CHAPTER XXII.

THE SPIRIT OF GOD.

The extraordinary thing in our hut was that the quietest and most decent member of our little society was, in reality, the most powerful. This was Billy Greens, generally known as ‘The Padre.’ In controversy Ginger or Tosher could simply bowl him out, but for all that there was a sweetness and a kindness about him that made him a very dear pal. He was always so broad, ever willing to understand us, but quietly and effectively he was pitting his moral weight against our immoral and careless code. Billy had no physical strength to speak of. It was really a shame to see him in khaki, for temperamentally he was unfitted for the awful strain. But he was there of his own choosing. As he always said, ‘It is a holy war.’ This gave him a great standing. He was fighting for a moral cause, and we did think him a cut above the ordinary parson.

Billy Greens was a ‘white man.’

His strength lay in his private conduct, which was above suspicion. A fair sportsman, in a ‘rag’ he took his punishment. We never heard him speaking about ‘the Cross’ or ‘salvation,’ but in his own charming way he would lug one or more of us out for a walk, and land us in the Y.M.C.A., where he regaled us with refreshments and kept us to hear the entertainments. And the most amusing thing was that he and Ginger (the so-called Rationalist) were the best of pals. Ginger, however, was no Rationalist; he was just an argumentative beggar, so brilliant that he could flatten every one of us out. At all hours of the day and the night Billy and Ginger were going it, but it was quite evident that the padre was coming out top-dog, and taking the sting out of Ginger’s oratory. As a matter of fact, after they had lived three months together, Ginger ceased to batter the Church, and often helped his clerical chum to get up concerts for the Y.M.C.A.

The padre was making good.

Even Tosher, the dear old dollar-loving Canadian, was a champion of the padre. He was so powerful in the physical sense that he elected himself as a bodyguard. When there was a rough-and-tumble on, Tosher always rescued the gasping curate. There was something real good in the Canadian. If he was no great Christian, he was the best-hearted man in our platoon, and certainly the bravest of the crowd. His M.M. and D.C.M. were evidence of that. And if he did blow his own trumpet, it was not meant seriously, for Tosher, like all Canadians, was fond of ‘chewing the rag.’ The padre made it his business to take Tosher round all the nice people; indeed, he got Tosher fixed up with a neighbouring merchant’s daughter, a most charming girl.

Tosher ceased to violate the moral code.

So far as Beefy and I were concerned, the padre had a lot of work to do. But he kept at it in his own quiet way, and although we never said it, we secretly felt in touch with a better man, and we always accepted a good deal of his advice. Billy worked on ‘the chum principle.’ He simply wormed himself into our confidence, with the result that we never cared to offend him. When he called me ‘John,’ there was something so very paternal in it that I became submissive, and a supporter of Billy, if not a perfect ornament of the Church.

The padre was smashing our lax code.

‘You know, John,’ he said one night, ‘I shall be sorry to leave here.’

‘Why?’

‘There’s a lot of good work going on.’

‘Oh!’

‘You fellows are not what you were. There’s not half the filthy language or the false bravado there used to be. None of those disgusting photos are around now. And nearly all the boys read in the hut at night. They’re thinking, and that’s all we want them to do.’

‘What’s done it?’

‘Well, the fresh air, the games, the discipline, and the general goodwill. The commandant, of course, is an asset. He’s such a dear old man that they feel they must be decent. And unquestionably Captain Cheerall has been an enormous influence. Just look at all those fellows swotting up military history,’ he said, pointing to the crowd with their noses well down on books.

‘You like army life, then, padre?’

‘Not a bit of it. It has great good in it, and great dangers. All depends on the men you live with. Of course, this is an educated crowd, and they are easy to handle. But I had an awful time in the ranks. And yet I wouldn’t have missed this war for worlds. My eyes are open now. I have seen the good in men, also the bad. And I hope it will help me in the future.’

‘Do you think we’ll be the better for this war—I mean, in the moral sense?’

‘That’s a big question. I think all the educated men will reason more, and I believe they will glorify the home and a good woman. But for the great crowd I’m not sure.’

‘Why?’

‘Well, war loosens things. Women go wrong, and the marriage vows get broken. Men in the ranks are like children. One fool can contaminate a thousand. That’s the danger. Still, if we can educate them, and if the parsons will work, we can keep the Old Land going. And, of course, the Y.M.C.A. is a powerful force. I tell you, John, if we had had no Y.M.C.A. in this war, the army would have been a hotbed of drunkenness and immorality. Kitchener was the man who saw this at the beginning. By Jove, that was a MAN!’

