GENERAL POM-POM.
The worst of being in a cadet school is the number of inspections you have. Inspectors for trench warfare, gas, bayonet-fighting, administration, general training, &c., &c., keep popping in. Each man believes that his branch is It, and should you fail to come up to his requirements, then there’s a bad report, a thousand curses, and lots of trouble. All the same, this is absolutely necessary, and keeps specialists and instructors up to the scratch. The greatest defect is this: these people frequently ask for suggestions, but generally fail to back them up. This, I imagine, is due to the apathy of a higher authority, or the obtrusion of the inspector’s own point of view. We often talked about this, and our view was that all cadet-school instructors ought to form a corporate body, and demand ‘the goods.’ By the way, it was whispered that one real good W.O. man was named Browne. He, it is said, invariably endeavoured to get the schools whatever they wanted.
Good old Browne!
We always liked the visits from the younger men of the staff. They were so bright, so business-like, and they did take an interest in all we were doing. Many gave us valuable tips, which were much appreciated. Indeed, were it not for these smarter men, military training would be in a muddle. They are being allowed fair scope; but if the powers that be would only sack all the old foozlers who are tottering round the various districts and home commands, life would indeed be brighter, and training would be pushed along by the younger men, who at present cannot get full play for all their splendid ideas. We of the New Army belong to the New School. We are willing to learn from a duke or a pauper, but the teacher must have BRAINS. We are not concerned about seniority or foolish traditions. We are out to win this war in the speediest manner possible.
I also think it is a great pity that we never saw real generals. We longed for a lecture from Robertson, French, Haig, Allenby, Birdwood, and all the other good fellows who have done so well. We never had one. Of course, such men are doing bigger things at the Front; but some are at home, and others frequently cross the Channel. We would have pawned our shirts to go and hear them, for we do admire them. Certainly we got their ideas in the form of pamphlets. But what’s a pamphlet compared to the living man? A mere shadow, and not at all impressive. I am writing this, of course, for a definite purpose. The W.O. will see these lines long before John Brown’s book is published, and something, I know, will be done. They always do things in the army when they see them in PRINT.
After all, what is the use of sending old dug-out generals to talk to cadet schools? Some are nice old gentlemen who have done well in Ashanti or on the Frontier—in the past. Others, again, are petty-minded old fools, who simply upset the instructors and give the cadets a thin time. They may be jolly good disciplinarians, and all that sort of thing; but we got our discipline from the best source (a Guards sergeant-major); and when we saw a general, we did expect him to talk sensibly about the war, and not about clean buttons, pipeclay, hair-cuts, and the proper way to stand to attention.
Brass bands and pipeclay never win a war.
Still, some of these ancient mandarins gave us fun. For example, old General Pom-Pom, who was in a bath-chair in August 1914, suddenly found himself elevated to an active job. His great stunt was the carrying of a drill-book in his hand. This was his authority, and Heaven help the man who deviated from the official path! Unless an officer was prepared to slay the Boche according to the text-book, he declared we should lose the ruddy war. He was kept on. Not that the Higher Command had any great belief in him, but no doubt because they imagined he would frighten the life out of the ‘undisciplined’ stuff who were carrying swords and sporting pips, especially one pip; for one pip was the sign of all that is reckless, careless, inefficient, &c., according to General Pom-Pom.
But we got to know him. Every unit had a secret-service agent in his office, and when he decided to make a raid on some poor, ‘unsuspecting’ C.O., a little bird whispered that General Pom-Pom was en route.
Out came the whitewash, pipeclay, blanco, brasso, greasy paste, and ‘soldier’s friend.’ Pioneers whitewashed every post—not forgetting the Last Post—and slapped the stuff all round the walls and the doors of the billets.
Pom-Pom was a devil for whitewash.
The band was hauled out by the hair of the head to practise the general salute, while all the men were hustled to get everything shining and—in line. Even the dixies in the cook-houses had to be drawn up according to the style laid down by army architects. Before General Pom-Pom was half-way to the unit, the men were being moved about the square like perfect machines (he loved that), the band was playing ‘The British Grenadiers,’ and every officer, including the C.O. and the adjutant, were tropically busy on the square.
Pom-Pom galloped on parade. ‘Morning, colonel; morning. What’s the scheme to-day?’
‘Ceremonial drill, sir. The companies are just being exercised; then I’m going to work the battalion.’
‘Excellent! Excellent! Nothing like ceremonial stuff for these fellows. Makes ‘em smart! Makes ‘em smart! By Jove! your band plays well. Reminds me of old days. Good to hear ‘em! Good to hear ‘em! Let’s see your battalion show now, colonel.’
‘Very good, sir.’
The battalion was mustered, during which the C.O. would tactfully ask old General Pom-Pom if he would kindly take post at the saluting base.
‘Certainly! Certainly!’ and off he would trot to the flag-pole. There he sat on his old bus-horse, pouting like a pigeon, and studying his wonderful shadow on the ground. The men, of course, were quite interested. Pom-Pom was, on the whole, very popular with the troops, and they did love to swank to the tune of ‘The British Grenadiers.’
The band played.
Down came the battalion like a perfect machine. The general straightened himself again.
‘Battalion—eyes right!’ roared the colonel. The heads came round with a click, and the general saw one thousand cheery, sun-tanned faces.
‘Splendid, men! Splendid! You can beat the Guards any day.’
They stalked past as proud as dukes.
Next the C.O. formed them into line; and one thousand well-scrubbed Tommies, with buttons and bayonets glistening, advanced in review order.
‘Battalion—halt! General salute—present arms!’
‘Ta—tum—tum—talee, Tiddle—um—tum—talee,’ went the bugles.
‘Battalion—slope arms! Order—arms!’
‘Magnificent!’ roared Pom-Pom. This shout of praise could be heard miles away. Then he toddled round the billets. His eye caught the whitewash, saw the neat kits, and the cooks’ dixies—all in line.
‘That’s all! That’s all, colonel! I’m very pleased! I congratulate you on your excellent unit. Morning! Morning!’ And off he galloped on his bus-horse.
