IN THE MAGINOT LINE
popote. . . . Well, it has to be sampled. You must
lunch with us/
The popote of the work at B------was a little white
room, about thirty yards underground, but as gay
as the sunniest courtyard of an Andalusian Inn. On
its walls one of the crew, who was a painter of
considerable talent, had designed a heroi-comic
frieze, featuring his superior officer and his
comrades. The popotier, who, fairly enough, was
the youngest lieutenant, got up and announced the
menu:
'Les HOTS d'ceuvre varies aux Barbeles. . . . Les
Escargots du Beton. . . . Le Gigot de Mouton
requisitione. . . . Le Camembert au Trot. . . . Le
Blockhaus de Semoule. . . . Acides picrique^ sulfurique
et cyanhydrique. . . . Bon appetit, mon Commandant
. . . Bon appetit, messieurs.3
But thepopotier slandered his cellar, for his picric
acid was an excellent vin de pays. Conversation was
a delicately balanced mixture of serious thought and
the broadest jest. The Commander of the work was
looked upon by all with a respectful affection, but
this did not prevent him from being the butt of
classic hoaxes. The section's radio would suddenly
deliver for his especial benefit a bogus talk that
parodied the authentic ones: letters covered with
apocryphal seals would summon him to the War
Office. But as soon as the talk strayed to the
strength of the fortifications and the need for
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