"Of course this sort of thing doesn't happen in real life," said Albert Edward, flattening his proboscis against the pane. "Either it's all a dream or else those oranges will suddenly light up; George Grossmith, in a topper and spats, will trip in from the O.P. side; girls will blossom from every palm, and all ranks get busy with song and prance—tra-la-la!"
The Babe kicked his blankets off and sat up. "Nothing of the sort. We've arrived in well-known Italy, that's all. Capital—Rome. Exports—old masters, chianti and barrel-organs. Faces South and is centrally heated by Vesuvius."
We rattled into a cutting, the sides of which were decorated with posters: "Good Healt at the England," "Good Luck at Tommy," and drew up in a flag-festooned station, on the platform of which was a deputation of smiling signorinas who presented the Atkinses with postcards, fruit and cigarettes, and ourselves with flowers.
"Very bon—eh, what?" said the Babe as the train resumed its rumblings. "All the same I wish we could thank them prettily and tell them how pleased we are we've come. Does anybody handle the patter?"
Albert Edward thought he did. "Used to swot up a lot of Italian literature when I was a lad; technical military stuff about the divisions of Gaul by one J. C?sar."
"Too technical for everyday use," I objected. "A person called D'Annunzio is their best seller now, I believe."
"Somebody'd better hop off the bus at the next stop and buy a book of the words," said the Babe.
At the next halt I dodged the deputation and purchased a phrase-book with a union Jack on the cover, entitled The English Soldier in Italy, published in Milan.
Among military terms, grouped under the heading of "The Worldly War," a garetta (sentry-box) is defined as "a watchbox," and the machine-gunner will be surprised to find himself described as "a grapeshot-man." It has also short conversations for current use.
"Have you of any English papers?"
"Yes, sir, there's The Times and Tit-Bits."
(Is it possible that the land of Virgil, of Horace and Dante knows not The Daily Mail?)
"Give me, please, many biscuits."
"No, sir, we have no biscuits; the fabrication of them has been avoided by Government."
"Waiter, show me a good bed where one may sleep undisturbated."
In the train:—
"Dickens! I have lost my ticket."
"Alas, you shall pay the price of another."
A jocular vein is recommended with cabbies:—
"Coachman, are you free?"
"Yes, sir."
"Then long live liberty."
Very young subalterns with romantic notions may waste good beer-money on foreign phrase-books and get themselves enravelled in hopeless international tangles, but not old Atkins. The English soldier in Italy will speak what he has always spoken with complete success in Poperinghe, Amiens, Cairo, Salonika, Dar-es-Salaam, Bagdad and Jerusalem, to wit, English.
But to return to our train. At nightfall we left the fairy coast behind, its smiling signorinas, flags, flowers and fruit, and swarmed up a pile of perpendicular scenery from summer to winter. During a halt in the midst of moonlit snows our carriage door was opened and we beheld outside an Italian officer, who saluted and gave us an exhibition of his native tongue at rapid fire.
"He's referring to us," said the Babe. "Answer him, somebody; tell him we're on his side and all that."
"Viva l' Italia," William exclaimed promptly.
The Italian countered with a "Viva l'Inghilterra" and swept on with his monologue.
"Seems to want something," said Albert Edward. "Wonder if C?sar is too technical for him."
"Read him something from The English Soldier in Italy," I suggested.
The Babe thumbed feverishly through the handbook. "'Let us get in; the guard has already cried'—No, that won't do. 'Give me a walk and return ticket, please'—That won't do either. 'Yes, I have a trunk and a carpet-bag'—Oh, this is absurd." He cast the book from him.
At that moment the engine hooted, the trucks gave a preliminary buck and started to jolt forward. The Italian sprang upon the running board and, clinging to the hand-rail, continued to declaim emotionally through the window. William became alarmed. "This chap has something on his mind. Perhaps he's trying to tell us that a bridge has blown up, or that the train is moving without a movement order, or the chauffeur is drunk. For Heaven's sake somebody do something—quick!"
Thereupon Babel broke loose, each of us in his panic blazing off in the foreign language which came easiest to his tongue.
William called for a bath in Arabic. The Babe demanded champagne in French. Albert Edward declined mensa, while I, by the luckiest chance, struck a language which the Italian recognised with a glad yelp. In a moment explanations were over and I had swung him into the carriage and slammed the door.
The new-comer was a lieutenant of mountain artillery. He was returning from leave, had confided himself to the care of a Railway Transport Officer, had in consequence missed every regular train and wanted a lift to the next junction. That was all. I then set about to make him as comfortable as possible, wrapping him in one of the Babe's blankets and giving him his maiden drink of whisky out of William's First Field Dressing. With tears streaming down his cheeks he vented his admiration of the British national beverage.
In return he introduced me to the Italian national smoke, an endless cigar to be sucked up through a straw. Between violent spasms I implored the name and address of the maker. We were both very perfect gentlemen.
We then prattled about the War; he boasting about the terrific depths of snow in which he did his battling, while I boasted about the Flanders mud. We broke about even on that bout. He gained a bit on mountain batteries, but I got it all back, and more, on tanks. He had never seen one, so I had it all my own way. Our tanks, after I had finished with them, could do pretty nearly anything except knit.
Defeated in the field, he turned home to Rome for something to boast about. I should see St. Peter's, he said. It was magnificent, and the Roman art treasures unsurpassable.
I replied that our cathedral at Westminster was far newer, and that the art in our National Cold Storage had cost an average of ￡5473 19s. 154d. per square foot. Could he beat it?
That knocked him out of his stride for a moment, but he struggled back with some remark about seeing his Coliseum by moonlight.
I replied that at ours we had modern electric light, Murphy and Mack, Vesta Tilley and the Bioscope.
Whether he would have recovered from that I know not, for at this moment the lights of the junction twinkled in at the frosted windows and he took his departure, first promising to call in at our Mess and suffer some more whisky if in return I would crawl up his mountain and meet the chamois and edelweiss.
Later on, as I was making up my bed for the night, Albert Edward poked his head out of the cocoon of horse-blankets in which he had wound himself.
"By the way, what ungodly jargon were you and that Italian champing together so sociably?"
"German," I whispered; "but for the Lord's sake don't tell anybody."