The colonel smiled and faded away.
General Pom-Pom came to our school one day. He went through the same performance. Even Ginger borrowed my Vinolia to have a wash. Pom-Pom stumped on to the parade in a way that shook the earth, looked at us very keenly, and muttered, ‘Good stuff! Good stuff!’
One of his ideas was that a company officer must know the name of every man in his company. While he was inspecting our company he arrived at me.
‘What’s this man’s name?’ he asked Captain Bloggs.
‘Eh? Smith, sir.’
‘Is that right?’ he inquired of me.
‘Yes, sir,’ I replied with emphasis. I wouldn’t have let our company officer down for worlds. After all, it is a good deed to keep an old general happy.
‘Where’s your pull-through?’ he asked Tosher.
‘I guess it’s broken, general.’
‘No d—— guessing for me, my lad. Get it mended and shove it in your butt-trap.’
We enjoyed this immensely, and felt that General Pom-Pom could beat Tosher any day.
‘Are you married?’ he asked Billy Greens, who was always rather pale and carried a worried look.
‘No, sir.’
‘What are you in civil life?’
‘A curate, sir.’
‘Thought so! Thought so!’ he said, passing on.
We all grinned.
‘Ah! You’re a musician, aren’t you?’ he inquired of a youth with lustrous locks.
‘No, sir—a Socialist!’
‘And you’re fighting?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘What for?’
‘To destroy militarism.’
‘Oh!’ ... The general hurried away.
After the inspection he gave us a few words. Not much intellectual food, but a lot about the bayonet.
‘At ‘em when you see ‘em come. Give it ‘em hot. The short jab in the chin, or the smart thrust in the paunch. They loathe it! They’re afraid of it! The bayonet will win the war,’ he concluded.
On the whole we enjoyed his visit, and agreed that General Pom-Pom was good fun, kind-hearted, loyal, intensely patriotic—but not the man to win the war.
‘THE BOYS.’
One thing the school, the war, and my regiment developed; that was a love of my comrades—’The Boys.’ What a delightful term! So human! So reminiscent of youth and fun and joy! Each day strengthened this love, till it became almost a passion. This was the true Democracy, for ‘The Boys’ have no social measures, only the simple standards of Faith, Hope, and Charity. When such comradeship is allied to regimental esprit de corps, there is created a moral which is invincible. Whatever pain and sorrow the war has brought me, I always gloried in this meeting of the waters. Stripped of the masks created by politicians and Who’s-Who snobs, we discovered common aims, common interests, and common ties of affection. Ginger Thomson, the hide-bound prophet of Imperialism, was the sworn comrade of Nobby Clarke, the ramping, raging lion of the Free Trade school; Tosher, the wild Canadian, walked arm-in-arm with Billy, the sweet and refined; and I, the dreamer, plugged along with Beefy, the full-chested Balzac of the camp. In our little hut we ragged with good feeling, and all seemed to look for an opportunity to do a good turn, like the proverbial Boy Scout. It was a manly, a noble, phase of life. Selfishness was absent. Love was triumphant.
But, oh, the sadness and the madness of the scheme! While our love was being developed, we were training to die. Now, death is nothing. But to one who loves mankind it seemed a scheme of the very devil to breed such god-like men for the shambles. Here were the cream of the race, the flower of strength, the pick of intellect, supermen—with the hand of Death upon them. But that is war as the Kaiser willed it. By a stroke of his pen this proud, inhuman monarch has caused the death and the madness of millions. Oh, cruel monster! If there be a God, then his punishment is assured.
Often I thought of this aspect of war. At night there passed before me the ghosts of my dead comrades—line after line of clean-limbed, open-eyed, fresh-faced heroes of battle. I had marched with them, supped with them, danced with them. Their lives were an open book. No deceit. No camouflage of the roué or the sneak. Their dreams, their loves, their passions, good and bad, I had known. While few were saints in any sense of the term, none were hardened sinners. Their patriotism and self-sacrifice had ennobled them. And they had gone—gone, I believe, to higher and better realms. But what a passage! Crucified on the altar of Kultur—gassed, bludgeoned, mangled, tortured, and maddened by the German rules of war. I had seen them go; seen them fall in the trench, with that groan which tears the heart; seen them stagger back while attempting to go over the top. And in that awful No Man’s Land, where bullets hum like dragon-flies, and shells scream like drunken sirens, I had seen them stagger, clutch, and writhe in the agony of death.
How true they were! How brave! And of every class and calling. Duke’s son and cook’s son, charging, cheering, fighting, and dying in the breach. Ah, how glad I was to have met them, but how sad to part! True, they have not died in vain, but they have left on me, a youth, marks akin to those of sorrowful old age. I was haunted by their eyes, sometimes unnerved when I thought of their screams. And yet I was proud. They had played the game; played it as no troops of Clive or Wellington were ever asked to play it; played it against the most brutal foe this world has ever seen. Your Trojans and your Spartans are mere tyros compared with our men to-day. Far better to be clubbed and speared than suffer the horrors and the madness of modern war.
When I thought of this murdered manhood, the slaughtered genius, and the wiping out of such noble sires, I felt afraid—afraid for the Old Land, the Old Flag, the Old Home by the hillside. Would all these things remain? Could we still carry on? Would the hog-like Huns, who breed as the vulgar always breed, be able to win ‘the war after the war’? Beaten in the field, robbed of victory, would this coarse-grained tribe cunningly exploit the survivors of a finer race? I wondered. For this is a serious aspect of the war. There was no conclusion to my musings, but somehow I did believe that Providence protects the clean. The empires of Hannibal, Nero, Napoleon, and the Romanoffs are no more. They outraged the laws of peace and goodwill. So I believe that this unfailing law will cripple and dissolve the Empire of Wilhelm. Right is might. That has been our slogan in this great crusade.
