JOHN BROWN’S LETTERS.
Dear Sir,—We are specialists in pedigrees, family crests, and armorial bearings. Since the raising of the New Armies we have furnished no fewer than 25,385 officers with Family Trees and correct Escutcheons. We have innumerable requests daily for similar services.
The success of our scheme has been most gratifying. Hundreds of our clients have secured Staff Appointments and married society ladies through our labours.
We have now decided to open our field to include all Military Cadets, and would draw your attention to the importance of your name (Brown) and its ancestral greatness.
Our work is divided into various periods. For example, a Family Tree dating to the Norman Period costs £5, 5s. 0d.; the Tudor Period, £4, 4s. 0d.; Stewart Period, £3, 3s. 0d.; and the Lloyd George Period, 2s. 6d.
We have discovered that your ancestor, Harold de Vere Browne, landed at Hastings as an Esquire to the Duc de Polonski, a warrior in the service of William the Conqueror.
We shall be pleased to complete your genealogical tree.
Terms, Cash.
Yours respectfully,
Dodgem & Dodgem,
Pedigree Merchants.
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Dear Sir,—May we draw your attention to the use of our Bureau as a means of meeting desirable and highly recommended ladies with a view to matrimony? In the past year we have successfully negotiated over three hundred happy unions between officers and our clients. At present we have the following on our lists:
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These are just a few of our clients. Should you be interested, we shall be pleased to arrange an interview, or to send photos prior to the meeting.
Interview, £1. Successful Contract, £10.
Terms—Spot Cash.
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Lensky & Trotin,
Matrimonial Agency, Ltd.
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Dear Sir,—We beg to enclose our catalogue, patterns, and book of letters from satisfied clients. We have supplied uniforms to Raisuli, Li Hung Chang, and King Dinizulu.
Our stock is the finest in town. Cut excellent, and finish superb. We are the people.
Owing to officers’ accounts being ‘overdrawn,’ our terms are CASH WITH ORDER.—
Yours truly,
Do-All & Do-Em,
Military Tailors.
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Villa Petite,
Washout-on-Sea.
Dear Sir,—My sister and I are two well-known society ladies, anxious to help our country. Since 1914 we have made it our duty to look after canaries and pet-birds belonging to Officers of the Old Army. The high cost of feeding-stuffs has, however, compelled us to appeal for subscriptions in this great work.
We have, therefore, decided to make our aim one million sixpences.
Your sixpence will be gratefully accepted.—
Yours sincerely,
Maude Slippem.
P.S.—Please send stamped addressed envelope for your receipt.
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Recruiting Office,
Slowtown, Lancs.
John Brown,—You are hereby instructed to report for Army Service on May 24th. As this is the seventh notice sent you, your failure to comply will entail a warrant for your arrest.
John Muddle-Men, Lieut.,
Recruiting Officer.
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Rustic Manor,
Berks.
My Dearest Boy,—I have been worrying a lot about you since the rainy weather started. I hope your boots are not letting in, and that you have not got a cold. I wired Harrods to-day to send you a Chest-Warmer, felt soles, and a box of Gregory Powder.
I am glad to hear that you have got a clergyman in your hut, and that you go with him so often to Communion. And I am sure you will not waste your leisure hours with those brainless girls who are always luring young men into wicked paths.
The rector called to-day, and I asked him what books I should send you. He suggested Good Words, Life of David Livingstone, and the Parish Magazine. I have sent them off.
I was quite shocked to hear you had a Radical in your hut. I didn’t know Radicals got commissions. There must be corruption somewhere, and I am going to write to The Times.
When do you expect to get a Brigade?
I think that is all just now. Oh, I forgot. Take a spoonful of the Gregory’s every morning before breakfast. Your dear father did that for twenty years.
Lots of love to you, my own dear boy, from
Your Loving Mother.
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Sweetville.
My Dearest Johnnie,—Why have you stayed away so long? Is it because I had to entertain my two Australian friends? Surely that is unreasonable. Now, I am not so jealous as you are. For example, Marjory Clarke and her sister Hilda have told me of the interesting afternoon you all had together in the picture-house. I was so pleased to hear you were in such good company. But, a week later, I was so sorry to learn that you and Beefy had been silly again, sporting about with two low-class girls in the local hotel. You are such a puzzle. Yet I can’t help liking you. Do come over on Saturday! There’s a good boy!—Your loving
Adela.
MAKING UP WITH ADELA.
Adela’s last letter certainly made me feel a silly ass. Somehow, it upset my usual happy trend of thought. I couldn’t work, and my soul was torn with conflicting emotions. One moment I hated her; the next I loved her. Then the Devil would whisper in my ear, ‘What has she got to do with it, John Brown? Sow your wild oats. Have your fun. Everybody’s doin’ it.’
Privately speaking, Adela was right; but this righteousness annoyed me. She wasn’t my sister or my mater, and yet she was giving me fits for having a bit of fun. Still, Adela was sweet. She had a way with her. The attraction was both physical and spiritual. She had that sort of healthy figure which makes a student of eugenics stop in the street and mutter, ‘Here’s the model girl!’ Adela was also a ripping hockey-player, and one of the best at tennis. When men saw her knocking about with a racquet she seemed irresistible. They wanted to know her—wanted to kiss her. And she liked a bit of fun; but she wasn’t a fool. A girl who can live in a country parish without getting a sticky label on her name must be rather decent.
Somehow, she balanced my emotions. After indulging in sloppy things for a time, she would say, ‘Come on, John; don’t be decadent. Let’s talk.’ Then we separated our chairs, smoked cigarettes, and chatted away about Kipling, Galsworthy, Hardy, Byron, and Shelley.
