CHAPTER XIV.

NOT UNDERSTOOD.

Do not believe that we of the New Army are blood-thirsty Bernhardis, always talking about offensives and what not. Not a bit of it! Ninety-nine per cent. of us loathe the whole business, and seventy-five per cent. are opponents of militarism. Indeed, I think we may rightly be described as an army of pacifists in defence of our beliefs. No decent-minded Briton desires to compete with the brutal philosophy of the Hun. The man who says he likes war is either a liar or a Shylock in the supply department. The best way to end war is for the German nation to reduce the German General Staff to the ranks, and let them suffer such a bombardment as we gave the German Tommies prior to the battle of the Somme.

Shell-fire kills militarism.

The great New Army is a successful army, because it has a cause. Its moral is largely based on our love of freedom, truth, ease, and peace at our own fireside. We are a peace-loving people. A navy we have always regarded as an expensive business, the army as a luxury, war as a d—— nuisance and a most uncomfortable affair. War interferes with our commerce, our studies, our games, and our pleasures. War kills and mangles men who have been made in the image of God. It wrecks nations, countries, and homes; brings into millions of lives suffering, poverty, anger, despair, madness, and soul-racking sorrow. It is the most foul, ghastly, ungodly thing that man ever created.

War is hell—a suffering hell, a grisly hell.

Every man in the New Army thinks that. And it is most important you should realise our point of view; otherwise you will be unable to understand our psychology, and the reason for our carrying on. Of course, you may never have heard that side before. You are not to blame. Newspaper correspondents at the front send home the most awful ‘tripe’ about us. They actually dare to say we ‘like it.’ When we read such things we laugh. Perhaps the poor devils are not entirely at fault. Some bright gent who is director-general of moral may consider it necessary that they should produce this piffle. But such a view is rather an insult to our education. We can penetrate official camouflage, sometimes enjoy it, but all the same this sort of stuff is not good for the army or the nation. It breeds illusions. Illusions of this order eventually become a danger to the State. Much better to speak the truth, to show war in all its vile nakedness—show it in operation with blood, bayonets, and a brutal barrage blowing horses and men to bits, and motor-cars sky-high. Britishers can face this, for we are a race of stoics. But what Britishers cannot understand is that extraordinary diplomacy which says we must camouflage heavy casualties, hide disasters, whitewash blunders, and instil in the minds of a shivering British public that the Front is really ‘not so bad as they say.’ The Front is a vile and a hellish place.

But it was the Germans who made it so.

That is the whole alphabet of our cause. We are in this military business because we hate it. The position is such that if we refuse to fight, our lives, our homes, our businesses, our mothers, wives, and sweethearts, will be at the mercy of that awful devil who says he is the image of God—the Kaiser. We must fight, or fizzle out. Snowden, Ramsay Macdonald, and men of that kidney are foolish and dangerous counsellors. Their methods, if successful, mean that Pacifism—the true Pacifism—is dead for ever, and we should be compelled to deify the sword and applaud the philosophy which condones rape, murder, burglary, and all the abominable dogmas of Berlin.

And yet our instructors never took up that line.

Very few of the Old Army men have plumbed the depths of the New Army. Privately, we think many of them are afraid of our intellects. They seldom get down to earth with us, and often seek refuge in the discipline which can hold us off. They are brave men, and, with a few exceptions, are gentlemen. But they believe we are swashbuckling imperialists, when in reality we are pacifists fighting for peace now and—for ever. The professional military mind is in many ways admirable. It is honest, direct, and cannot compromise. When it damns, it damns. But it is not elastic; it takes in slowly. Even now, after four years of war, you will not get 50 per cent. of Old Army men to give you a correct analysis of our psychology. This is a pity, and accounts for any friction of which you may hear.

At the school we were not understood.

Apparently it is considered indispensable to give ‘the new fellows’ a lot of talk about the King, the Empire, the Cause, and ‘the Correct Thing.’ This is quite all right when presented by capable men, who will at least recognise that we have been to school. But when an old red-cheeked blunderbuss pops into the school on a visit of inspection, and commences to ladle out this stuff like a Jingo orator on a soap-box, we squirm and silently rebel. We hate all this empty talk. Our King, our Empire, and ‘the Correct Thing’ have nothing to do with the making of this war. It is the Germans’ war—the Kaiser’s war. Lip-service is of little use to the monarchy or the Empire. We are not flag-waggers. We are plain, home-loving shopkeepers in arms. We do not question the right of King George or ignore the Empire’s existence; but we are all determined, with the aid of God, bayonet, and high explosive, to root out the Kaiser, his chiefs, and all their works, because they and their foul gospel mean the moral ruin and the brutal domination of the world. On enlistment, when we held up our hands and swore by Almighty God ‘to defend His Majesty, his heirs and successors,’ we meant it; but we do think that in our terms of service there should be a contract that we be understood.