Yet we are not a perfect people. The war has judged us and found us wanting. But the war can save us—if we are wise. We must search our hearts. The dear boys have died that we might live. How shall we live? Must we go back to the parish pump? Is there no avenue of escape from class war and the devilish tricks of the political machine? Shall the remnants of our army return to be tools of the men who never fought; tools of those who quarrelled for place instead of nobility; mere puppets, hounded to the polling-booth to vote for sneaks and rogues? God forbid! Our slaughtered boys must form the rampart wall against the selfishness and the pettiness which mar our otherwise beautiful country. The old order will not do. The eyes of ‘The Boys’ have been opened. They are thinking; and sometimes their thoughts are bitter. If these thoughts were printed in full our proconsuls would be staggered. There is no hope for Britain if soft-handed, soft-job mandarins retain the reins. Yet ‘The Boys’ are mute, for they have no Press. They require none. When they return they will sweep away the fools and build a happy land. They are not Bolsheviks, not ‘Tories’ or ‘Radicals.’ They are patriots. The patriotism born in suffering is a product of God. You cannot define it, and you can never master it. Do not attempt it. Should you warp, twist, or bend it for mere material ends, you will rouse a bitterness and a madness which may destroy you, as Trotsky has destroyed the real soul of a noble nation. Only honest men can deal with ‘The Boys.’ Brave men can lead them. Clean men can inspire them. But these leaders will not be found in great numbers amongst the old mandarins—the men who stayed at home. Ah, no! ‘The Boys’’ standard is bravery. ‘White men’ they know and understand. The puppets of the party whips they will blow away like chaff whirled before a storm. And out of their suffering will come sanity, peace, goodwill to men and nations.
This is no dream. Those who scoff misunderstand the mentality of our men. The men of Grade I. can dominate Grade II. and Grade III. The five million fighters are men of will. A will steeled in the furnace of ‘Hell’ can pierce and master the will created in the soft lounges of Mayfair or the I.L.P. halls of Clapham. The veterans of the American Civil War united, rejuvenated, created the wonderful America of to-day. Our veterans can also rebuild the suffering British Empire. Open out your arms when they come home. Do not disguise your aims. Speak like Lincoln or Emerson. Ask for the truth, and they will deliver it. Kill the fatted calf, and when the feast is done, place the laurels of power upon their brows. They will never deceive you. While they may smash old and useless traditions, they will guard the Flag, respect the Monarchy, and develop the finest, fairest Democracy this world has ever seen. Far better to have the Democracy of the trenches than the Anarchy of Trotsky. For Heaven’s sake, be wise!
Such is the mentality of our brave boys. Fools will fear it, but straight men will rejoice. The Church can take heart, for the university of war has quickened spiritual thought. Blind as many of these men are, they are seeking, groping for light. Their eyes are scanning the horizon for the idealism which can heal their sorrows and lighten the daily load. The madness of war is causing them to search for gladness. Old theological tricks will not suffice. A broad-based creed, aided by the finest music and social joys, may capture their souls. Women, too, must figure in the scheme. These men, many of them broken, desire to slip into an ivy-clad cottage where sweet Love shall reign, and the prattle of the child drown the memories of the shambles. From their windows they shall gaze in search of the beauties of the valley, the strength of the hill, and the soothing ripples of the ever-rumbling brook. This is the only cure for the horrors of war. Should you give them the pub. and the music-hall, you will perpetuate the follies of Bacchus and the creed of the courtesan.
All this I have learned in billets, camps, and the stricken field. From the stench of the trenches, the oozing blood of the shambles, and the agonised features of the dead I have plucked a moral and a great philosophy. The vanities have departed. Deceits are unfolded; Mammon is exposed. While horrors have unnerved, even unmanned, me, I have found a new Love—Love of ‘The Boys.’ It is a wonderful Love. It thrills and holds. It rouses and cheers. The soul is filled with better things. Great visions pass and repass before my eyes. One feels determined to leave the world a little better than one found it. Yea, one becomes resolved to fight, to suffer, be a martyr, if need be, for the men who have fought and won. Great is our opportunity, great our responsibility. We stand at the cross-roads of morality and materialism. Let us consecrate our lives for these brave men.
My heart swells with a bursting affection. My eyes are dimmed as I think of the dead. I am young, yet I feel old. But my soul is cleaner, stronger, greater through contact with—’The Boys.’
The Brave, Dear Boys.
A JOLLY RAG.
When all had returned from leave, Dame Rumour got busy. Some of the lads had been going it, and their exploits had got abroad. Even Billy, the padre, was in the gossip-market, and Ginger was alleged to have been seen in a two-seater with the famous beauty from the hotel. As for Tosher, it was said he had been doing the heavy with the ladies of Glasgow.
To amuse ourselves, we called a secret meeting and decided to hold a court-martial, Nobby being elected president. The following notice was posted up in the hut:
COURT-MARTIAL.
A Court-Martial will assemble in the Hut
on Friday Evening for the Trial of
Billy Greens,
Ginger Thomson,
and
Tosher Johnson.
All witnesses are warned to attend.
John Brown, Adjutant.
There was a great rush on the ‘early doors.’ At 7 P.M. Nobby appeared, dressed up as a stout colonel, with a moustache like Ole Bill. He looked most impressive, and roused a cheer. The members of the court followed. All took their seats, and Billy Greens was ushered in by the court-martial orderly.
‘Before proceeding,’ said Nobby, ‘I should like to know if the accused has any objection, either to me, as president, or to any member of the court.’
‘Yes, sir, I object to you,’ answered Billy.
‘Why?’
‘You’re a rotten old Radical and—a lawyer.’
‘Your objection is out of order. This is a military court, and politics do not enter into the matter. If I am a lawyer, I can assure you there will be no charges—I mean, no six-and-eight.’
‘Question!’ shouted Ginger.
‘Please bludgeon that Imperialist,’ commanded the president.
Ginger was gagged. The case was proceeded with.
‘Corporal Billy Greens, No. 1 Company of the—th Cadet Battalion, you are charged with (1) Giddiness on leave; (2) Appearing in public with a formidable female; (3) Holding her hand in a tram-car; (4) Acting the goat in a taxi-cab.’
‘Do you plead guilty or not guilty?’
‘Not guilty.’
‘Evidence, please,’ ordered the president.
