command to a civilian in this small German village, I thought he had
gone a little mad. For no good military purpose, it seemed to me,
could possibly be served by demanding an imitation of an owl at eleven
o'clock on a wintry morning. It argued a perverted sense of humour at
least; and in truth I had been expecting a slight lapse from the paths
of sanity on the part of our Mr. Carfax for some time. For, you see,
he is a pivotal man who cannot get away until others arrive to replace
the pivots, and it is difficult to persuade him that all is for the
best. But he informed me that "Hoot up" had nothing whatever to do
with, the night-cries of owls or any other kind of bird, but was in
fact the idiotic way in which the natives of this country pronounce
"_Hut ab_" (Hat off).

_Now_ you realise what horrid Huns we are. Civilians are obliged to
take off their hats to British officers--a very grim business. In
reality, except that we are the hated English, it makes very little
difference to the Bosch, for the innkeeper here says that orders
concerning the taking off of hats to all and sundry became so
stringent in 1918 that the local postman was constantly interrupted
in his duties to answer the salutes of people who wished to be on the
safe side.

Bosches who have really fought for their country do not object
to "Hoot-upping." They of course are the first to realise that
inhabitants of occupied countries were forced by them to "hoot up,"
and that therefore there is a certain justice now in the retaliation.
Anyway, from these people the procedure does not greatly interest us;
but the overdressed Bosch profiteer, fat and muttony--to hoot him up
in his own village! Really, you know, in some ways the War has been
worth while.