For all that, you must not believe that we New Army men resent intelligent discipline or intelligent superiors. Oh no! We, I think, have the ability to distinguish between the system and the men who live under it. While we hate militarism, we have a deep and lasting affection for many of the professional soldiers. And it is this personal bond between officers and men that has helped to make the New Army effective. Their views are not our views, but their personal devotion and example are priceless assets in such a war. Indeed, the good officer is usually a good man. What always impressed us was the strong religious convictions of men like Maude, Kitchener, and Robertson. Example is the keynote of the true British officer. There are many instances to prove my contention. General Maude in Mesopotamia ordered all his officers and men to refrain from drinking or eating anything offered by a native. Yet, when receiving a native deputation, who offered him the hospitality of the country, he, like a courteous gentleman, realising how hurt and offended these simple natives would be if he refused, took the proffered cup, which reeked of cholera, and—DIED. There is no greater example of chivalry, and it is just that sort of chivalry which has endeared the best men of the Old Army to all in the New.

Again, there is that noble story of an air-raid on London when our barrage was rotten, and somebody in the War Office phoned to an aerodrome for some one to go up.

‘We can’t. The weather’s against us. It’s suicide,’ replied the air commander.

‘You must do something,’ was the final order.

The air commander, realising that it simply meant ordering a junior to go to his death, went up himself, and was KILLED!

In Mesopotamia, a naval cutter was ordered to rush a bridge and break the boom across the river. The commander knew it meant death to the man who did it. So he took the hatchet himself, jumped over the bow, and commenced to hack at the hawsers. He was shot DEAD.

Now, this sort of thing, and this sort of man, we appreciate. Personal bravery is a quality which can stir and develop the best in tyros at the military game. It was these glorious soldiers who gave the New Army the confidence to go on, the ability to stick it, and showed us the need for some sort of discipline, and the use of comradeship and esprit de corps to effect our purpose. What I want you to appreciate thoroughly is this: Militarism is a hateful creed, but the military life does show whether a man has ‘guts.’ War is not our business as a nation, but in war we, I think, are one of the toughest and bravest peoples on earth. The forte of the New Army is its intelligent grasp of the principles for which we are fighting. But only one British general has said we are out to destroy the brutal doctrines of war.

That general was Sir William Robertson.

Now, at the school we got all sorts of excellent technical stuff which was absolutely necessary, and which we thoroughly appreciated. But we did not get what I have been writing about. We often talked about this. And all of us were agreed that it is dangerous to neglect the frank discussion of the principles, the politics, and the creeds which affect a nation in arms. War to-day is a complicated business. An officer must not only have mastered the technicalities of the military profession; he must be acquainted with the broad principles of high policy which guide the action of his army. He must appreciate the value of moral, and the need of educating it and sustaining it. But he cannot do so if he ignores the principles for which five millions have enlisted. It is all very well to know how to ‘form fours’ and ‘slope arms;’ but if an officer cannot distinguish Hindenburg from Liebknecht, Lloyd George from Lenin, Enver Pasha from the simple Turk, or Clemenceau from Bolo, then he is NOT educated. This knowledge can be given either in pamphlet form or in a couple of lectures. At present the voice of the New Army man is drowned by the louder cries of ‘the old school.’

I am only a youthful person at this business, but I do feel that in this great and terrible war we should have an opportunity to pop our ideas into a collecting-box which will be taken direct to the War Office and opened by a bright, sympathetic young soldier of the General Staff.

Sir Henry Wilson will agree.

He, like General Maude, is a man of imagination.

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CHAPTER XV.

MOTHER COMES TO SCHOOL.

You will have noticed ere this what a dear old soul my mater is. How tender her love! How trusting in all things! To an artist she is a dream-picture. So quaint, yet so dignified; so innocent, yet so human. When dressed in black brocade, with white collar and cuffs, with her silver-haired ringlets hanging on each side of her head, she looks a charming Victorian. Just the sort of old lady you see stepping out of an ancient picture-gallery. She is of the past—the beautiful past—when life was slow, yet kind and true.

She lives in a rustic manor in sleepy old Berks. There she is sheltered from the storms. Her four interests in life are The Times, the Tory Party, her Wyandottes, and—ME. Whatever our modern Delanes say, my mater endorses with emphasis. When Lloyd George was appointed Premier, she had no sleep for four nights; and had it not been for the reassuring leader in The Times, the mater might have been tempted to stuff a bomb in a highly flavoured dead Wyandotte and send it to 10 Downing Street. However, I did my best to assure her that David was thoroughly respectable, and that his Conservative colleagues would look after him. That ended all opposition.

She has implicit faith in me. I am the idol of her heart. This devotion is really embarrassing. I am not worthy of it. At school I had learnt more than the classics. Now, the mater loathes liquor, and she has a dread of girls. Her boy must be kept from the hussies at all costs. In this age—indeed, in all ages—that has been impracticable. But it made me a sort of hypocrite, for I would not have shattered that dear old lady’s illusions for all the wealth of Carnegie. Yet, somehow, I also felt that her sweet faith always kept me within bounds. A man could not be a bounder with a mother like Mrs John Brown. Still, like all youths, I was having my ‘fling,’ and out of your ‘fling’ comes strength or ruin. Life is a series of temptations. The man who can taste and leave them goes forward. The man who is ensnared is damned.

We have all got to go through the mill.

As I have said, the mater is innocent in affairs of the world, especially in military matters. She mixes things up. For example, an ‘offensive’ she thought was a nasty smell at the Front. One day she inquired, ‘John, when are they going to make Douglas Haig a sergeant-major? I am sure he deserves it. Don’t you think I should write to The Times?’