Beefy stepped forward with a ponderous-looking document like the Magna Carta. It was really one of Harrods’ voluminous catalogues. Opening it up, he commenced: ‘Sir, the accused, who is a gentleman in holy orders, but meantime a soldier, has hitherto borne an excellent character. But we have received reports from the Platoon Secret Service men stating that on his last leave he has been “going it.” Apparently he went to a small town near London, and commenced to pay attention to a lady of blameless character, but of formidable appearance, and inclined to be frisky and sentimental when receiving the attention of man.’
‘Keep to the point, Mr Jones. Please deal with the first charge,’ remarked the president.
‘I’m just coming to that, sir,’ replied Beefy, turning over Harrods’ catalogue. ‘The first charge is “Giddiness.” Our agents state the accused was wearing a field-marshal’s trousers—an offence punishable by death, according to the Manual of Military Law. He also wore bright-yellow shoes and white socks, ornamented with yellow flowers, which I contend betrays a somewhat frivolous mind. Above the neck of his tunic appeared a white india-rubber collar, and sticking out from under his tunic-sleeves were white cuffs, ornamented with a balance-sheet of his holiday expenses. He also carried an enormous Malacca cane studded with brass knobs, of the type used by lion-tamers and wealthy Jews. In fact, his whole appearance was that of the Bank ‘Oliday kind. Instead of looking like a harmless and shuffling cadet, he really resembled Ole Bill on the burst. So startling was his appearance that a terrier-dog fell off a tram-car, and an ancient cab-horse jumped into an egg-merchant’s window. To save further calamity, the local police had to hide him in a furniture-van and remove him to his lodgings.
‘The second charge is, “Appearing in public with a formidable female.” The lady in question is of uncertain age, but of great stature—six feet high, three feet broad, and built in proportion.’
‘Weight and style, I presume,’ said the president.
‘Yes, sir. I also understand she is the commandant of a V.A.D. Hospital. Prior to the war she was a suffragette who achieved fame by burning down the local bishop’s bathroom.’
‘Has the bishop used Pears’ since that event?’ inquired a member.
‘No, sir. I understand he uses the wash-house.—But to resume. When she appeared in public with the accused (she being of massive mould, and he being of bantam measurements), the contrast was striking. In fact, the difference in height was so great that it is stated she carried a small portable telephone to carry on the conversation. He called her “Gertie,” and she called him “Pickles.” While attempting to enter a very narrow gate in the public park, the lady got wedged, and it is alleged she shouted, “Push me—push me, Pickles.” The accused nobly responded, and relieved the lady from an embarrassing position.’
‘Was the gate damaged?’ asked the president.
‘Slightly bent, sir.—Now for the third charge. The lady, who has been trying to “get off” for quite a number of years, was apparently so bucked with her capture that she aired him on every public occasion. They were always riding in tram-cars. On one occasion a local alderman, who has a reputation for “picking up” unattached females, entered the car they were travelling in. The lady, apparently nervous about getting the glad eye from this civic Lothario, muttered, “Hold my hand, Pickles—hold my hand.” Like a brave man, he did so. In this simple and trusting manner they completed their journey, to the amusement of all.
‘The final charge is, “Acting the goat in a taxi-cab.” Apparently the dear old girl had been overhearing some of the younger V.A.D.’s, her colleagues, relating thrilling experiences of taxi-cabs. She decided to try the experiment, and Pickles drew a pound note from the Penny Savings Bank for that purpose. To avoid observation, they ordered the taxi to meet them in a quiet thoroughfare. But a local press photographer witnessed the amusing struggle of the lady to get inside.
‘“Pickles!” she shouted.
‘“Yes, dear,” he replied.
‘“The door is too small. Push me.”
‘Pickles pushed again, and the lady fell inside. At that moment the camera clicked. Here is the photo, sir;’ and Beefy handed over a charcoal drawing of Billy heaving an enormous lady into a vehicle.
Loud laughter in court.
‘The taxi-man then received secret instructions from the accused to drive ten times round the park—DEAD SLOW. During this performance several of the local special constables saw the lady with the accused in her arms. At intervals they kissed each other. When they alighted from the cab, our Secret Service men discovered a hair-switch and an upper set of false teeth among the cushions. This, sir, is, I think, complete evidence of frivolous conduct.’
‘I see! I see!’ muttered the president, tugging his false moustache. ‘Now, Mr Jones, have you any evidence as to how the accused met this lady? Was he introduced, or was it what we in the army term a “pick-up”?’
‘So far as I know, they were properly introduced. Some years ago, when the accused was a student, he saw the lady bathing in a crimson dress with lace-curtain frillings. He secured an intro. by the aid of a member of a local Dorcas Society.’
‘What about his character?’
‘Hitherto most respectable; but I imagine his association with my friends Messrs. Ginger Thomson and John Brown has, unfortunately, caused him to fall from grace. That’s all, sir,’ concluded Beefy.
‘What have you got to say, my man?’ said Nobby, with the air of a Lord Chief-Justice.
‘Nothing! My dear old Pieface, this is a serious business. You go on leave; you wear a field-marshal’s trousers, a padre’s white shirt, shop-assistant’s yellow shoes, and you carry a ship-pole for a walking-stick. You cause an innocent dog to fall off a tram-car, and a hitherto respectable horse to jump into an egg-merchant’s window, and yet you say, “Nothing.” Worse; you try to outdo Charlie Chaplin in a tram-car, and Ole Bill in a taxi. This from a future officer, an ordained padre, and a Tory gentleman will not do. It is preposterous! You must be shot! Must be shot!’ roared Nobby with dramatic fervour, which reminded us of the old com. on the bench.
‘You’re a silly old ass, Nobby!’ said Billy.
‘That’s contempt of court.’
‘You’re a rotten old Radical!’
‘That means execution.’
‘And here goes your bench,’ shouted Billy, making a running jump at Nobby’s table, and kicking it up in the air, sending ink, pens, paper, books, &c. flying right and left.
‘Remanded! Remanded!’ shouted Nobby, brandishing a poker.
