The newcomer presented an enigma--a Frenchman in a British uniform
quartered with the Indian troops! It developed that he was a pupil
from the Sorbonne, in Paris, and was an interpreter. Everywhere
afterward I found these interpreters with the British Army--Frenchmen
who for various reasons are disqualified from entering the French Army
in active service and who are anxious to do what they can. They wear
the British uniform, with the exception that instead of the stiff
crown of the British cap theirs is soft, They are attached to every
battalion, for Tommy Atkins is in a strange land these days, a land
that knows no more English than he knows French,
True, he carries little books of French and English which tell him how
to say "Porter, get my luggage and take it to a cab," or "Please bring
me a laundry list," or "Give my kind regards to your parents," Imagine
him trying to find the French for "Look out, they're coming!" to call
to a French neighbour, in the inevitable mix-up of the line during a
_melee_, and finding only "These trousers do not fit well," or "I
would like an ice and then a small piece of cheese."
It was a curious group that sat in a semicircle around that peasant
woman's stove, waiting for the kettle to boil--the tall Indian major
with his aristocratic face and long, quiet hands, the young English
officer in his Headquarters Staff uniform, the French interpreter, and
I.
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