September 7, 1910. 
LAND ■& WATER 
13 
A Cellar at Nouex-les-Mines 
By Patrick MacGill 
IN the village of Bully Grenay the houses were 
fractured by high explosive shells, the windows 
were panelcss, the doors latchless, and the chimneys 
were hurled to the ground 'where they now lay, 
mere heaps of broken bricks, piles of rubble which' had 
lain there all the spring. It was now summer, the days 
were soft with sunshine, glorious davs when men whispered 
to themselves secretly, " How good, how very good, to 
be alive." 
The mad vitality of life exulted in itself amidst scenes 
of demolition and decay. \'oung blood pulsed warmly. 
The quick walked through the barren streets of the 
village with an idle mien, and ah abject chimney stack 
which a million furious shells had gashed and lacerated, 
pleased with their vigour and their calling, stood moodily 
in air. Man values existence in haunts where he holds 
insecure purchase of life. 
A solitary violet peeped coyly out from between two 
bricks which topped a heap of rubble bv the roadway 
near the mine. The heap of rubble had once been a 
home. The cataclysm of continents, the hatred of kings, 
the mustering of armies, the thunder of guns were all 
needed in the making of this— a mean little nook on a 
rubble heap where a modest violet blossomed by the 
street of Bully Grenay. 
Like cats to their accustomed haunts the natives clung 
to their village and braved danger and death in pre- 
ference to exile. But now, fearing a big German offen- 
sive, the authorities removed the villagers and sent them 
back to localities further away from the firing line. The 
villagers left the place without a moan ; placid fatalists, 
they lived or died midst the thunder of a thousand guns ; 
they accepted the change mutely and in sil>nce left 
their native plaee when ordered to do so. They took 
away much of their portable property and left much of 
it behind. On the eve of Lammas Day my friehd, Bill. 
Teake, a Cockney with a little white potato of a nose 
and an unfailing store of good humour, caught two 
homeless chickens fluttering despairing wings outside 
the Estaminet La Concorde in Bully Grenay. 
" 'Ow am I to kiU these 'ere hanimals ? " he asked his 
mate, Jimmy James. 
" Put a bullet through them," answered Jimmy. 
II That'll blow 'em to blazes," said Bill. 
" Then wring their necks." 
" 'Ow ? " 
" Like this," said Jim, getting hold of a water bottle 
by the neck and sv\ inging it round his head. 
" I've a better plan," said Bill, gazing at the door of 
the estaminet. " You open that there door and I'll 
'old the neck of the 'en against the jamb. I'll say 
One ! Two ! Free ! and at the word Free ! you swings 
the door wiv a bang against the post and you'll snick 
the neck of the 'en like winkin'." 
The operation was performed with great success, the 
chickens were decapitated and Bill's thumb was bashed 
to an ugly purple. 
"That's a go," he muttered. " Not much of a gyme 
killin' chickens like this." 
" Not much of a ' gyme ' indeed," said Jimmy. " But' 
they'll make a good meal, these fowl." 
" An' there's a bloomin' dawg, too, as was left be'ind," 
said Bill, pointing his finger at the top window of the 
estaminet. It was looking down at the two soldiers, 
a lean dog with plaintive eyes and a queer crooning cry 
which said as plainly as any doggie can sav, " Take me 
away from this place." 
"Why doesn't it come down the stairs?" asked 
Jimmy James. 
" Why ? " said Bill. " 'Cos there ain't no stairs ; 
they've been blown away by a shell." 
II Then we've got to get the animal down," said Jimmy. 
" 'Ow ? " asked Bill, then, without giving Jimmy 
time to answer, he said, " Oh, I knows 'ow. There's "a 
ladder round the corner. We'll put it up and take the 
pore thing down." 
Finding the ladder they placed it against the window 
sill, clambered up and rescued the dog which they placed 
on the street. Then Jimmy James and Bill Teakc 
clambered up the ladder again and entered the room. 
" They didn't take much awa}' wiv 'em," said Teake, 
gazing at the furniture in the room. " A perambulator, 
umbrella, a bed, a chest of drawers, a cradle. But it 
ain't much good, is it ? A bundle of five franc notes 
would be more to my likin'. Ah ! here's a basket of 
taters," said Bill, lifting a basket from the corner. " This 
will do well with the chickens." 
" What's that thing under the bed ? " asked Jimmy 
James. 
Teake peeped under and drew back his head as 
suddenly as if someone had given him a blow on the face. 
" It's a dead bloke," he said. " Let's get out." 
They reached the street to find the dog lying on the 
pavement wagging its taiL 
" It's so pleased with us,'' said Jimmy James. 
" Pleased ! " echoed Bill. " The damned ungrateful 
swine. Take that, and that ! " 
The two kicks were neatly delivered, and the dog 
rushed off, howling. ] 
" Ate our two blurry chickens, an' us rescuin' 'im ! 
Damn the French ! " said Bill. " If they leave anything 
be'ind its for their dogs. Anyway, we've the taters. 
We'll get back to the trench and cook 'em." 
Now, Jimmy James, who was a stretcher bearer, had 
to escort a sick man back to Nouex-les-Mines when he 
reached the trench, and Bill's friend, whose name was 
Dudley Pryor, had just finished a good dinner of fried 
potatoes and onions. 
" Blimey, I've got taters — lots of 'em — an' if you give 
me some honions, I'll make myself a bit of a feed," said 
Bill to Pryor. " I do feel empty inside." 
" Yes, I've got some onions to spare," said Pryor, 
" Are you going to cook now ? " 
" I'm goin' to cook now," said Bill. " But I want 
some lard or somethin' greasy for fryin'." 
" Good idea," said Pryor. 
" What did you fry the taters in ? " asked Bijl. 
" Oh, I fried them in — in vaseline," was Pryor's reply. 
" Git out ! " ^ r J' 
" Yes, I did." 
" Truth ? " 
" Oh, it's quite true," Pryor lied. " You should try 
it." 
" So I will," said simple Bill, and so he did. He used a 
whole box of vaseline, frj'ing his " taters " an a mess tin 
lid placed over a little fire at the base of a traverse. He 
ate his meal with great zest, vowing that he never had 
a better repast in all his life. 
Pryor, delighted with the little joke, told Felan, an 
Irishman in the section, how Bill Teake had used vaseline 
in frying potatoes. Felan came up to Bill as the latter 
sat smoking a Woodbine in the corner of the dug-out. 
" Bill Teake," he said. " What's wrong with ye ? " 
" Wiv me ? " asked Bill. " There's nuffink wrong 
wiv me." 
" Ye're lookin' very pale," said Felan. " I never 
saw a man look as bad. Have ye had no dinner ? " 
" No dinner ! " exclaimed Bill. " I 'ad the best meal 
I ever 'ad." 
" It can't have agreed with you," said Felan. " You 
look as white as a ghost." 
Felan looked away and Pryor poked his head through 
the door. 
" Good God, Bill ! " he exclaimed. " What has hap- 
pened to you ? " 
" 'Appened to me ! " said Bill. '\ Nuffink man. Wot 
gyme are ycr up to ? " 
" No game at all," said Pryor. " But you look bad. 
You should go and see the doctor this evening." 
Bill looked in the little mirror which he always carried 
about with him (he was a devil for the girls)." And he 
thought that he was looking white. 
" But I don't feel bad," he said to Pryor. 
" You mayn't feel bad," said Pryor, " but, by heaven I 
you look bad. Are your nerves giving way ? " 
" I've no nerves," said BiU. 
