Pigs' Trotters And Chicken

Auckland Star, Volume LXX, Issue 129, 3 June 1939, Page 10 (Supplement)

Pigs' Trotters And Chicken

COURCELLES FEAST

TROOPER'S" article on "scrounging" reminds me of when we went down to the Somme again from the Hazebrouck area on March 22, 1918, to help stem the great German thrust at Amiens. We found our rations short for the first week or so. I recollect a total absence of tobacco at Maillv Maillet for two or three days. As for food, we had "hard tack" for a few days, as everything was more or less disorganised" and the supply depots had not settled down to their customary routine. Then we were moved to Courcelles, a small village a mile or two on the left of Mailly Maillet. When we arrived there, in the words of niv friend Bill K , "we wanted a darned good feed." Strange to say we had it, and this was the manner of its "scrounging." Shelling A Bit Thick We were billeted in the home of a farmer in the village. It was a big house, nicely furnished and well kept. and his family apparently had absented themselves as the shelling was a bit thick round those parts just then. We made ourselves at home to the extent of shifting his hay into his parlour and kitchen, where we intended to "kip it" on beds of "beaucoup" straw. We also raided his cellar. Bill R went poking around, and suddenly burst on the ravenous crowd with the information that he had discovered a live pig and a dozen fowls. Now, Bill R was a butcher by trade, and before our mouths had really commenced to water the pig was no more.

How shall I describe the eating of that pig? His admirable, delightful, succulent, delicate trotters, the ambrosive tootlisomeness of his ribs, the mellow pungency of his delectable liver! Never was such a pig, nor such spuds baked in their jackets, nor such liectar as M'sieur's good red Burgundy. For dinner we had the chickens stuffed with onions from M'sieur's garden and crushed ship's biscuit. Hectic Aftermath My most vivid recollection, however, is the aftermath of that Gargantuan feast. Bill R stood in the courtyard of the farmhouse, a delicate crystal glass with a long slender stem poise<J in his hand. He was striking an attitude, and he was attired in M'sieur's swallowtailed go-to-the-party jacket, white waistcoat and all. His curls were hidden by a strange black top hat. He slapped himself on the chest and roared, "Bon, Bon," the only French words he knew.

The shelling had eased off for the last hour or two, and everything was merry and bright. Suddenly round the corner of the house came M'sieur and his two fiery-eyed daughters. He took one look at our ''Bonning'' Digger and then he sailed into him. The glass and its contents went flying across the yard into the cesspool, and the top hat after it, flicked away like a fly with the old chap's stick. Taken unawares, Bill could not defend himself, and Anally the old man gave him a welldirected kick in the pants. I don't remember what the feed cost us —but we paid up, and I think it was worth it. The yard was strewn with feathers, and I can still hear M'sieur's tearful lament: "Mes pauvres poulets. Le cochon mort!" I must confess I felt pity for him. The French peasant had a lot to put up with. Tauixjarunui. TOCK EMMA.