The prisoner was seized and put in ‘quod,’ or, in other words, let go. His ragging was over.
II.
‘The next prisoner,’ demanded the president when the table had been restored to its feet and the papers had been tidied up.
Ginger Thomson was marched in, guarded by an escort, who were armed with wet mops. We knew Ginger!
‘Sergeant Ginger Thomson, No. 1 Company, —th Cadet Battalion, you are charged with (1) Posing as a woman-hater; (2) Declining to wash; (3) Joy-riding in a Ford car.’
‘Evidence, please, Mr Brown,’ ordered the president.
‘Sir, this youth, for the past two months, has been posing to all as an enemy of the opposite sex. In a recent discussion he declared that women were soulless, inconstant, mercenary, and loved us only when we had chocolate or plenty of the golden goblins. We believed him to be sincere, and he received homage as the great monk of our platoon. Other remarkable attitudes in controversy convinced many of us that this brilliant but erratic gentleman was simply pulling our legs. By accident we discovered that he is an ardent admirer of the beautiful lady who dispenses ale and bitters at the local hotel. In fact, our agents have procured a grammophone record of a conversation with this fair lady. This is the record,’ I added, turning on the gramophone, the record of which had been faked for the occasion.
‘Edison Bell Record.’
Gur-r-r-gurr-r-r-r.
‘Hello, old girl; how are you?’
‘What cheer, Ginger?’
‘Gin and ginger, quick—awful thirst, old girl! Bring it up to the private room.’
‘Right-o, dearie!’
Gurr-r-gurr-r-r-gurr.
‘There you are, Ginger—don’t! The master’ll hear us. Oh, my hair!... You’ve broken my comb. You mustn’t kiss me. Oh, Mr Thomson!... ‘Oo’d a’ thought it?’
Gurr-r-gurr-r-r-gurr.
‘You’re a dear old thing!’
‘And you’re a giddy boy.... You mustn’t.... If the master sees me sittin’ on your knee, there’ll be trouble.... Ah, don’t!’
Gurr-r-gurr-r-r.
And the record ended, just in time, for Ginger let fly and kicked it to the other end of the room.
‘Tie him up! Tie him up!’ ordered the president.
It was a tough job, but we managed to get his feet tied, then stood him up before the ‘beak.’
‘Carry on, Mr Brown,’ commanded Nobby.
‘That record, sir, absolutely proves that this man deals in terminological inexactitudes.’
‘You mean he is a common or garden chancer?’
‘Yes, sir. The second charge is equally serious. He has an objection to soap, and loathes water like a Bolshevik.’
‘Has he no soap in his possession?’ asked a member.
‘Oh yes, sir, a small piece, which he received three years ago on enlistment. This is it:
| GINGER’S SOAP. 1915-1918. |
‘Note the size. He keeps this for kit inspections, and I understand he is to make it a family heirloom after the war.
‘Now for the third charge—“Joy-riding in a Ford.” During his leave he was seen several times in a palatial petrol tin-can, accompanied by a fair lady. The lady was holding his hand, and the car was doing a cake-walk down the road. Several roosters and pet-poodles are at present in the mortuary. Two maiden ladies demand his life, and the town council have sent in a bill for two policemen and three lamp-posts. That’s all, sir.’
‘Very serious! Very serious!’ muttered Nobby, chewing his Ole Bill moustache. ‘What about his character?’
‘He lost it at St Omer.’
‘Oh!’
‘Found by the A.P.M. (Assistant Provost-Marshal) singing “Home, Sweet Home,” on the top of a lamp-post.’
‘Then he is hopeless?’
‘Absolutely, sir.’
‘Ginger, you are a bad lad,’ commented the president. ‘Have you anything to say?’
‘Yes, sir,’ shouted Ginger, seizing a mop out of the escort’s hand and charging full tilt at the president. He caught Nobby in the chest and heaved him over in excellent style. But the valiant president arose and shouted, ‘Duck him! Duck him!’
Ginger was seized and promptly heaved into the company bathroom. ‘You are a lot of blighters,’ said he on emerging. However, Ginger was a sport, and took it merrily. When he returned to the courtroom he promptly changed the rôle of prisoner for that of prosecutor.
‘Next prisoner,’ ordered the president, after shaking himself and wiping the traces of the mop off his face.
Tosher Johnson was marched in, guarded by two hefty lads. We were taking no risks with the wild Canadian.
‘Corporal Tosher Johnson, No. 1 Company, —th Cadet Battalion, you are charged with (1) Worshipping the almighty dollar; (2) Always muttering “gaw-damn;” (3) Pulling a railway alarm-cord; (4) “Swanking it” in Glasgow.’
‘Evidence,’ commanded the president.
‘Sir,’ said Ginger, ‘the accused is a Canadian, and therefore a mystery. He blew in about 1915 from out West, and reckoned he was the man to win the war. His career is like that of all backblockers—most varied and adventurous. He commenced life eating pork-pies in Nova Scotia. At the age of twelve he was assistant to a negro medicine-man, who sold corn-cure at a penny a time. The corn-cure, I may say, was made out of wagon-grease stolen from the C.P.R. Having done in the son of Ham for about a hundred dollars, he went West, where he started a shoe-shining parlour and a horse-betting booth. Next he was seen in a fat-reducing advertisement; after which, he floated a company to supply the ladies of Winnipeg with imitation busts.
‘In these ventures he was, like all Canucks, highly successful, and therefore plunged into real estate. This is a get-rich-quick scheme. Tosher was a star turn. He took double-page advertisements in the home papers, and sold corner lots to dukes, commoners, and simpletons. When these “duds” went out to stake their plots in Paradise Alley, they discovered their land was in the Arctic regions, and tenanted only by Eskimos. What did Tosher do? Why, he simply apologised, and said his clerk had made a mistake by turning the map upside-down!
‘Since then he has had a dollar for his crest, a dollar for his god. He has got money in everything from corn-plaster to chewing-gum, and he reckons to fizzle off this ‘ere planet (as he calls it) with about a hundred thousand dollars, earned while chewing cigars and drinking cocktails in Montreal, Toronto, and the mixed-bathing cave up in Banff, Alberta. The fellow’s a marvel!’