Adela could talk. In the country she had found time to think. Her observations were so very shrewd and sane that I often said to myself, ‘This girl would make a topping wife and mother.’ I pictured her with rosy-cheeked kiddies playing in a garden. You needn’t say that was silly. The best people do it.
And yet she had dropped me (pro tem.) for these Australians!
However, affection will out. I wanted to see Adela again; and Beefy wanted to see her sister. You see, Beefy was a little bored kissing barmaids, and longed for something more congenial. As a matter of fact, Beefy was commencing to think. This was a revolution.
‘Come on, John. Jump on. We’ll go and see somebody decent to-day,’ he said.
Away we went, and in twenty minutes Adela and I were alone in the lovely conservatory overlooking a beautiful country-side. And didn’t Adela look well! She had such a nice short skirt which showed her dainty ankles. But it was in her face and eyes I found rest and consolation.
Adela was clean.
‘Have a smoke, John. They’re State Express,’ she said, pushing the box over. ‘And here’s a cup of white coffee.’ This tempting beverage was served in a charming cup. As she passed it I touched her hand—accidentally, of course. I was thrilled. ‘Now, Johnnie,’ she said very quietly, ‘let’s have this thing out. I hate being bad friends, and I don’t like to hear my pals being discussed by cooks and kitchen-maids.’
‘You’re jealous,’ I said maliciously.
‘I’m jealous for your uniform, not for you. My brother has the D.S.O., and he wouldn’t make an ass of himself—at least, not in a local hotel. You haven’t learnt wisdom, old boy.’
‘Well, you’re to blame. Why did you toddle off with those Australians?’
‘What a babe you are! You and Beefy must have a weak kink. Can’t we see other people? And don’t you think you’re just a little presumptuous?’
‘Perhaps. But I didn’t break any commandments, I can assure you.’
‘You don’t need to break a commandment to be a fool. People don’t judge by the great things. They sum you up from little things. When they find cadets hobnobbing with barmaids and fooling around with chorus-girls, they think and talk a lot.’
‘Oh, be a sport, for Heaven’s sake! One would think you were at a Dorcas Society,’ I said, getting rattled.
‘Very well, Johnnie, if you’re going to be rude, and not man enough to face things out, you can go. Men may be scarce, but girls, at least, have a sense of decency and pride.’
‘Awfully sorry, old girl. Really, I didn’t mean to be nasty. But, you know, you are making a song about it. I’m really sorry, or I shouldn’t be here. I’ve been dying to come all the time. I vowed I would never see you again. But here I am. It’s all you!’
She smiled. She was a woman, after all. (Between you and me, Adela was a bit soft on your humble.)
‘You’ll never do it again, will you?’
‘Never—honest Injun!’
‘Very well, you’re pardoned. And here’s a kiss.’
‘You’re a sport, Adela. But what about those other fellows?’
‘The Australians?’
‘Yes.’
‘They’re very nice people. When they want to come here, they can do so. It isn’t for you to decide. Cheeky boy!’
‘Then you can’t be my special charmer.’
‘Who wants to be? Do you imagine we girls are going to allow you to label us “Special” or “One of the Crowd”? Johnnie, you’re the limit!’
‘That’s my ultimatum!’
‘You’re a silly kid. If you met those two Australians, you would be charmed. We have got to give hospitality to our relatives.’
‘Oh, then, they’re related?’
‘Yes—very old friends of the family.’
‘That makes a difference, Adela.’
‘Still, they’re interesting, although they’re relatives. I’m just longing to see them again. You may come, too, and guard me, if you like.’
‘I won’t!’
‘Oh!’
‘Do you think, Adela, I’m going to play second fiddle to your bush-whacking cousins? Not at all! There’s always the barmaid for me.’
‘Really, I despair of you. You’re as narrow as can be. But I’m going to be loyal to my friends.’
‘All right, Adela; I’m off,’ I said, getting up in a theatrical way. I didn’t really mean to go. I wanted to test her. But I was so amazed at her cool acceptance of my dramatic exit that I repeated, ‘Adela, I’m off,’ and went to the door.
She followed me out, quietly helped me on with my coat, and, just as I lifted my hat, she burst out laughing.
‘What are you laughing at?’
‘You, you silly boy.’
‘Oh!’
‘If I showed you the photo of the Australians, the joke would be apparent.’
‘Well, show it to me,’ I said, glad of finding any excuse to stay.
‘Very well. Off with your coat!’
I took it off.
‘Now, come in here;’ and she led the way to the drawing-room. We stepped across to the mantelpiece, and she lifted a photo. ‘There’s the two Australians,’ she said, with a grin.
I looked at the photo of two beautiful Australian girls in nursing-uniform, and muttered, ‘By Jove, what charming girls!’
‘Are you satisfied now, old King Jealousy?’
‘Yes; but why didn’t you tell me when you wrote the letter?’
‘Why?’
‘Yes.’
‘For a very womanly reason.’
‘What is it?’ I ejaculated, a little annoyed.
‘These girls are so handsome, I couldn’t afford to take risks. Don’t you know that old music-hall song?’
‘What?’
‘“Never Introduce your Donah to a Pal.”’
‘Oh, that’s it, is it? You were afraid of them collaring Beefy and me.’
‘Yes, old boy; I’m like you—jealous.’
‘You needn’t have worried, Adela. I really like you.’
‘Do you, Johnnie?’ she eagerly exclaimed.
‘Yes,’ I answered.
As her head got mixed up with my khaki sleeves, I heard her murmuring, ‘Don’t be a silly ass again—John Brown.’
THE NOISE OF WAR.
