QUEER BATTLE-ZONE HOMES.

Auckland Star, Volume XLIX, Issue 148, 22 June 1918, Page 13

QUEER BATTLE-ZONE HOMES.

THE BUILDING OF "WHIZZ-BANG VILLA." Of all the pent-up forces that find expression in the doings of our soldiers none is more provocative than the homemaking instinct. That inbred love of a place of your own that prompted you as a boy to make a . whereui__you -would .sit, cold,. uncomfortable," but supremely happy in your achievement and your possession, that as a man made j"ou. long for a house of your own design and conception, is magnified tenfoU in the hearts of soldiers in France. Set down a battalion in a veritable wilderness, and in a few hours you shall find hundreds of temporary homes, the dwellings of the men who have made them, and are proud and conceited about such things as the best use made of a ground sheet or whose home is the most waterproof. After all, men never grow up, and soldiering brings boyhood back again. One of the most luxurious homes I saw was made of .hell boxes and old tarpaulins (writes Mr. J. Hodson, in the "Daily Mail") —a hut eight feet high and j six yards square, with -windows, a table] made of packing cases, and excellent beds of wire netting and wood. One could live'in a hut like that until the end of the war in comfort. The makers were a sergeant and corporal at a prisoners' base. Both were Manchester warehousemen before the war. The motor transport men are responsible for erections that in originality of design and workmanship would break j the heart of any architect or builder. The "If.T." man needs only a hit of corrugated iron, a biscuit tin or two, some mud and sods, a few sandbags, and one, or two packing cases, and he will turn out 'a many-sided erection that is cosy i and has a chimney— side or roof is no matter give it a name like "Whizzbang Villa." But the "M.T." man is lucky. Often he is able to make his wagon his home, and very inviting it looks at night, the light of a lamp shining on a few pictures nailed up, when one is slogging past in the rain. The infantryman's chance to show his skill comes on bivouacs and in the trenches. As a rule he is forced to be moTe primitivp, • less ' pretentious. He builds his house, sleeps in it, takes it down, and marches away with part of it, at least, on his back. If he is lucky and shell boxes are available he can make a tolerably good shelter with these and his waterproof sheet. Sticks at all events may usually be got, and two sheets laced with string and made tent-like with supports keep a good deal of wind and rain off. In trenches corrugated iron and wood are priceless. Add to these sandbags and a few biscuit tins for making chimneys, and the result is one any infantryman may value. The more disreputable the creation the more high-sounding title it is likely to receive. Any piece of tin and a few sandbags is liable to be called the "Hotel Cecil." But however successful or disappointing the home may prove, it belongs to its maker absolutely. Ruined villages close behind the trenches have been commonly used as homes, and are, as it were, a cross between Tommy's creations and regular billets. Here, sometimes on the ground floor, more rarely upstairs, more commonly in the cellars; our men have made themselves comfortable. A roof overhead, even if badly knocked about, is a comfort when the* beauties of perfect starlit nights have begun to mean nothing of joy to you, and when the dawn is watched not for its glories, but for the activities of the enemy.