‘You mean a field-marshal, mater.’

‘What’s that?’

‘Oh, field-marshal is the highest. He carries a baton.’

‘What a common thing to do!’

‘Why, mater?’

‘Well, I thought it was only stupid policemen who did that. The army is very strange, my boy.’

I did my best to enlighten the dear old lady, but I had no success. When colonels and majors came to tea, she called them corporals or sergeants, to the enjoyment of all. They never disillusioned her. She was such a kind old soul. And now that I am a military cadet, she had got the idea that I am a most important person. She confided in Aunt Jane’s ear that I should soon be a ‘brass hat.’

‘What’s that?’ asked Aunt Jane.

‘Oh, the pretty men who ride in front of the band and give orders.’

‘How nice!’

Aunt Jane was mater’s youngest sister. She was almost forty-five, unmarried, quite a fine woman to look at, and a good soul. When I was at school she used to send me mince-pies, plum-puddings, and cigarettes. (Mater didn’t know about the cigarettes.)

The greatest weakness the old lady has is jumping to conclusions. Like a silly ass, I had written and said I had caught a cold on a route march, owing to the awful weather.

She replied:

‘My dearest Boy,—How shocked I was to hear you had got a cold on such a day! It is abominable to think that boys are taken out on a wet day. You might have died! I am so annoyed about this that I have asked our Member to put a question in the House. I have also written to The Times. It is shocking!—Your loving

Mother.’

When I got this I almost had apoplexy. Something had to be done. I wired the Member: ‘For Heaven’s sake don’t put mother’s question! Writing.’ And I also wired to The Times. That saved the situation.

The mater couldn’t understand war; nor did she realise that soldiers are not mollycoddles. She didn’t mind my dying at the Front, but she did object to my getting a cold at home. Rather a mixed-up point of view, but quite motherly. And there are lots of mothers like that, as I have since discovered.

This route march incident apparently decided her visit to our school. Aunt Jane was invited to accompany her. She was delighted. The two old dears simply wired: ‘Coming to see you. Ask the rector to let you off.’

The rector! How the old ‘com.’ would have laughed if he had seen the telegram! The mater gave me no clue as to how she would come, or when I might expect her. However, I knew Aunt Jane would look after her. Meantime I asked all my pals to have tea with the ladies at the local hotel. I insisted particularly on Nobby’s coming, for I knew she would like to see the Radical.

There was going to be fun.

Unfortunately I was not about when they landed. They came from the junction by motor-car, and were deposited at the gate.

‘I don’t see John,’ said the mater.

‘Never mind! We’ll soon find him.’

The first man they saw was the commandant. He was looking well that day—the picture of a powerful mandarin. The old ladies got a little nervous. They wondered whether the ‘com.’ was a fierce sergeant-major or a regimental policeman. He was so impressive! But they tackled him.

‘Can you tell me where to find the rector? I want to see my son,’ said the mater.

‘I’m afraid, madam, there’s no rector here,’ the old man said with a smile on his face.

‘Oh, well, the manager, or whatever you call him. I really don’t know the right terms.’

‘Well, I’m the commandant.’

‘Then you must be the head-master.’

‘Exactly!’ The colonel blinked. He loathed these civilian terms.

‘My boy’s name is John Brown.’

‘Indeed! He is a very bright boy. I am delighted to meet you. Will you ladies kindly come into the anteroom?’ The old sport took them into the mess and gave them afternoon tea. Mother and Aunt Jane enjoyed this immensely.

‘I hope you see my boy wears flannel next his skin. He’s rather delicate, you know,’ ventured the old lady.

‘Oh yes. The boys have a platoon commander who acts as a sort of mother. He spanks them when they are naughty, and tucks them up at night.’

‘Does John ever give you trouble?’

‘Not a bit! He has never been before me. Your boy is a great credit to you. I’m awfully proud of him. Do have some more tea.’

Wasn’t the old ‘com.’ playing the game?

Meantime a dozen officers were scouring the school for me. They discovered me in the gym., having a bayonet-fight with Beefy.

‘Come along, Brown. Look smart! Your mother and a friend are here.’

‘Oh, thanks, sir.’

I was across at the mess door in a jiffy. As the tea-party was over, the ‘com.’ and the ladies came out.

‘Here’s your boy, Mrs Brown. Now, off you go. He may have leave for the day. Good-bye.’

I led them away, and all I could get out of them was, ‘What a delightful old gentleman!’ Aunt Jane was quite struck with the commandant, and bluntly asked if he was married.

‘He’s a widower.’

‘How interesting!’ That was all she said, but I wondered! I wondered!

‘Here’s our hut, mater.’

As we entered Ginger and Beefy hurriedly pushed some liqueur-bottles under the blankets, while Tosher discreetly flung a rug over a series of wall pictures taken out of the Sketch and the Tatler.

‘This is the Reverend Billy Greens.’

‘How pleasant to meet you, Mr Greens! I am so glad you and my boy go to prayers so often.’

‘Yes, we are great friends,’ said Billy, tactfully evading discussion of what really was a ‘terminological inexactitude’ invented by myself.