The best way to understand war is to grasp the thoughts and the feelings of the soldier in action. Our newspaper correspondents have attempted to interpret the soldier’s feelings for us, but have failed, mainly because they are not soldiers, and their stuff is written in comparative comfort. It is fashionable to ‘write up’ the soldier advancing to the cannon’s mouth as if he were going to Brighton for a week-end. This is ridiculous, for this reason, that the soldier is just human, and when facing death he experiences all the symptoms of an invalid who is about to undergo a serious operation. But to make the whole thing clear to you, let me reproduce a little discussion we had in our hut one night.
It was Beefy who broached the subject by a casual remark to the effect that when he went over the top at Loos he felt as if he wanted to go home—quick.
‘That’s just how I felt,’ said Billy Greens.
We gathered round the last speaker and asked him to go on.
‘Oh, well, let me be frank, and say I was never in such a funk in all my life. I am sure many more felt the same; but, of course, we never said so. What heartened me to go on was the remark our colonel made as he went over the top. He said, “Look here, men; the Boche is just as frightened as we are, so come on.” This idea gave me comfort. Still, my knees were groggy, and I believe if I had met a Hun then it would have been a bad show for me.’
‘What made you go forward?’ I asked him.
‘Discipline, and the knowledge that if I funked, my name would stick in the mud for ever. I am not a hero, and I believe thousands feel like that. We are really a race of pacifists; but, for all that, I hold that a pacifist nation in arms is much more deadly than a nation nurtured on the themes of Bernhardi. None of us is in this business because he likes it. Personally, I loathe the whole scheme. It is ghastly. Still we, apparently, can only end it by fighting, and that is why I and many others are in.’
‘What frightened you most, Billy?’
‘Oh, the noise—the terrible noise. If it weren’t for the high explosives I believe war wouldn’t be half bad. But it is the noise which has a demoralising effect on the educated brain. It stuns, unnerves, and creates a thousand fears. Mind you, I don’t think it has the same effect on a navvy, a miner, or any sort of manual labourer. These men have no nerves, and for that reason I think they are the best private soldiers. The duller the brain, the less the suffering. But modern war is a terrible thing for the highly sensitive and highly skilled.’
‘Did you reach your objective all right?’ asked Ginger.
‘Yes. I saw the C.O. ahead, waving us on, and I went. The man seemed so brave that one really couldn’t let him down, so we just followed. But I was still nervous. Then I saw the C.O. fall. He was shot through the stomach. I went mad. I wanted to kill some one. When I got to the first line of the Huns I saw a big fellow skulking away. I shot him—dead. After that I wanted more. God forgive me for the feeling, but I’m sure it was the primitive lust to kill. It’s in us all. Education seemed but a veneer. When it was all over I went into a corner and prayed. Ugh! it’s a horrible business,’ concluded Billy.
‘Yes, we all have much the same experience,’ added Nobby Clarke. ‘Personally, it wasn’t the thought of death that worried me, but the secret fear of getting a stomach-wound, and being left out in No Man’s Land. And I believe almost every officer and man has the same secret dread. The reason, I think, is that an abdominal wound is usually fatal or crippling, and a man does not like to picture a bayonet or a lump of shrapnel in his tummy. If a scientist could devise a light bullet-proof abdominal belt, I believe that men would go forward much quicker and more confidently.’
‘Do you think the Hun has the same fear?’ I asked.
‘I think the Hun is even more afraid of a stomach-wound than we are. Man to man, he is not our equal in bayonet-fighting. It may be lack of training, but I imagine it really is due to the fact that he is flabby and no sportsman. For example, in the one bayonet-fight which I was in, not one of the Huns stood up to us. They flung their rifles away and squealed like pigs. Cold steel to a German is worse than gas or shells. The Hun is terror-stricken when he sees the knife of the Gurkha.’
‘Who do you think are really best with the bayonet, Nobby?’ asked Billy.
‘I imagine the Russians are really top-dog. You see, they are primitive, and educated to the knife. Like all semi-civilised peoples, the Russians can stand the most awful punishment. The Bulgarians are also good. Still, it is a fact that the Irish can beat them. In that little scrap between some Irishmen and Bulgarians during the retirement in Macedonia, the Irishmen won. The Irish, like the Scots, are fiery, almost mad, in action. Once they are roused, nothing will stop them.’
‘What was your experience, Ginger?’ I asked, switching the discussion back to its original point.
‘The five minutes before going over were worse than the whole day’s fighting. We had too much time to think, and my imagination was running riot. I didn’t feel like a soldier. I felt like a lamb going to the slaughter. What really impressed me was how men could live in such a barrage. Worse, the thousands of bullets which were whistling, cracking, and splashing over and against the parapet seemed to whisper death was near. Of course, I had forgotten that it takes about a thousand rounds to secure one dead man. However, it is wonderful what example and training will do. I believe that, no matter how funky a man may feel, if he has been to a good school he immediately thinks, “What will they say in school if I make a bad show?” Training is also useful. Months of discipline tell. But the greatest asset is the bearing of the officer and the N.C.O. Fortunately, we had a splendid company commander. He could mask his feelings. While I believe the man was suffering just as we were suffering, he walked down the line smiling, cheering, and inspiring. When the time came to go, he was first over, and we followed like deer.
‘Once we were over, I seemed to be too excited to suffer from nervous troubles. The noise, the shouting, the running, and the sight of the Huns bolting, somehow, carried us along. The plight of the enemy also raised the sporting instinct, and we followed as if out shooting hares. Again, I did feel a true hate of the Hun. Belgium and Serbia seemed to flash through my brain, with the result that I was out for results. One Hun fired at me point-blank, but missed. I shoved my bayonet into him. To me it was the most awful physical sensation. I felt sick, but I withdrew automatically, as if I had been at bayonet-drill. There was no more time to moralise, for I was fighting for my life. It isn’t a healthy business. I believe we, as a nation, abhor it; none the less I feel, without bragging, that, once at close quarters, we can always beat the Hun.’
