CARMILLE.

Taranaki Daily News, Volume LVII, Issue 219, 23 February 1915, Page 8

CARMILLE.

HIS WONJJEHFUIj CONVERSION. Camillo had never taken the Belgian army seriously. He was head waiter, boots, bar-tender, and general factotum at a little old Flemish inn where I have been in the habit of staying several times a year. The ordinary convention-, alities of guest and waiter we had always ignored since that day, many years tack, when he lent 1111; a complete rigout when I fell into the canal. In his on - -time I taught him to row, anu ride a bicycle, wmle he chaperoned me when ' I went purchasing souvenirs and endeavored to teacli me Flemish. He was a broad-faced Fleming from the north, with bright blue eyes and a deep-chested laugh, and he loathed his military service. Sunday mornings, just after dawn, you would hear him creep downstairs, his bayonet clanking on the stair-heads, drop his rifle on the kitchen tiles while he gulped scalding coffee, then clomp down the cobbled street to the Grande Place for parade, lie hated it, and more tuan hated being 'seen. Consequently, we always stuck our heads out of the window to wish him bon voyage and watch him scowl. [ THE FLAME OF WAR. Then suddenly the flames of war lit up i the countryside, and he went.- But | he wasi a proud man that morning. He kissed me farewell as he kissed Madame, I on both cheeks, and t pushed l my favor- | ito meerschaum, which lie had always [ admired with secret covetolism-ss, into I his hand, where it clicked against the little ivory crucifix of Madaine's, blinking back my emotion for the sake of a national pride. But Camille was proud because he had discovered his country's army. It took us a week, the first week of the war, to find out that there hi'.d "rown lip in Europe a new military nation to be considered.

Although Camille was a large, stolid Fleming, with apparently little in common with his comrades of the dark, vivacious, quicker-witted French type, my impression as he left was that his grief at parting was considerably exceeded by a burning indignation at th-_ treachery of the proprietor of a big magasin who liaß been convicted of being a spy after living amongst them for twenty years. It was an outrage to his simple code of morality, that only blood could wipe out. And during the black days that followed, wo fouftl that this sense of outraged justice was very general among the troops. They were ro sure of the justice of their cause that any other result than ultimate success was inconceivable. It was this feeling, perhaps, that enabled them to leave us with a joke on their lips and come back maimed and wounded, but still with laughter in their eyes. TRAIL OF THE INFANTRY. You could see thein coming along the little country roads in a thick veil of brown dust, stocky, overcoated infantrymen, their voices raised in some light chanson, perhaps unprintable, but inimitably gay. After seeing other armies, you could never be impressed by their appearance; they had a contempt for superficialities, such as keeping in step or smartness in kit or person. They trail down the road like a regiment of irregulars, in the irresponsibility of their natures, and woefully unshaven; no swagger; no furbelows; but possessed of a calm, calculating, deliberate eourlfige that has astounded Europe, and most of all the German legions. Perhaps they had heard them talk about their soldiering as I heard Camille.

' Some weeks passed, and gentle mail- | ame never heard much of him. Then 1 he appeared in person at the door of I the little auberge. They hardly recognised him. He had not shaved for days, I was begrimed with dirt and powder, j and burnt nearly black with the sun. He was wearing civilian' trousers, tucked into the tops of his boots, and having lost his overcoat in a Uhlan raid, was making shift with an old cavalry cloak. He was the same old Camille, though; : when he washed ancl shaved he went round patting everyone on the back I and laughing whole-heartedly like a I boy on a holiday. "And how do you like it?" inquired old Oustav, the fat chef from across the way, and a violent tnti-Clerical. PICKING THEM OFF. "Camarade, life is good," chuckled Camille. "I sit up there" —and he waved his hand in the direction of the . larch-clad hill crests towards the frontier—"l sit up. there, and zip, zip, zip, I I pick them off in the road below as I they come; then, while they are wondering, away I go, a kilometre further 1 on." He held up his hand, "One, two, three, four," he repeated, bending down his fingers, with a suggestive nod. Old Gustav's eyes gleamed. "You are a bloodthirsty ruffian, I fear, my son," lie said bantering!}'. "Ah," said Camille, "but we have. a little e"ok, sn high"—holding hia hand about the height of his shoulder. "He has sniped scores." Perhaps there was scepticism in the faces of his listeners at the idea of ii yorthfnl cook picking off the Kaiser's cavalry like currants from a bush. I "He has, I swear by the Holy Mother," | repeated- Camille earnestly. "He Is a | child of the woods; he has lived there all his life hunting hares. At night lie goes, like a soft cat, making no noise Miirnl the bushes and tree trunks. The others, they make much noise, like cows in the forest, and Edouard, he waits, then fires and then is away. He never misses, and always escapes. . . His home was burnt, his father was shot through the ears, his mother and sister, lielas!. • . . He has sworn revenge; he will not be content m'sieu Oustav till he lias killed one hundred —and he will." O'mille left next day loaded up with veal 'and eliocolate, to renew his sniping in tli" trenches. He never returned to Dinant. It was a few days back that among p. evowl of IMginn refugees that were patiently waiting to get aboard an oin' nibus to be taken to shelter at Chap ing Cross I saw an old man whose face seemed familiar. He was wearing a white jacket under his overcoat, and a peak cap pulled over his eyes. Tie wal mounting guard over two small children and a small black bag; a gift of chocolate to the two children was n u excuse to sneak, and I recognised Oustav. He told me the whole pitiful story of the burning of the whole town, that is s "cli familiar history. How he escaped with his life and such worldly possessions as lie could cram into that little, black bag. He was bright and confident; he had his trade, he could cook, and, as he said, "People must eat to live, m'sieu." "Have you heard anything of Camille?" I'asked.

THE MOTHER'S mnniMAOK He shook his head "Canville (lied bravely. He had been raptured, anit at first they'said lie had turned traitor. He had offered his services as guide, hut he waited. Opportunity came; the Germans he led were anilmslied in the forest above Hen v. He died there—hut they perished with him." "And poor Madame?" I inquired. There were, tears in the old im'.n's eyes, but a ring of pride in his voice. "Madame, m'sieu, was the mother of Camille. When her son did not come back, she went to look for him. They Jold her the worst, but she did not re-

turn to weep, m'sieu.. . X T o, she was tlie mother of C'amille. .. . SHc spent tlic rest of her days in the trendies, carrying food, although they endeavored to get her to go. Tiiere they found her 0110 day, shot. Beside her were two pails, one filled with bread and meat, the other with tobacco and fears'. . . . Six kilometres they carried her, m'sieu, over the hills, so that she should not lie parted from Lor son in death."—W.ll.H. in the Manchester Guardian.