Ginger and Tosher were next introduced, and then came Nobby.

‘Ah! I wanted to meet you, Mr Clarke. You really don’t look like a Radical at all. You are much too nice for that.’

‘I’m being converted, Mrs Brown,’ said Nobby maliciously.

‘How splendid!’

‘What do you think of our happy home, mater?’

‘Well it does look untidy. And what a lot of papers and books!’ She picked up the Tatler. ‘John! Do you read this?’ she said, pointing to a wonderful picture by ‘Fish.’

‘Well—no, mater. The Red Cross send us old magazines to use for shaving-papers.’

‘I am so glad,’ she returned.

I did feel a rotten hypocrite.

‘Now, do all of you sleep in those little wooden things?’ pointing to the trestle-beds.

‘Oh, yes.’

‘Dear me! I thought you only got those things in jail. Oh! What’s that?’ she exclaimed, spotting Adela’s photo over my bed. She went nearer, and put up her pince-nez. ‘Dear, dear! A girl! A girl, John!’

‘An old friend, mater. She’s—she’s really quite nice. Her uncle is a vicar.’

‘Does she live near here?’

‘Well—not quite.’

‘I must speak to you about this later.’ Then she turned to the boys again, and had a pleasant chat. Meanwhile I had got two cars, and pushed the party into them. We sailed off to the local hotel, where we had a ripping tea. Poor Aunt Jane wasn’t in the piece; mother had so many things to ask my friends. They gathered round her, and she simply treated them as her own little boys. Even Ginger enjoyed it. It was so natural, so human, so much like his own dear mater, who was—dead. Her whole concern was about their boots, their clothing, and their spiritual welfare. And did they write every day to their mothers, like her own dear John? Tosher, the materialist, fell head over ears in love with the dear old mater. She taught him to appreciate this fact, that the strength of the Old Country lies in the wonderful women who have suckled a manly and virile race. The party was all too short, and the ladies were sorry to go. We escorted them to the station. Tosher, with true Canadian generosity, bought a huge box of chocolates; Beefy presented some flowers to Aunt Jane; and Ginger, Nobby, and Billy loaded them up with magazines and books.

‘You dear, dear boys!’ said mother.

‘Good-bye, mater.’

‘Good-bye, Aunt Jane,’ they all shouted as the two dearest women in the world were whirled away on the south express.

‘Good-bye, dear boys.—And, John’—— mother shouted.

‘Yes, mater?’

‘Button up your collar—it’s cold!’

•

•

•

•

•

•

‘Dear John,—Will you thank all your friends for such a delightful time? They are such nice boys. By the way, I’ve found out that your commandant has a sister in the next village.

‘We are going to call next week.

‘Aunt Jane.’

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CHAPTER XVI.

THE NEW ARMY OFFICER.

‘The New Army Officer is the finest production of the twentieth century,’ said Captain Cheerall at one of his lectures. ‘He is as fascinating as, frequently, he is irritating, for he is no lover of conventions. His success is staggering, particularly to the Germans, and his bravery is the talk of the world. I, of the Old Army, salute the New Crusader; but I am sorry to say a few ancient mandarins don’t. We have to destroy this prejudice, or else remove all those who fail to encourage the bright young men who have led our platoons, companies, and regiments to victory.

‘The New Officer is an Edison and a Trojan.

‘While I am proud of that glorious Old Army which I saw bleeding at Mons and expiring at Ypres, I do feel we must cease to talk of the old and concentrate on the new. The New Army is fighting to-day, and it is most discouraging to our latest cavalier to remind him continually of his temporary rank and temporary job.

‘That word “temporary” ought to be silenced for ever.

‘The New Officer has proved that leadership is no monopoly, and that warfare is not difficult to master. He has exploded the theory that it takes twenty years to make a colonel, and forty to make a general. He has shocked our drill-sergeants, and surprised our Napoleons by his ruthless destruction of shams and his nimble seizure of facts. He is the daring, dashing, dauntless Brigadier Gerard.

‘He is an optimist, and therefore successful.

‘If the New Officer owes a great deal to his predecessor, his predecessor must also acknowledge his debt. The sincerity, the enthusiasm, the intelligence, and the business ability of the new man have been priceless assets in this war. What would this Empire have done without the splendid fellow who chucked his wealth and his pleasures into the dust-heap, and came to us for a job? He was irrepressible! If his chest was small, he bribed men to slip him through. If his heart was diseased, it suddenly became cured. If varicose veins were in his legs, he had them cut out. If he was forty or fifty, he became twenty or thirty. And if he hadn’t experience, he always said, “I’ll d—— soon learn.”

‘He was a blood-thirsty crusader.

‘Now, when he joined we were mournful. We looked at him and sighed. “The correct thing,” somehow or other, wasn’t in his keeping. He was inclined to call the colonel “Alf” and the sergeant-major “Bill.” He didn’t know! And, oh dear—his word of command! It was so respectable—so tame! He seemed to apologise to the troops for his presence—yea, his very existence. Yet he was a sticker. He was cursed from dawn till sunset. In those early days he was occasionally insulted and abused. There was a war on, and we regarded him as shell-fodder, and not as human. Let us apologise now. We were worried. The Old Army was dying. The Huns were knocking at the gates, and we, with our old conservative ideas, regarded him as a forlorn hope, and sometimes as “a wash-out.”