‘Yes, Ginger; and the war has proved that we are not the decadent nation many thought we were,’ I remarked.
‘By no means, John. Trafalgar, Waterloo, Inkermann, and Tel-el-kebir are mere skirmishes compared to Ypres, Loos, and Cambrai. Nelson’s or Wellington’s men never endured the sufferings of the men to-day. It is really wonderful how this city-bred, over-civilised nation has stuck it out. But another war of this kind would send the world insane. It’s the noise—the awful noise—that is playing the devil with the nerves of all.’
What Ginger said about the noise was true. Noise is the worst feature of war, and in military hospitals you find patients reverting again and again to this theme. And seldom do our men profess a liking for war. The experiences of Billy, Nobby, and Ginger are characteristic of thousands. They carry on out of a sense of duty, a love of country, and an innate conviction that the only way to end this horrible scourge is to punish its authors and apostles. The world will never be clean and joyful until we absolutely crush the horrible mentality of the ruling German. The sword is not a good investment. He who lives by it, perishes by it. And it does seem awful that this bloodshed, misery, madness, and sorrow should have been thrust on a happy world by men whose real aim is power, wealth, loot, and lust. This war ought to end war. Ordeal by battle may suit our pagan philosophers. But there is no doubt that once we have settled this matter with Germany, the nations of the earth will refuse to resort to arms again. To ensure this honourable aim, Germany ought to compel her kings, princes, ambassadors, and statesmen to serve as privates in the present war.
The noise—the terrible noise—would convince them of the madness of it all.
BLASE-BONES FROM SANDWURSE.
Sandwurse is a very wonderful place. It has produced some exalted men, but, like all institutions, it occasionally throws out a prig. This doesn’t happen very often, but when it occurs the specimen is a real one. And it was the bad fortune of our hitherto happy platoon to be saddled with one of the species. Our dear old platoon officer, Lieutenant Blessem, was found fit for duty, and departed, amid the tears of our hut. We loved that man. He was so kind, so considerate, so interested; and he wasn’t a sneak. Even Ginger admired him, and that was a compliment from our platoon high-brow. Lieutenant Blase-Bones then blew in.
We saw him approach the hut from our window. What a gorgeous Nut—all brilliantine, brown polish, and brasso!
‘Some lad!’ muttered Ginger, scenting trouble.
‘He looks as if he couldn’t help it,’ I remarked.
‘Looks a ruddy ass,’ mumbled Beefy.
Then the door banged, and the sergeant-major shouted, ‘Stand to your beds!’
We sprang to attention, and Blase-Bones entered as if he were the conqueror of Bagdad, Berlin, and Timbuctoo. He had a monocle—of course.
‘This hut looks like a beah-garden. Open that windah theah,’ he said, looking at me.
I obeyed. Twelve months in the ranks had taught me a lot.
‘Whose bed is this?’ he said, on arriving at Ginger’s doss-house.
I must own it looked the bally limit. But even the old commandant had never checked it. The C.O.’s view was that we were there to train and be educated, not wearied with pipeclay and eye-wash.
‘It’s mine, sir,’ answered Ginger.
‘Clean it up. Look smart!’
With a groan, Ginger leisurely commenced to bundle H. G. Wells, Conrad, Haking, Browning, and Zola into a long-suffering box.
‘Are these your boots?’ he asked Tosher.
‘Guess they are,’ said the Canadian casually.
‘“Sir,” when you speak to an officer.’
Tosher grinned. Fortunately this levity went unnoticed. And then Blase-Bones arrived at Billy Greens’s doss. Billy, as you know, was a parson, highly strung, very nervous, and afraid of all military mandarins. We, who knew him, loved him; for Billy was the biggest-hearted man ever made. We shielded him from a good deal of trouble, and we were shocked when the new platoon officer, realising Billy’s nervousness, pounced on him. Here was a chance to show off and impress the hut that the new platoon commander was a mighty smart fellow!
‘Is this your bed?’ he asked.
‘Y-e-s, sir,’ said Billy, his hands twitching.
‘Most untidy! What an example! How can you expect to be an officer?’
‘I’ve never been checked be-fore, sir.’
‘Hold your tongue! Tidy it up.—And, I say, sergeant-major.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Inspect this hut in an hour’s time, and report to me.’
‘Very good, sir.’
Off he went, swinging his cane in a brainless manner, and leaving behind him a well of hate and scorn. This man had in ten minutes smashed our happy home, and given us a prospect of h—— for the next two months.
‘Old Army!’ said Ginger ironically, as the door banged.
‘No, Ginger; he’s the fag-end of the system, but he isn’t a patch on the other good fellows,’ I answered.
‘He’s a prize prig, anyway. He’s out for trouble; but I fancy we can do him in.’
‘Sure thing,’ grunted Tosher.
‘He’s only a boy—a foolish boy,’ commented Billy, who was indeed a most tolerant man.
‘I’ll tell you what he is,’ remarked Beefy. ‘He’s a ruddy inefficient swine, chucked out of some crack battalion.’
And that was about right!
Next day Blase-Bones had us all up for a lecture.
‘You know, you fellows need a lot of bucking up. Of course, I can see that, being New Army men, you’re a bit handicapped. And I think it’s an awful pity, don’t you know, that you couldn’t have gone to Sandwurse. However, it’s my good fortune to be in command.’ (How he loved that word!) ‘If you will pay attention to me, I hope to pull you through.’
‘God help us!’ mumbled Ginger, who was at the back.
‘What’s that?’ he inquired.
‘I was just saying, sir, how much you’d help us.’