‘Look here, Mr Thomson; this is a court-martial. Evidence! Evidence! We’re not here to get the story of how we all lost our money before the war.’
‘Very good, sir! The second charge is, “Always muttering ‘gaw-damn.’” That is the motto on his shirts and socks. When he spits it out with a Chicago tang, he means you to know he’s no soft-headed fellow from Balliol, but a real son of a gun from Chewing-Gum Land. This historic adjective is joined to “guessing” and “calculating.” And he reckons he’s real prime, six-shooting, hot stuff in this gaw-damn land of weasels and crows. And he isn’t slow! He can talk the head off a Dutchman, pulverise a cockatoo, give you a one-pound note for a tenner, and send you away with a feeling that he’s real good, and the best kid that ever dropped out of “Taurauntoe.”
‘The third charge, sir, is, “Pulling a railway alarm-cord” while on leave. Apparently he got into the company of a simple old Scottish gentleman, who was accompanied by his wife and rather charming daughter. Tosher took the corner seat like a conqueror, and muttered, “It was real fine to get away from the gaw-damn Boche.”
‘“Are you just from the Front?” the old gent inquired.
‘“Yip!” he said, lighting a twopenny havana.
‘“You’re a Canadian, aren’t you?”
‘“You fellows are winning the war.”
‘“I guess so.”
‘And in this vein he went on. He spun them yarns as tall as a wireless mast, relating how he had missed the V.C. by going round the wrong corner, lost the D.S.O. because the gaw-damn officer wasn’t there, and was recommended by Joffre for the Legion of Honour for holding up a German army corps with a Woodbine and a six-shooter. These poor, innocent mortals were bewildered. The accused is greater than Louis de Rougemont. He then showed them nicotine-stained fingers, and said it was blood; his vaccination-mark was a cut by a shell; and a birth-mark on his chin was a bit sliced off by a Prussian prince of the gaw-damn Prussian Guard.
‘The old gent and his party were thrilled.
‘“But, say, old friend, have a cigar to chew,” remarked Tosher.
‘“Thanks, I will.”
‘Tosher opened his case, but found it was empty.
‘“Sorry. I guess I’m run out. Where can I get some?”
‘“Not till Carlisle. We have two hours to go yet.”
‘“I reckon we pass other bum towns en route.”
‘“Oh yes.”
‘“Well, I guess I’ll call the guard,” said Tosher, jumping up to the alarm-cord.
‘“You can’t pull that—you’ll be fined.”
‘“What? I’m a Canadian!” And he pulled the cord. The brakes went on with a bang, and the old guard hurried up along the line.
‘“Say, old Father Time,” shouted Tosher.
‘“What’s up?”
‘“Stop yer old bus at the next bum town. I want some cigars to chew.”
‘“I’ll shove ye in jail!” roared the guard.
‘“Easy, old child.”
‘“What’s your name?”
‘“My mother christened me Johnson.”
‘“You’re a Canadian, I suppose?”
‘“Yip!”
‘“All right. I’ll show you I’m a Scotsman.”
‘Tosher didn’t get the cigars. He got “Five quid, or twenty-one days,” at the Police Court.’
‘What did he say to that?’ inquired the president.
‘Oh, he reckoned it was gaw-damn stiff that a bloke who was winnin’ the war couldn’t get out of an express for cigars.’
‘I see! I see!’
‘The final charge, sir, is, “‘Swanking it’ in Glasgow.” He had a maple-leaf in his cap about the size of a young fir-tree, smoked evil-smelling cheroots the size of a submarine, stopped the traffic when he wanted to cross the road, and tried to elope with all the best-looking women in the town.
‘“Who are you?” asked an interested lady.
‘“Tosher Johnson, real prime, and the best kid out of Taurauntoe.”
‘“All right! There’s my card. Call and see me to-morrow.”
‘When Tosher got there her father was waiting for him. The old man was a brain specialist. That’s all the evidence, sir,’ concluded Ginger.
‘Johnson,’ said the president, ‘your career and exploits resemble those of the Arabian Knights and the adventures of Louis de Rougemont. What have you got to say?’
‘Well, boss, I guess Ginger is the brother of Ananias, and the uncle of the Kaiser. He’s just real good at the story-faking business, and after the war we’ll get him to run the Real Estate News, and the selling of corner lots in Greenland and Hudson Bay. As for the “Canuck” being top-dog in the lead-swinging business, I reckon that’s fizzled out. If Oxford can pan out liars like this ‘ere child in the future, we from out West will have to take a back-seat in the boosting business. Why, the fellow ‘u’d make his pile hanging around a Calgary beer-bar, telling them how to make a nigger into a white man, and how to turn a thousand dollar notes into ten million of the hard stuff.
‘As for “gaw-damn,” “guessing,” and “calculating,” seems to me you need some new language to tickle this old country up. You are a long-faced lot o’ wowsers, tied up by regulations and B.C. institooshuns. When you want to meet a prime girl, you need an intro.; and if you’re keen on eating with a duke, you’ve got to show your birth-certificate, and prove your father didn’t bring you into this world o’ woe without a nine-carat wedding-ring. It makes me real tired to walk around and see your orders: “Keep off the Grass;” “Keep to the Right;” “No Smoking Allowed;” “Private—Trespassers will be Prosecuted.”
‘That’s your whole gaw-damn system. You ain’t a free-thinking crowd; you’re a bunch of kids kept in order by bamboo canes and laws made by Moses. Even your little rabbits, that we gives to our dawgs, are protected by ancient statoots with about a ton of sealing-wax hanging on the tail.
‘As for your women, you don’t know how to make them smile. They’re the best-lookin’ kids on the planet, and they’re just real glad that we wild men are over to tickle them up and make them dance. Say, boys, but you are just dead-slow. Why, I can get anything in petticoats, from an heiress to a barmaid, by giving them a Taurauntoe glad eye, and saying, “Come on.” You fellows are the fag-end of an old system, and if it weren’t for us prime hustlers from out West, you’d be losing this fightin’ business.’