‘How wrong, how terribly unjust, we were!

‘But he always said, “Yes, sir.” He always smiled. His trust was embarrassing, and his docility staggering. To us, his masters, jailers, and martinets, he yielded a homage which made us feel like gods. His very willingness made us misjudge him and think him a fool. “No guts” was a term frequently on our lips. We, with the vanity of the old and tried, could not see that he was of our blood, our faith, our schooling, our patriotism, and our pride. Of these virtues we imagined we had the monopoly. What insolence! What fools we were!

‘But we were worried about the war.

‘In those anxious, awful days we had no rifles, no uniforms, no equipment to spare; no brass bands, no flashing swords or coloured fripperies of rank and standing. Yet this amazing youth was undaunted. He shoved dummy guns into the hands of his platoon, made trenches with fire-shovels and trowels, used living brigadiers for targets, and gave the command, “At the enemy—at four hundred—fire!” The brigadiers woke up and—smiled. The imagination of the New Officer was helpful. He could talk, for he was educated. And he pictured German armies on the move, German hordes at the double, and to meet them roused his civvy-clad platoon to the heights of devilry and daring, then charged with his little bamboo cane—to glory.

‘By Gad! he always won.

‘Even then we doubted him. We somehow felt he wouldn’t “pan out.” Most excellent for the Boys’ Brigade, or the like; but for a war—well, we should see! At last the uniforms came, the rifles too; but somebody forgot the ammunition. He said, “Oh, that’s the bally War Office again. Let’s carry on with these dummy clips.” Standing, lying, kneeling, and sitting, he taught the wonders of rapid fire, and how to make a “group” on the square head of the pimple-dotted Boche. Jules Verne wasn’t in it! His men made bull’s-eyes on the colonel’s tummy, and riddled the nether regions of the twenty-stone quartermaster.

‘Then we called him a ruddy swanker.

‘For all that, he went on. The fellow was clean mad to “get out.” We said, “Yes, when we’ve put you through the mill.” And we did! We froze him on the ranges; soaked him on parade; tore his feet on the route march; and almost broke the valves of his heart charging mountains, and doubling for miles in heavy marching order. But he stuck it, and when he came in, stood us a drink, and said, “D—— it all, do send us to the Front, sir!”

‘We commenced to think he wasn’t bad.

‘And then he started to think and to do things, for he felt his feet on firmer ground. Red tape he damned. For example, he got fed up ending his letters: “I have the honour to be, sir, your obedient servant, William Winkie.” And he introduced this reform: “Yours truly, W. Winkie.”

‘We were shocked, of course. The other had been done since the time of Moses. This was a most atrocious outrage against the all-holy conventions. An explanation was immediately demanded—in writing. He replied: “I’m a business man, and there’s a war on.”

‘The old brigadier expired with apoplexy.

‘His brevity was startling. Instead of replying, “I beg to acknowledge receipt of yours,” &c., he simply stated, “Received, noted, and filed.”

‘But he did a more startling thing. He actually dethroned the pen and brought the typewriter into the company office. He also enlisted his shorthand clerk, and purchased a small card-index system, with which he created a little bureau, labelled: “Accounts,” “Equipment,” “Correspondence.”

‘This had never been done by the best people, for we always thought it very bad form to make the army business-like. If our fathers had sold shirts, beer, or bacon, we never mentioned it. And we had always been most careful to hide away the prompt, precise, methodical methods of our wealthy parents. We worshipped “form” and hated facts. But this fellow day after day continued, quietly but effectively, to cut out all the appalling bluff and nonsense of centuries. We didn’t like this—at first. Indeed, the ancient adjutant, trained in the methods of Wellington and the Duke of Cambridge, took seriously ill, and—retired.

‘The C.O. turned in despair to the New Officer.

‘“I’ll take it on, sir,” he said, “but I must have an absolutely free hand.”

‘“Why?”

‘“Well, I’m a business man.”

‘He was so persuasive about his methods that he was permitted to get his foot inside the orderly-room door. Then he shoved his whole personality into it. With a sweep of his pen he returned all the elderly red-tape clerks to duty. In came his shorthand clerks, typewriter, card-index, and books on “system.” There was a bonfire of ancient rubbish, and the erection of neat shelves, methodically arranged and labelled: “Training,” “Finance,” “Correspondence,” “Records,” “Blunders,” “Results.”

‘The C.O. was astonished at the peace, smoothness, and efficiency. He was also amused when the new adjutant suggested that he (the C.O.) might dictate all his letters to the shorthand clerk. “Saves time, sir, and will let you get out to see what is going on.” The Old Man had a shot at this. He discovered that he need only spend half-an-hour on correspondence instead of three hours.

‘Result: he was always on parade, and training improved.

‘Secretly we admired all this, but some of us got jealous. We grew petty, and showed it in our memos. But he called us up, and said, “Look here, Tom, Dick, and Harry, I’m not here for my health. I’m here for business. If you don’t like my methods, you had better move to another battalion.”

‘And the old C.O. backed him up.