‘I see—I see,’ he muttered, but quite convinced that Ginger was pulling his leg. However, he had a face of brass, and continued: ‘I want your huts smartened up. They ought to be like a ship’s deck, with everything in order. And there’s too much “fug,” too many d—— novels lying around. I saw one yesterday by that beastly fellow, H. G. Wells. If you feel you want to read, get Kipling and the Morning Post.’
‘Do you permit the Daily News, sir?’ inquired Nobby, in such a humble (but assumed) manner that Blase-Bones thought Nobby was actually appealing to his profound knowledge.
‘Certainly not! But I should be awfully pleased to write you a list of papers and books, if you care to have it. I’m sure they would help you to understand the war. Another thing! I addressed one man yesterday, and he did not say “sir” when replying. This must not occur again. It’s rotten bad form, and I won’t have it! Won’t have it! Dismiss!’
Ginger rose with a groan. All his Oxford Imperialism had vanished. He wanted to be a murderer and a revolutionary. We took him to the canteen and gave him a drink. He recovered!
‘Say, boys, I reckon we’ve got to get busy,’ said Tosher that evening.
‘Your proposition?’ demanded Ginger.
‘Anything from slicing to lynching. I guess the world ain’t any the richer for that production.’
‘We’ll catch him, duck him, and d—— the consequences.’
‘Tar and feather him,’ suggested Beefy.
‘I think you are all very stupid,’ remarked Billy. ‘Why should you worry yourself about an atom? He can’t go too far. The company officer will see to that. Give him a full rope and he’ll hang himself.’ Billy Greens was afraid of revolt.
‘Well, boys, I’m a lawyer,’ submitted Nobby. ‘This man may be an ass; but he’s got the Manual of Military Law behind him, and don’t forget it. We’re in the army, “don’t you know,” and this youth would come out top-dog. Again, I’m too jolly lazy to entertain the thought of getting chucked for my commission, and sent back to do orderly-man. Therefore, I say, give him rope, and, as the padre says, he’ll hang himself.’
‘Meantime we suffer,’ commented Ginger.
‘That suffering, old chap, is not as bad as fighting the Boche.’
‘Isn’t it?’
‘Let’s vote for Nobby’s idea,’ I said. ‘We don’t want to make bally fools of ourselves. Besides, there’s the reputation of the school, and the old commandant. I don’t think we ought to let the Old Man down. He’s been good to us.’
‘That’s right, John! That’s right!’ exclaimed the padre, glad to think a budding mutiny was being quelled.
‘Oh, very well. We’ll study the brute,’ concluded Ginger, recalling the lecture on psychology.
For the next fortnight we had a dog’s life. The company commander, who was a real good chap, didn’t notice it. He was such a perfect sport and gentleman that he concluded his new officer was the same. Billy and I, however, threw our influence into the scales of neutrality, for Tosher and Ginger, when roused, were of violent temper. They were such good pals that we were not a little afraid of their rapidly fraying temper.
At last the storm-clouds burst.
At morning parade Blase-Bones was inspecting the platoon. He was in a bad mood. When he reached Ginger he remarked, ‘What do you mean by coming out with such shocking boots?’
‘It was wet yesterday, sir. I’ve tried to polish them. I’ve done my best.’
‘Your best is not my best. Understand?’
‘No, sir.’
‘You’re insolent.’
‘No, sir. I’m endeavouring to understand you.’
‘I know your type. Enough!’
‘I shall feel much obliged, sir, if you will cease to be personal.’
‘Take his name, sergeant-major.’
Ginger was mad.
‘There’s dust on your belt. Why?’ Blase-Bones now asked Tosher.
‘I’m real sorry,’ answered the Canadian.
‘“Sir,” when you answer me.’
‘You ain’t wise, boy.’
‘Silence!—Take his name.’
Tosher’s hands quivered; then he stood still, his face pale with suppressed anger.
I went through that morning’s drill sick as a dog. And the only solution I could discover was that Blase-Bones was either ignorant or mad. But that didn’t alter the plight of Ginger or Tosher. I trembled to think what might happen. As they were cadets, a high code of discipline was expected of them, and this had been observed under our former platoon commander. Indeed, our platoon had the highest marks in sports and examinations. Yet this awful prig had smashed it all up. If I was sorry for Ginger and Tosher, I was more sorry for the commandant. This affair would break the Old Man’s heart. However, I did not know that the colonel had already weighed Blase-Bones up. He was a shrewd judge of character, a man of stern moods, but a just C.O. and a gentleman.
Finally, he understood Canadians.
Ginger and Tosher, with an escort, of which I formed part, were before the colonel. The Old Man, I could see, was pained and sad. This was the first real ‘dust-up’ in the school. Blase-Bones gave his evidence. Then the colonel sorrowfully raised his head, and quietly asked, ‘Well, men, what have you got to say?’
‘I regret, sir, committing a breach of discipline,’ said Ginger, ‘but my old officers in my own regiment never addressed me in such a manner. Lieutenant Blase-Bones apparently has a contempt for the New Army. I belong to the First Hundred Thousand, and I decline to be treated in this way. The commission is nothing to me, sir, and I desire to be returned to my battalion. This officer has not heard a shot fired in the war.’
Blase-Bones turned ghastly white.
‘Is that all you have to say?’ inquired the ‘com.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘And your defence?’ he asked Tosher.
‘I’m just real sorry, colonel, to waste your time. But since this foolish boy blew into our shack, there’s been nothing but gaw-damns and muttered revolution. Why, sir, we were the happiest bunch of kids in the British Army when Old Bobby Blessem was boss of the show.’
‘You mean Lieutenant Blessem, I presume,’ said the colonel, correcting him.
‘I guess you’re right, colonel; but you know in the Western world we talk free and mean no offence.’
‘I quite understand,’ answered the C.O. tactfully. ‘Go on.’ There was a twinkle in the corner of the C.O.’s eyes.
