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Updated: June 15, 2025
However, he followed Cockerell down the street, and meekly embarked upon a contest with the lady Inhabitants thereof, in which he was hopelessly outmatched from the start. At the first door a dame of massive proportions, but keen business instincts, announced her total inability to accommodate soldats, but explained that she would be pleased to entertain officiers to any number.
Sydney C. Cockerell, now the Director of the Fitzwilliam Museum, Cambridge, showed him a medieval missal, laboriously illuminated. He found that it fatigued him to look at it, and said that such books ought never to be made.
"Ils sont officiers sous-officiers," explained Cockerell, rather ingeniously, and moved off down the street. At the next house the owner a small, wizened lady of negligible physique but great staying power entered upon a duet with Alphonso, which soon reduced that very moderate performer to breathlessness. He shrugged his shoulders feebly, and cast an appealing glance towards the Lieutenant.
"What was his Christian name, do you know?" "Walter, I think, sir," said Cockerell. Colonel Kemp, amid the stress of battle, found time to enter a note in his pocket-diary to that effect. Meanwhile, up in the line, 'A' Company were holding on grimly to what are usually described as "certain advanced elements" of the village.
Then he stripped off his British Warm coat incidentally revealing the fact that he wore upon his tunic the ribbons of both South African Medals and the Distinguished Service Order and threw it round Cockerell's shoulders. "I'm sorry, boy!" he said. "I never noticed. You are chilled to the bone. Button this round you." Cockerell made a feeble protest, but was cut short. "Nonsense!
It isn't a wireless telephone, you know! Corporal Kemp, connect that telephone for Mr. Cockerell." A marble-faced N.C.O. kneels solemnly upon the turf and raises a small iron trapdoor hitherto overlooked by the omniscient Cockerell revealing a cavity some six inches deep, containing an electric plug-hole. Into this he thrusts the terminal of the telephone wire.
There is a windmill!" "Yes; one sees them occasionally out here," replied Cockerell drily. "Everything is so strange!" confessed the open-hearted Angus. "Those dogs we saw just now the people with their sabots the country carts, like wheelbarrows with three wheels the little shrines at the cross-roads the very children talking French so glibly " "Wonderful how they pick it up!" agreed Cockerell.
An officer descended, and began to walk back. Cockerell rose to his weary feet and walked to meet him. The officer wore a major's crown upon the shoulder-straps of his sheepskin-lined "British Warm" and the badge of the Army Service Corps upon his cap. Cockerell, indignant at the manner in which his platoon had been hustled off the road, saluted stiffly, and muttered: "Good-morning, sir!"
Cockerell, who had never outgrown certain characteristics which most of us shed upon emerging from the Lower Fourth, laughed long and loud. "That crowd? They belong to one of the Labour Battalions. They make roads, and dig support trenches, and sling mud about generally. Wonderful old sportsmen! Pleased as Punch when a shell falls within half a mile of them. Something to write home about. What?
The billeting officer on this, as on most occasions, was our friend Cockerell, affectionately known to the entire Battalion as "Sparrow," and his qualifications for the post were derived from three well-marked and invaluable characteristics, namely, an imperious disposition, a thick skin, and an attractive bonhomie of manner. Behold him this morning dismounting from his horse in the place of St.
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