‘At last we voiced our true thoughts, and said, “The New Man is an organiser. He can do things. And he does save us a tremendous lot of trouble with the paymaster, the Command, and the War Office.” Having paid this homage, we started to go to him for advice on administration. He gave us heaps.

‘But we still wondered how he would “pan out” in the field.

‘Next, we went out. The New Man was told to entrain the battalion at the station, where a train would be in waiting. When he got there he discovered the R.T.O. had forgotten—the luggage-vans. He asked no questions, but collared two vans on the siding, had them hitched on to the train, loaded up, shoved the troops in, reported “All correct,” and we started to move.

‘“What the devil do you mean taking those vans?” roared the annoyed R.T.O.

‘“You go and learn your business, sonny. I’m a railway manager. Good-bye.”

‘We lay back and simply roared with laughter.

‘Crossing the Channel, we of the old school were just a bit worried. We had grown to like the new fellow an awful lot. He was so willing, so decent, so obliging, and so keen. Still, we did think he was not quite the type. His business abilities were admirable. But what about leadership?

‘This problem had yet to be solved.

‘However, we plugged into the trenches, and he started on his new job. He was “jumpy” a little, and felt at sea. But he was a sticker. Above all, he was cheerful. He kept the men happy—fought like a devil with the quartermaster about his company’s rations, saw to the rum, stole wood for his men’s fires, robbed the A.S.C. of coal and coke, made braziers out of biscuit-boxes, and organised concerts under heavy bombardments. He wasn’t afraid to grouse, but he never bucked at a job.

‘We did feel immensely grateful.

‘Next, the great offensive. What a day! The barrage of the enemy was sheer murder; but he leaped over the bags like a fine British gentleman, and kept his eye on the OBJECTIVE. The C.O. was killed, the major was killed, company commanders were wounded, and the New Man found he was alone.

‘His hour had come.

‘Some weak fool shouted, “Retire!” but the New Man clapped a revolver to the demoralised man’s ear and said, “Go on.” He went! The weaker were impressed; the brave were thrilled. Old Army sergeants vowed he was “the goods,” and loyally backed him up. And on through hell, through death, and a blood-soaked shambles went the New Crusader with his battalion. The objective was reached, but we had only three hundred men instead of a thousand. There were no bombs, little ammunition, no water, no rations, and the men were absolutely done. All round were the bursting shells, the spluttering maxims, the choking gas, and the agonies of war. His flanks were in the air, but he extended his thin line, sent back the runners, dug in, and opened fire.

‘On came the Germans.

‘But the God of all men was on his side. Providence protects the brave. His fame had trickled down the line, and anxious generals vowed he would be supported. Company after company was slaughtered in the attempt. Then up came the Guards—the flower of British chivalry. The Old Crusaders were determined that the New would not be surrounded, jabbed, and crucified. Through that cruel barrage they tramped as if on parade.

‘And while they were advancing, the New Man, though weary, wounded, and blood-stained, was fighting a dauntless battle. Three hundred men had dropped to two hundred. His flanks were burst. He was almost surrounded. The bayonets of Potsdam were glittering at his breast, but he cried, “Fight on—fight on! No damn surrender to these Huns!”

‘“Ay, ay, sir,” responded his glorious men.

‘Just as the mad finale was reached, when the fate of the New Man and his heroic battalion seemed sealed, a cheer burst on the air, and the Guards broke through. The Old and the New joined hands, then fought the Hun with cold steel till he squealed like a pig and—RAN.

‘Four Guardsmen carried the New Man down the line.

‘And then the world—and the Old Army—woke up. The chivalry of ages was in the New Cavalier. His battered and bleeding form was carried through a guard of honour to the place where the sick are healed. Women sent him flowers; old generals paid him homage; and, like a true Britisher, he inquired, “What’s all the fuss about? It wasn’t I—it was the MEN.”

‘But the King gave him the Victoria Cross.

‘The Guards presented arms.

‘The Old Army cheered.

‘And the world said, “Well done!”

‘I salute the New Army Officer,’ concluded Captain Cheerall.

The school jumped to its feet and almost went mad with cheering.

Why don’t we have more lectures like that?

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CHAPTER XVII.

STEADY OLD ADELA.

‘Leave, boys; leave!’ shouted Beefy one night, rushing in with battalion orders in his hand.

‘When is it?’ Ginger asked.

‘Next week.’

‘How long do we get, Beefy?’ I inquired.

‘Four days, my boys—four priceless days of priceless fun. Cheero!’ he concluded, throwing his cap in the air.

This was excellent news. Leave is our greatest joy in the army. At once we commenced to plan out days of fun and nights of glory. All were rather secret about their arrangements. They were scheming out timetables in which not one lady but many were involved. Nobby, however, confided to me that he was going off to see rather a pretty widow. She was good fun, and had lots of brass. (Nobby was after the brass.) Beefy whispered that he had a wonderful woman in Cambridge, and another in Bath. He was going to see both. Tosher, thoroughly practical, decided to investigate the claims of Scottish girls, and see whether a Scottish wife would be a sound investment for his dollars and his affections. Even Billy, the padre, was after a girl—a V.A.D. commandant, slightly over the popular age, but ‘a fine woman, a fine woman,’ as Billy confidentially remarked. Ginger announced that he was going to have a quiet holiday at the Sweetville Hotel. I said nothing, but thought of—the barmaid.