‘I’m a Canadian, sir. I’m here to give the Old Land a lift against these blasted Huns. But I ain’t here to be knocked around by flannel-headed hobos.’
‘Just a minute, Johnson,’ said the colonel. ‘I am asking for your defence, and as a future officer you must realise that expressions of opinion have no bearing on the case. You are charged with dirty equipment and insolence. Please keep to the first.’
‘Sure, sir! My belt was clean as it was for the Prince o’ Wales’s inspection in France. What’s good enough for the son of a king is good enough for any two-pipped child in this institooshun. As for insolence, I reckon we Canadians ain’t out to grovel at the feet of snobs, though we don’t mind givin’ a “sir” now and again to a white man like yourself.’
‘But don’t you see that a young officer, unacquainted with the Canadian temperament, might misinterpret your attitude?’
‘Maybe, colonel; but it’s up to you to educate this child. I’m no chicken in the fighting business. Out West I make ten thousand dollars a year. Seems to me that your old machinery’s all wrong. And I guess you can’t do me in as long as these things are hanging around my figure,’ concluded Tosher, throwing the Military Medal and the D.C.M. on the table.
Blase-Bones was trembling. I felt sorry for the ass.
There was a strange silence in the room for a couple of minutes. The colonel was outwardly studying conduct-sheets, but in reality he was weighing up in his own mind how he could maintain justice without letting an officer down in front of the rank and file. It was an awkward position. Much depended on his decision. He knew there was a whole Canadian Government behind Tosher, and a House of Commons behind Ginger. He also knew that if he muddled the issue, the War Office might promptly lift him out of his job. The commandant, as one of the old school, was nobly striving to bring the Manual of Military Law into line with the blunt (but honest) democracy of the New Army and the Canadian Force.
At last he looked up at Ginger and inquired, ‘Will you take my punishment?’
‘Yes, sir.’ Ginger had complete confidence in the C.O.
‘And you?’ he asked Tosher.
‘I guess I will, colonel, if it doesn’t mean time in a stone-breakin’ institooshun.’
‘Very well! In my opinion there’s been a great lack of tact on the part of your officer, just as there has been a great lack of sense on your part. It is not for you to reply on parade. If you have a grievance, come to me. I’m paid to keep everybody in order. I’m going to punish you for that. If there is no discipline, there is no army. You, as future officers, must realise that. Both of you will be confined to camp for a week. Understand?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘But,’ said the colonel, ‘I request your platoon commander to apologise to you here in my presence. You are good soldiers. You have both been honoured by the King. Your officer has no right to cast aspersions on the New Army, and to conduct his work in a manner calculated to stir hostility. I won’t have it.—Please apologise, Mr Blase-Bones.’
‘I’m—exceedingly sorry. I’m just afraid I’ve made a—mistake. I hope you will pardon me,’ muttered the crestfallen subaltern.
‘Fall out, men,’ said the C.O. kindly.
We were marched out, Ginger and Tosher quite well pleased with the colonel’s verdict.
The C.O. knew his job.
That night Colonel Eat-All went to his quarters weary and worn. The affair had made him most unhappy. He was just afraid of what the Canadian might do. However, on opening the door of his hut, he was surprised to see a beautiful bowl of red roses on the table. He called his servant and asked where they came from.
‘Don’t know, sir. When I came back after tea they were there.’
‘That’s all, thank you.’
The colonel went forward and picked up the bunch of flowers. There was a tiny label attached. On the label he read: ‘To our Dear Old Colonel—from two Defaulters.’
Something fell on the Old Man’s hand. It was a tear.
| • | • | • | • | • | • |
Battalion Orders [a week later].
Lieutenant Blase-Bones, having left to rejoin his unit, is struck off the strength of the Battalion.
(Verb. sap.)
OUR DEAR OLD COMMANDANT.
If we thought a lot of our school, and did our best to keep up its good name, this was due not to a swelling admiration of the military system, but mainly to a sense of patriotism. It was also a tribute of respect to our commandant. He was not a brilliant man, and in some things was an absolute fire-eater. However, his bark was worse than his bite, and he improved on acquaintance. The Old Man was sincere. He was no sneak. There was nothing petty in his decisions, and little things revealed a passionate love of his ‘boys’ rather than a selfish love of his job. In his day he had been a gallant soldier and ‘a bit of a lad.’ As a man of the world, he understood human nature, and his one desire was to have a happy and successful unit.
He had a hard-working but not a brilliant staff. Brilliant men are scarce as instructors in cadet schools. The military system, even to-day, is not kind to brilliance. It is afraid of genius. Genius even in this war has too often been attacked and destroyed. On the other hand, it is just to note that the brilliant men who have survived the ordeal of jealousy are all at the front, and therefore beyond the reach of cadet schools. What a pity! For in these cadet schools men hunger for more light and congenial thought. Captain Cheerall, I may say, was the great exception. It is good to write such things. The War Office ought certainly to know them. The reason it doesn’t know is that those who are running these schools are afraid to be frank. Push-and-go is not appreciated by certain soft-jobbers in the Home Commands; and they have a quiet but brutal way of dispensing with men who want to be ‘American’ and revolutionise our whole system of military education.
