There was a splendid fat doctor who felt physical fear, but never
shirked his job. He used to go and hide behind the barn, with his pipe,
till there was work for him. His wasn't the fear that spreads disaster
through a crowd. He was fat and funny. A fat man is comfortable to have
around, at any time, even when he is unhappy. No one lost respect for
this man. Every one enjoyed him thoroughly.
Commandant Gilson of the Belgian army was one of our firm friends. My
introduction to him was when I heard a bit of a Liszt rhapsody floating
into the kitchen from our piano, the fingers rapid and fluent, and long
nails audible on the keys. I remember the first meal with him, a
luncheon of fried sardines, fruit cake, bread and cheese. The doctor
across the way had sent a bottle of champagne. After luncheon he
received word of an attack. He kissed the hand of each of us, said
good-by, and went out to clean his gun. We did not think we should see
him again. He retook the outpost and had many more meals with us. He
would rise from broken English into swift French--stories of the Congo,
one night till 2 a.m. Always smoking a cigarette--his mustache sometimes
singed from the fire of the diminishing butt. For orderly, he had a
black fat Congo boy, in dark blue Belgian uniform, flat-nosed, with
wrinkles down the forehead. He was Gilson's man, never looking at him in
speaking, and using an open vowel dialect.
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