‘Look here, old cow-punching Bill, this isn’t a bally entertainment. It’s a court-martial. You’re on your trial for your life. What have you got to say?’
‘We never says anything out West.’
‘What do you do?’
‘Shoots!’ And Tosher banged three rounds of blank ammunition in the air.
‘Seize him! Seize him! He’s an outlaw and a desperado!’ roared Nobby.
We rushed Tosher, but he let fly at his escort, and seized Nobby in his powerful arms and dumped him out of the window.
Ginger then caught the Canadian’s legs and threw him.
‘Kamerad! Kamerad!’ shouted Tosher.
‘All right, we’ll let you off, if you stand a drink.’
‘Sure! Come on, boys;’ and off we went to have another jolly hour at the canteen.
Tosher was a sport, and he kept us laughing all the night.
There’s nothing like the army—for jolly good fun!
HISTORY AND ESPRIT DE CORPS.
‘It is a good thing, gentlemen, to cull the best from the past, and never to ignore it,’ said Captain Cheerall at another lecture. ‘If our fathers frequently blundered through, they did so heroically. No army is blessed with such high traditions, such records of chivalry and glory, as ours; yet, like all other armies, it has frequently failed. We do not claim to have been invincible. We have no desire to get out on the house-tops to boost our army. But we have a right to know and be proud of the battle honours on our flags.
‘This, you may think, is a new line of thought for me, the arch-priest of the present and the future. Well, my reason for reminding you is this: You are of the new faith, the new school, the New Army. Your success has been wonderful, and in another lecture I have paid tribute to your genius, courage, and patriotism. Now I want to remind you, not of past follies, but of past glories. Military history glows with our splendour. The small-minded person is very apt to remind us of our failures in America during the American War of Independence, our awful blunders in the Crimea, our shameful disorganisation in the early part of the South African War. Such accusations are true. But if you study these failures, get to know why we failed and where we might have scored, and thus increase your professional knowledge. Never be afraid to admit our errors, but take good care never to repeat them. This is a maxim you must ever bear in mind. Even in this war—at Loos, Neuve Chapelle, Cambrai, and Gaza—there are instances where the human machine went wrong, instances which afford you food for serious thought and reflection.
‘But what I really want to concentrate on to-day is the spirit of the British Army—that unconquerable soul which lightens a disaster, sustains us in reverse, and proclaims to all the world that we Britishers never know when we are beaten. That, gentlemen, is the most priceless asset of our army. To understand this spirit you must look at our history. You must dip into the annals of India, Egypt, Africa, the story of the Peninsular War, or of Waterloo. In these tomes are the deeds of your fathers. Our army never fights better than when it struggles for a moral cause. We conquered Napoleon in the flower of his strength, and in our hour of national weakness, because truth, honour, and decency were on our side.
‘I do not say we have always been crusaders. There are wars in which we have played an Imperial game. Yet, after deep reflection, I am convinced some Power or Powers must be predominant in this world, and this leads me to believe that a Power which is based on liberty, equality, and fraternity is the Power entitled to impress its own culture on the world. And we have always been civilising, always pioneering, always trying to leave the world a little cleaner, a little better, than we found it. This work has been supported and made possible by the splendour of British arms.
‘What you must take from the past is the spirit of your fathers—the simple faith, the sense of duty, the code of honour, and the love of country which have been shown by the best of our men in all our wars. And I do believe no man is cultured or efficient unless he has a knowledge of history. This gives you the reason why. It prevents a gross materialism from entering your soul. It takes self above the battle, and enables you to realise that beyond the trials, the sorrows, and the horrors of war there is a god-like spirit which is clean, noble, and must, therefore, be triumphant. I am not sanctifying war, for I loathe it; but I am deifying the moral force which is behind us, for example, in this war. There never was a cleaner crusade.
‘Self-depreciation is characteristic of our race. We laugh at ourselves, we call our brothers fools, and pillory our statesmen and our thinkers. We are so tolerant, and possess such a sense of humour, that no one gets much annoyed. This really is evidence of a certain greatness. It means we are not sensitive, are without nerves, and are always willing to hear the latest buffoon. Now, gentlemen, these are not bad qualities. But unfortunately they are qualities which the German exploits, with the result that he has made our name stink in the nostrils of neutrals. We have been so indifferent, so careless, that Hun libels have taken root, and now a Britisher is regarded by many neutrals as the swashbuckler of the world. And this vile creed has been imported even into our own country, perhaps into our army, especially among later elements who do not understand why they were conscripted. It is a dangerous growth, and must eventually become a poisonous weed. You must root it out. Regimental history will help you to do so.
‘Whatever regiment you go to, you must first read its records, learn its battle honours, get to know its heroes, study all its personal traditions, and generally imbibe that something which has made it wonderful. There you are on sure ground. You can fascinate your men with its stories of valour. You can thrill them with its pride. You can cheer them with its humour. And you can make them love you by displaying that intense devotion to all things pertaining to your regiment. You will not do this in a day. But you can do it in a few months. And yours shall be the glory.
‘Some one has said that the path of duty is where honour lies. Our military histories will corroborate that. White in Ladysmith, Gordon in Khartûm, and Townshend in Kut are good examples of patient courage and unselfish devotion. The death of Captain Oates of the Dragoon Guards is a fine story, if not actually military. This British officer and gentleman, when stricken with disease, walked out into the Antarctic snow to die, rather than burden his companions and bring them to death and disaster. There are thousands of anecdotes of this order. When you read them your spine will thrill at the valour of your fathers.
‘And I should like you to study very closely the spirit of friendship between the British officer and the private soldier. This is a wonderful story. It shows we have discipline, and yet we have none. In other words, it illustrates that we have got things done because the men liked their officers, and not because they “had to.” You have to discover that secret. It is easy to find. Frankness, courtesy, love, and courage are the basic elements of the plan. The gentle patience, the benevolent rule, and the paternal anxiety of our fathers were wonderful things. They made the British Tommy the most faithful, the most willing, the finest soldier in the world. He has no equal. He will never let you down. But you cannot get the best out of him unless you model your personal conduct on the lives of Kitchener, Roberts, Maude, or Wauchope. These four men are pictures of simple British gentlemen, with Christian instincts, a plain sense of duty, an unalterable devotion to their country, and a magnificent belief in their fellow-men.