It is imagined by military mandarins that we cadets don’t know and don’t see anything. What a blunder! At our school, and at every other cadet school, you can find the cream of intellect studying for commissions. The nation is in arms. And many a lecturer ignores the fact that he is talking to men with the highest university degrees. These men in our school never declared they had nothing to learn. Indeed, they promptly realised their appalling deficiencies in military education. They hungered for learning. When they got a little, they wanted more; and a good lecturer always left the room to the accompaniment of resounding cheers. This attitude of cadets is in striking contrast with the attitude of those who regard them as ‘a d—— lot of Tommies who want knocking about.’ We never objected to being knocked about, even by the sergeant-major from the Guards. But what we did resent was the visit of silly old fools, who talked a lot of rot and gave us no intellectual food. We were not blind, and all of us had ‘been out.’ If we were deficient in higher strategy, we had a share of common-sense. Had a War Office inspector tumbled into our midst disguised as a cadet, he would have heard frank appreciation of all that was good, and a damning indictment of all that was bad. The greatest weakness of the military system is that it declines to be told, seldom asks for suggestions, and is up against an intellectual aristocracy. This fear of intellect has been our curse in this war. And only one statesman has fought for ‘The New School.’ That man is David Lloyd George. But even Lloyd George has found that he cannot entirely eradicate the fossilised follies of the old régime.
For all that, we were not unhappy. When we ceased to analyse the appalling anomalies of the military system, we enjoyed ourselves. Army life does teach fellowship and breed great friendships. Our hut was tenanted by a band of brothers. Our company commander was a ‘sport,’ and the C.O. had rid us of our platoon commander, who was a prize prig and an insufferable snob. We got a new platoon commander, Lieutenant Damall, who was an intellectual rebel, a first-class soldier, a fine lecturer, and a jolly good chap. The general routine of the school was stiff, yet bearable. But it would have been an absolute joy if more brains had been knocking around. However, the sheet-anchor, the personality, the father, friend, jailer, and general entertainer, was the dear old commandant. He would come on parade and play h—— with everybody, turn us upside-down, call us fat-heads and duffers, then wind up with, ‘You know, boys, I curse you because I love you. And I do want to be proud of you. I want to see you all generals and V. C.’s. Buck up, for Heaven’s sake, or, by Gad, I’ll have you shot!’ and off he would stump, pretending he was in a devil of a temper. In reality the Old Man was playing quite a clever game. He had that wonderful secret of knowing how to ‘curse’ a man, and yet make a man smile and do his best. He was not brilliant—but he was wise. And he was jolly good fun.
‘You know, gentlemen,’ he said one day at a lecture, ‘I was a bit of a lad when I was young. An awful blood! Wouldn’t call a duke my cousin, and was measured for everything—even my ties. Of course, that was in the good old days when we had nothing but nigger wars, and we used to spend nearly all our time hunting foxes or struggling to get in at stage doors. I was jolly good at that.
‘When I joined my battalion a colour-sergeant was told off to carry me about. This fellow had to think for me, even on parade. He was always at my elbow whispering the words of command—for which I can assure you I often thanked the Lord. For, to be perfectly frank with you, like many young officers, I was a bit of an ass. I achieved fame at a general’s inspection by giving my company the command “Trail arms!” instead of “Present!” for which I got six months’ marked drill on the square. They gave me no leave; wouldn’t even allow me to pop out and see my best girl (as I allow you to do); but from 9 A. M. till 4 P. M. an old sergeant gave me dyspepsia, colic, and lumbago by marching, counter-marching, and doubling on that terrible barrack square. I wore out two pairs of boots, and was almost excommunicated by the garrison chaplain owing to the awful language which I used after those parades. It was a bitter lesson; but it did me good, although I didn’t think so at the time. I am just afraid I was a saucy young devil.
‘Of course, in those days a subaltern was very small fry. He was merely a “fag” in the regimental system. It was very dangerous to think—it still is a bit dangerous to do so—and the great secret of success was to eliminate any trace of personality or originality. As a sarcastic old major remarked, all he demanded of a subaltern was to be strong in the back and soft in the head. In passing, I may say I was awfully popular with this old chap. Perhaps I was up to his marvellous standard. I led him to think so, for I readily found out that the line of least resistance was the one which assured a calm and charming life. You may think that a terrible revelation, but if you study the British Army in the ‘seventies, you will see that it would have been disastrous for any man of mediocre talent to start thrusting out his hand for the field-marshal’s baton.
‘Company commanders in those days directed operations from the anterooms or their bedrooms, and we long-suffering, fat-headed subs. fetched and carried for them. They were the drones, and we were the working-bees. At least, we thought we were, but what we actually did was this. We received our orders, then went to the company office and simply passed them on. The colour-sergeants were really the foremen of works. These old N.C.O.’s were marvellous men—men of great attainments, and men whose abilities were not rewarded as they are to-day. Under the old system the officer was a god, not to be defiled by mere toil or clear thinking. Our daily task commenced about 10 A. M., and finished about noon. When we had to work in the afternoon we always talked about resigning our commissions. We had an extraordinary view that we were there to enjoy ourselves and look pretty, and it was most unfair to burden our brains with 5+5=10.
‘I am telling you these things, not because I long for those old times again. When I see you boys doing so many interesting things to-day, I feel I must teach you to abhor shams, to face facts, and to tell the truth. In those days I couldn’t see the hollowness and the rottenness of it all. I see it now, for I have no illusions. War is a brutal business. Facts predominate. If you have the moral courage to get up in front of your men and admit an error, and seek for light and co-operation, you will show evidence of greatness.
‘We were very pretty in those days. I rejoiced in my figure, which, as with all fashionable officers, was kept in order by common or garden corsets. When we went out in review order we were a sight for the girls and—“the mob.” The men were just as smart. Indeed, a battalion looked like a thousand dandies out of a cutter’s window. I have an affection for that aspect of the past. It is no crime to be a well-dressed man. Even to-day it is most important that an officer should look the picture of a clean, alert, and well-groomed British gentleman. That is an aid to discipline. Every Tommy is an aristocrat. As one of my men once remarked, “I likes my orficer to look a ruddy toff.” Of course, there was a great weakness in this system. It was overdone. We concentrated on brass bands, pipeclay, and eye-wash. The men were mere automatons; the discipline was harsh, in some cases brutal; while strategy and tactics were not worshipped as we worship them now. This was not our fault. It was due to the age. The German menace was not even dreamt of. We had only frontier skirmishes to deal with. And we all enlisted—for fun.
