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February 13th 2010    Tim Candler

     Our wall never looked quite right.  There were jokes.  Others who passed it sometimes pretended to tiptoe, or speak loudly in hushed voices, or tried to blow on it to see if they could make it fall.  A wonderful entertainment for them.  And we probably should have had a sense of humor about it.

    But men who can wake in the middle of the night yelling "Macht Schnell" tend toward extremes.   So best not to rile those memories in them.  We all ended up in the police compound.  And there for an afternoon we sat around listening to the foreman extemporizing  Le Boudin.

    Boudin is a blood sausage, and Le Boudin is a marching song.   I am quite certain this marching song has an official version.  Probably dour sentiments reflecting death by war and I cannot believe that the official version of the song contains a single verse that ends "... English boy."   Yet, that afternoon in the police compound, our foreman repeated the "English boy" verse often, and each time he did he raised a laugh from the crew.   

    The barrier of language gave me no clue as to the content of the verse.   But I was able to cock my head and say "goot", to which the foreman replied  "yes goot", which was enough for me.

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