‘Again, I do want you to feel that a British officer is no vain person, put up for the admiration or the subjugation of the mob. Do not be a sabre-rattler. Let your demeanour to the civilian crowd be one of chivalry. If we are democratic in our politics, all of us, even the private soldiers, are aristocrats in temperament. We loathe a bounder; we hate a prig, scorn a sneak, and curse a knowing fool. Carry the white flower of a blameless life, and champion all things which make for the propagation of truth, civilisation, and honour. You may even take from the German his virtues, but you must leave him his vices. The British officer is watched by millions of neutrals, and it is important that his high calling should earn the approbation of their historians. Better to die for our chivalry than succumb to the bestial creed and the foul dishonour of the Huns.
‘History, I say, will give you much. It will prove that there is a wonderful fire and force in our race. Our island story is very well summed up by Kipling when he says:
What should they know of England
Who only England know?
‘When you have travelled the Seven Seas; when you have walked in the footsteps of frontiersmen, seen the Valhalla of heroes and the sleeping-place of martyrs, watched tribes and nations of all creeds and colours saluting the British officer and the British flag, it is then you feel:
There is a voice divine,
And a mission that is high.
‘Gentlemen, here is the proof of our liberty and wisdom. At Gallipoli are the graves of free Colonists with no ties to this country except the ties of blood. Their country is a labour country. Imperialism is banned. It is sometimes termed a democracy gone mad. Yet when Germany threw down the gauntlet these freemen came forth to help the Old Land. They died like Trojans. They died for LOVE. They died that we might live. And their brothers to-day are dying in France. Side by side are those wonderful Canadians, glorious Newfoundlanders, gallant South Africans, brave Indians—indeed, all nations under the British flag. They have not rendered lip-service. They have given the flower of their land that this Old Country, the mother of Democracy, the breeder of nations, and fount of tolerance, shall keep her lamps burning brightly and repel the hordes who would destroy the Crucifix and deify the sword. You can understand this devotion only by a study of the past.
‘When you have mastered military history, you will quickly grasp the value of esprit de corps. You will know why the Guards would scorn to be called Highlanders; why the Highlanders would shoot you if you put them into the Guards; why the K.R.R.’s want to beat the Rifle Brigade, and why the Rifle Brigade believe they are better than the K.R.R.’s; why Dragoons think themselves superior to Hussars, and why Hussars would sicken if you named them Dragoons; why the R.H.A. believe that the R.F.A. are not fit to lick their boots, and vice versâ. Unimportant as these things may seem to the uninitiated, they are really the basis of good work and true fellowship. This spirit is the same as the spirit of the public schools. You will not find this spirit in Germany. Force is the gospel of Germany, even in school and in sport. Force never made a gentleman or a great nation. Let me tell you a story. A broad-minded German was travelling past the playing-fields of Eton before the war. He saw the boys playing Rugger, Soccer, &c., and immediately ordered his car to stop. He sat for quite a long time looking at the clean, bonny British boys playing their games. Then he jumped up, took off his hat, and shouted, “Ah, mine friends, I would lub to be one Breetish boy!”
‘That is a very great tribute from an enemy. To you we hand the guardianship of that spirit. You must believe that to “play up, and play the game,” is the noblest thing in life. You must live not for self, but for country. Your wealth, your gifts, your pleasures, even your loved ones, must be surrendered at the call of duty. Duty is the keystone of patriotism. And patriotism has made us what we are. The defects of this system are outweighed by its virtues. “The word of an Englishman” is all they ask of a Britisher in the Argentine. But from a Hun they demand an agreement, stamped, sealed, dated, and witnessed. What finer tribute can you have to the spirit of our race?
‘An army, gentlemen, without a soul is a vile and cruel instrument. It will commit excesses. It will rape, plunder, and demoralise. It will stink in history, like the armies of Attila, Cortes, and the Kaiser. We must avoid that. We cannot do so unless you leave this school with a full knowledge of history, an appreciation of esprit de corps, a love of the truth, and an adherence to the principles of justice. You must all be Maudes and not Bernhardis; quit ye like men; do harm to no child, no woman; so conduct yourselves that when you leave France or Belgium the populace will line the route, strewing your path with roses, and shedding tears for the dead who are gone and the living heroes who are returning home.
‘It may be, of course, that many of you will not return, that you may have to suffer torture at the hands of your enemy. Let death have no terrors, for you shall pass to the Valhalla of heroes. Your name shall be inscribed in the page of glory, and your memory shall shine like the sun.
‘Gentlemen, words fail me. Emotion is knocking at my heart. But I feel that I have shown you the soul of the British Army. Guard it! Cherish it! Fight for it! And when this bloody war is over, the world will take you into its arms, and God will proclaim, “Well done, thou good and faithful servant.”’
A strange silence fell over the room as the lecturer finished. The spell had not yet passed. Men had been transported from the sordid to the higher things. But when the captain lifted his stick and gloves to go, we burst into a wild hurrah.
| • | • | • | • | • | • |
That night Tosher, whom we dubbed ‘the Materialist,’ slipped out of the hut about nine-thirty. He crossed the dark parade-ground, and made for the officers’ quarters. On arriving at Captain Cheerall’s domicile, he knocked at the door.
‘Come in.’
‘Say, cap., I’d like to swot up some of that history.’
‘I see! What can I do for you?’
‘Well, I guess you’d better lend me a book to get on with.’
‘Certainly. Here you are. Anything to oblige a good Canadian.’
‘Thanks, cap. And, I say’——
‘What?’
‘You were real good on that stunt to-day. Good-night, sir.’
‘Good-night, Johnson.’
When Tosher got to the hut, he looked at the book. It was entitled Deeds that Won the Empire.