‘As for training, it was not at all intelligent. We did field-days in full-dress uniforms, busbies, cross-belts, and all the glitter used on review parades. Even in India troops wore European clothing, and died by the hundred from heat apoplexy. The frontal attack was the summit of our knowledge, and “form square” for savage warfare our one great stunt. It looked pretty. And it was this damnable craving for prettiness which hindered the development of military training. Of course, I did not know that then. To me life was one huge jest. But I had a rude awakening.
‘In a frontier skirmish, my regiment was attacking a difficult position held by some of the hill tribes. The C.O., who was a charming old gentleman, but no soldier, decided on the usual thing—a frontal attack. We went forward. Two companies were almost annihilated. The senior major, a fairly able man, who was leading the attack, decided it was suicide to go farther, and ordered the retirement. We went back. The colonel demanded an explanation. The major very respectfully pointed out the stupidity of the arrangement, and suggested a feint attack on the front, combined with an enveloping movement round both flanks.
‘“Bosh!” replied the Old Man. He ordered us forward again. Another company was decimated, and fortunately the colonel was among the casualties. If he had lived, he would have killed every man by his stupid tactics. The major then withdrew the battalion. That night he made arrangements for another attack at dawn. One hundred men were sent to make a feint at the front, and two hundred more were divided into two columns to attack the right and left flanks. The remainder were in reserve. At dawn we carried out his orders. Two hours afterwards we had captured the position, three hundred of the enemy, one gun, and lots of loot.
‘Our casualties in that attack were fifty-five.
‘Our previous casualties were about three hundred and fifty.
‘This to me was a revelation of the use of brains, and an indication that brains can save human life. From that day, gentlemen, I honestly tried to be intelligent. But I had to go warily. I swotted up Napoleon and Frederick the Great—in secret; for it was considered bad form to be a student. Even then I did not quite appreciate the terrible dangers of such false “form.” However, I had the courage to chuck my fashionable regiment and become a soldier of fortune in the Indian and Egyptian Armies. From those two great and immortal men, Kitchener and Roberts, I acquired any little knowledge I possess. Still, I am not a marvellous soldier—and know it. But one thing I have been taught, and that is—sincerity.
‘When I make a blunder, I have no hesitation in cutting my losses. Nor am I afraid of criticism or suggestion. You may find this lacking in certain spheres of military life. But do not despair. Do your duty! Be loyal! And attempt no far-reaching reforms unless you have the genius and the courage to carry them out. Otherwise you will only batter your head against a brick wall. Progress is with you, and you are all young. I wish I were sitting with you as a cadet, and not talking to you with the rank of a colonel. In this war my age seems a curse. Your field is wide and your opportunities are illimitable. To the keen soldier this is a day of glory!
‘For all that, I do not say our system is perfect. And I am not going to insist that the best men are always pushed on. But I do believe the system is improving. And I can assure you that I am doing my best to smash false barriers. I am not popular with certain people for this. Popularity is nothing to me. I have boys of my own. While I think this is a good school, I quite realise it is not a perfect school. We have not cut the old shackles yet, but we are getting on. You are young and impatient. I know your dreams. I know your hopes. I know how you grouse, and I often hear some of you say, “Oh, here’s that frosted old dug-out again.” But I am quite sure you don’t mean anything—just as I am quite convinced you try your best.
‘Frankly, gentlemen, you have much to be grateful for. You are getting in this school as much knowledge as the old army officer got in twenty years. It may not be issued in palatable or popular form. It may jar your temperament, but the “stuff” is there, if you care to pick it up. I cannot talk to you like Sir Oliver Lodge or fascinate you like Lord Rosebery. I am a plain soldier. My staff are plain soldiers, but they are hard workers. They are doing their best for you, and it is up to you to do your best for them. If I, your colonel, have the courage to come and tell you of my own deficiencies, surely you boys will have the pluck to do a little heart-searching. You must also study the Service as a whole, and not in parts. Believe me, the British Army is a proud and glorious institution. The traditions are high. Great men have come from our ranks. In this war our arms are belaurelled with chivalry. Ours is no mercenary host, no band of knaves or babe-assassins. We fight a good fight. While I am no great Christian, I do believe we are the New Crusaders. This is a Holy Crusade.
‘To sum up my theme, let me say I have told you of the jolly but inefficient past simply to show the marvellous advance made in military education, how we have blundered through to a more sensible and useful system. If you feel there are imperfections to-day, you would have been shocked had you soldiered in the ‘seventies. For all that, I do not want you to feel contented—not even with me. A healthy discontent is a sign of a progressive mind. Always look forward. Always endeavour to develop new ideas and produce fresh thoughts. But in doing so, try to incorporate the best from the past. Shatter stupid tradition, certainly; but remember this, gentlemen—if your fathers are old, they are also wise with experience. And never insult old age or scorn good counsel.
‘Yours is a high calling. Yours is a noble cause. You are all my boys, and I want to be proud of you. When you go from here I shall watch your careers. If you feel you have any respect for me and this school—imperfect as it is—then I ask you to honour the King, play the game, be good citizens and gallant British officers. That’s all.’
When the Old Man finished an extraordinary thing happened. Tosher, the Canadian, jumped up on the table and shouted, ‘Three cheers for the good old colonel!’ Our wild hurrahs almost burst the roof.
‘Thank you, boys,’ said the C.O. quietly, and hurried away. He was afraid of his emotions.
Oh, we did love our dear old commandant!