My own arrangements were not decided. Like that of every soldier, my visiting list was rather heavy, and in my address-book were the names of pre-war charmers and war charmers. To see them all was quite impossible. Fours days did not allow of that. Like a sub-editor, I had ‘to cut down,’ and eventually arrived at a very brief, yet interesting, programme. Having learnt something about organisation at the school, I knew how essential it was that there should be no hitch. So I sent off the following telegrams:

The Replies.

These replies came in one by one, and each was like a bomb. Truly, the war had upset things, and khaki provided a terrific opposition. I was mad, I may tell you. Like the others, I had invested in a first-class sleeping-berth on the London Express, and had arranged for a royal luncheon with the boys en route. Now the whole scheme had fizzled out. Of course, I could have gone to see the dear old mater; but as I had told her such a ‘whopper,’ this would have been rather embarrassing. Wasn’t it rotten bad luck? Molly Charming running a staff-captain; Phyllis Plunger in the W.A.A.C.’s; Jeanette, of wonderful memory, in a convent; and Gladys Sprightly actually linked to an army chaplain! I did feel offended. Of course, there was Adela—steady old Adela. She was only five miles away, and she was dying to see me. But I didn’t want to go, for the very plain reason that she wanted me to come. Whether you agree or not, that is the attitude of the average man. When the Blue Bird of Happiness is in his hand, he does not want it. His eyes look away and afar. Man always desires to chase the unknown, to court the uncertain, and fritter away his time and his manhood pursuing the bubbles and the maddening mirage.

‘You look glum, John,’ remarked Beefy that night.

‘Yes. My scheme has fizzled out.’

‘You’re a silly ass.’

‘Why?’

‘Hang it all! you wire women, asking to see them. That isn’t the plan. You don’t understand the dear girls.’

‘Well, old Bluebeard, what would you do?’

‘I simply wire: “Coming to see you. Meet me at So-and-so—certain.” That’s all! They turn up all right. It’s an order. Women love to be ordered about. When you start to say “please,” they think you’re a bally old fool. I’m getting fed up trying to educate you,’ concluded Beefy, going off.

On this subject Beefy was an authority.

However, I decided to go and see Adela. When all the boys had left I jumped on my bike, and in a short time was sitting in the lovely old garden. It was a charming day. High in the heavens the sun shone gloriously. The earth was a panorama of pastoral beauty, and above The Grange garden birds and bees went blithely on their way. Everything was restful. Everything seemed clean. And I thought it a much better atmosphere than the fug of a London lounge or the sooty surroundings of Oxford Street. And yet there was a longing for the lights that glitter, and the women who understand. I was only a boy, and just human. My virtues and vices were not entirely formed. One day I could with ease have become a parson; next, I wanted—’to risk it.’ Heredity tells. I had the blood of parsons, soldiers, and dreamers in my veins. In my soul God and the Devil were always struggling for victory. I was the mere tool of moods and passions which had been handed on.

We are all like that.

Then I looked at Adela. She was reclining in an Oriental hammock reading a book, and between-times picking up a chocolate. She looked calm and restful, without nerves, and with a suggestion of decision in her pose. Adela was not so fetching as a ballet-girl, or so charming as one of those creatures of Mayfair. London women are very hard to beat in the little things which captivate and enthral. Their experience is gained in a cosmopolitan world. They talk with the intellectuals and dance with the fools. And they can charm both.

Adela was of the soil, the fresh, clean-smelling earth which breeds health and strength, and few illusions. She had no tricks, no little bag with a puff for her nose, or the dainty fads of millinery to enhance her complexion or form. Plain skirt, plain blouse, neat stockings, and well-cut shoes. And yet she was well dressed. The girl of taste is not a bag of glad rags. But the real charm of Adela lay in her magnificent physique, and in her personality.

Adela was different.

No man can define a woman’s personality. It is as baffling as it is alluring. And what I wondered about was this: Adela knew me, yet I didn’t know Adela. A man is an open book even to a schoolgirl. She can find him out in ten minutes, but you will never find a girl out in a thousand years. A man hates this. It is rather an insult to his intellect, but it is a woman’s secret and her strength. She knows it, and she uses it, sometimes in a very cruel way, as history proves. Still, it is a gift of nature with which Providence has endowed the sex, which for centuries has been in chains.

Adela was young. Yet she was ‘old.’

‘Johnnie,’ she said, putting down her book and looking at me, ‘why didn’t you go to the tailor?’

I had been waiting for that question, so promptly pulled the telegrams out of my pocket, and said, ‘That’s why,’ as I put them in her hand. It was a brutal thing to do, but it was a fair thing. The dons had always insisted on my speaking the truth. Not a bad rule, but quite a rotten scheme with the average girl.

Insincerity has always been popular.

Her brows contracted as she read each reply, and I noted her breast heaving with suspense. She read them over about a dozen times, then, folding them up, handed them back with the remark, ‘I thought so!’

‘Why did you?’

‘You are all the same.’

‘But aren’t girls good at the game?’

‘Yes—some are. Others are different; at least, a few are.’

