Often when the boys' tongues were loosened in a French tavern one of them might be heard saying: "Old Bowdy's a damned good sort. I'd follow him anywhere, even to hell."

      Then the others would answer: "None like old Bowdy. One of the best he is. And a good man."

      Bowdy was indeed a good man; a great fighter. In raids, in bayonet charges and bombing encounters he was a force to be reckoned with and never had an adversary been known to get the better of him. Persistence,