‘You are posing, Adela.’

‘No, Johnnie! I like you, but I can do without you. I haven’t much admiration for that sort of thing.’

‘If I hadn’t shown them to you, you wouldn’t have known.’

‘Oh yes, I should. I know you. You are quite a nice boy, but, like all nice boys, you’ve been spoiled. Girls have thrown themselves at you, and you think you may go on like that to the end of the chapter. Nevertheless, I’m rather interested in you.’

‘But, Adela, if, as you say, you expected this, why were you so pressing in your invitation? Why did you want to be “one of the crowd”?’

‘The maternal instinct.’

‘But you are competing with them.’

‘Not at all, old boy; I’m doing salvage-work. I’m giving you a breath of fresh air in this beautiful garden; then afternoon tea; next a game of golf; in the evening a stroll over the Downs, with just a kiss or two, without messing you up with rouge or powder. If, after that, you feel that the dolls of Bond Street want you, you must go; for then I’ll know you’re a decadent, hopelessly neurotic, and bound to end up—a fool.’

‘Where did you learn all this, Adela?’ I said, getting interested.

‘It’s an instinct, and, of course, I use my eyes. We girls have been to school, you know.’

‘The war has made you think, I suppose?’

‘The war, Johnnie, is messing things up. Women are making themselves cheap. They mean well. They want the boys to have a good time, but both are getting burnt in the process. You have learnt too much in France.’

‘But we knew these things before the war, Adela.’

‘The war, Johnnie, has made them fashionable—that’s the difference. Shell-fire makes you boys neurotic. Your nerves want soothing. But you all go the wrong way about it. It’s fresh air and porridge you need, not giggling Jennies, who degrade your manhood.’

‘But, hang it all, Adela! if we’re beating a brute like the Boche, we can’t be hopelessly decadent. You read things in the papers. You’ve got too much time to think. If you saw the soul of the army, you’d know we are at least “not bad.”’

‘Perhaps. But why don’t you all stick to your games?’

‘We try, but you women upset the balance. All the trouble in this world is due either to wine or to women. You’re sent to try us, and sometimes you smash us. Despite that, Adela, you are all very charming. And, to be short, if you hadn’t been decent, I shouldn’t have come to-day. Let’s have tea.’

‘Right, you old darling!’ she whispered into my ear as she tumbled out of the hammock. Then she set out a dainty table, the maid brought the tea, and, under the arms of some old, waving chestnut-trees, we munched a refreshing snack. We didn’t talk much. I was enjoying the scenery, and the presence of Adela; while Her Royal Highness was no doubt wondering what extraordinary creatures we fellows are.

‘Now, Johnnie, I think we’ll cut the golf, and go over the Downs instead.’

‘Any old thing for a quiet life,’ I said, rising.

She got her stick, called her favourite dogs, and away we went across the sweet-smelling fields, where the bees hummed in the clover, and the larks sang high overhead. The air was stimulating, the surrounding country beautiful; while the presence of Adela added the final touch to a rustic dream. It was sporting. It was healthy. It was clean. The spirit of romance was there, and the poetic side of my nature was roused to its heights. I certainly did feel that the green vales of the Old Land, and the real girls of the Old Land, were indeed our best possessions. Somehow the whole thing appeared to me as a sort of moral lesson, as well as a silent sermon on patriotism.

I became prouder of my country.

I felt decent with Adela.

And so we ambled along, drinking in the joys of nature, and chatting of many things. It wasn’t the smart talk of Mayfair, in which I was an expert. It was just straight, frank, none-of-your-damn-nonsense kind, in which we looked at things with our eyes, and not through rose-coloured glasses. And you can talk about many things, once barred, without loss of modesty or self-respect. After all, education has spread. And if education can bring a man and a woman together on an equal plane, our country must benefit. A man wants a girl for a chum, a confidante, and a lifelong companion, and not as a serf, a housekeeper, and just—A COOK.

Yes, that was a memorable day in my life, and it was near the turning-point. The school, with all its deficiencies, was making its mark; while Adela was working hard, although I didn’t notice it at the time. From the dear old commandant, too, I had gained the spirit of tolerance and the milk of human kindness. Captain Cheerall had also stirred me to probe and analyse the human soul; while my comrades had given me the joys of friendship and the value of understanding.

John Brown was beginning to be—A MAN.

After the walk, we had dinner with the family. The mother was a delightful old lady, full of good-nature and shrewd common-sense. The father was equally pleasant; but Winnie, the sister, was down in the depths. She was thinking of Beefy—dear, kind-hearted, devil-may-care, old Beefy.

Women always love the daring Don Juans.

‘Let me help you,’ said Adela, as I took my coat from the stand about half-past ten.

‘Thanks, old girl.’

She lifted it on, then took my arm down the drive. When we got to the gate, she remarked, ‘Johnnie, I want you to do something.’

‘What, Adela?’

‘Give me those telegrams.’

‘With pleasure,’ I said, handing them over. ‘But what are you going to do with them?’

‘Burn them,’ she answered, striking a match and lighting them there and then. As the last telegram flickered out she kissed me good-night, and said, ‘Do try to be a sensible boy, John Brown.’

Next day I bought the engagement-ring.

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