‘You’re a Kitchener yourself, Billy.’

‘Why?’

‘It’s you that’s cleaning this hut up. You’ve been a good pal, and we shall be sorry to leave you.’

‘Not I, John! Not I!’

‘Who, then?’

‘The Spirit of God. Good-night, old boy.’

As he walked away a lump came into my throat. I’m a sentimental ass, I know, but still that’s the sort of padre for AFTER THE WAR.

---

CHAPTER XXIII.

WE DISCUSS THE SCHOOL.

‘Well, boys, in another week we shall have one pip on our sleeves, and be wearing Sam Brownes. Heigh-ho, my lads, for a jolly time! No more guards, no more fatigues, no more school,’ said Beefy one night.

‘Beefy!’ shouted Ginger.

‘What?’

‘You’re a silly ass. The commission, a bottle of “fizz,” and a chorus-girl form your entire outlook. Haven’t you learnt anything here?’

‘Oh yes, a little. I’m quite grateful, and I’ll do my best. I’m not a marvellous fellow with my headpiece—and know it—but I’ll try to do my job. You’re a wet blanket, Ginger. Because a fellow laughs and fools about, you think he hasn’t got guts. Have sense, you silly old book-guzzler.’

‘You’ll make a good bombing officer, Beefy. A strong arm and a soft head are all you require for the Suicide Club,’ remarked Nobby.

‘And you’ll be in the A.S.C., bringing up the bully-beef. A soft job for a Radical. I know your crowd. You curse the public schools, but you push us into the infantry. Nobby, you are a ruddy fraud.’

‘Let’s sum up the school, boys,’ I said.

‘Right! Lead off,’ commanded Ginger.

‘It isn’t really a bad show. The first time I saw it, it looked a penitentiary; and when I spotted all you toughs dropping in, it promised to be a Hades. But it’s panned out fairly well. There’s a great lack of intellectual meat—a few of the instructors ought to go back to school—but still, we’re cleaner, we’re smarter, we know a few things, and we’ll make at least half-decent subs. And I think we ought to be very thankful, considering that the fellows who received commissions at the beginning of the war got no training at all, but had to go straight to the trenches and find things out. And we have been lucky to have such a good old sport for a “com.,” as well as that priceless chap, Cheerall. He’s the backbone of the school. There has also been a moral improvement. Ginger has had a wash, Beefy doesn’t go out after cooks, Nobby has ceased to pray for Asquith, and Tosher has suddenly become respectable. I think we ought to leave with no grouse, and it’s up to us to give thanks to the commandant and his staff. They’ve treated us well, and done their best.’

‘I second the motion,’ said Nobby. ‘The school is a useful institution, and on the whole has done good work. They have certainly paid attention to our bodies. We are all healthier, heavier, hardier, and therefore more fit for our job. The great defect is, as John Brown says, a lack of brain-power. But there is this idea in the military system: “A man of action cannot be an intellectual.” And all these old fellows argue, “If they want us to be butchers, they cannot expect us to be professors.” To me this is simply an excuse for mental sloth, and adherence to pre-war pleasure-loving ways. War is a science and a conflict of ideas. The army which is most scientific and has the greatest number of ideas is bound to win. This country of ours is packed with ideas; but we are so conservative, so cursed with classical ways, that it is a crime for a hustler to start pushing his ideas to the front. We’re tied up to seniority, “form,” and rotten old traditions, which simply choke good fellows off. Reverses have improved us, and disasters have helped things on. But why wait for disaster? Why not let every mother’s son contribute some ideas to the war-machine, and so help to end the war?

‘The soul is certainly sound, as Captain Cheerall says; but what’s the good of a soul if you haven’t got push-and-go? Certainly, we have improved since 1914, and we are going to win this war all right. Still, I am not so sure that youth is having its chance. There are too many old fellows knocking about. What I want to see is all those young G.S.O.’s getting the jobs, and then we’ll have a good time. Look at Cheerall! He’s an absolute treat! There are hundreds of men like him in the Old Army and the New Army. We fellows, who are new to the business, don’t give a tinker’s damn whether an instructor or a staff-officer is a Cecil or a Henderson. We want the goods. We’re willing to learn. We’d pawn our boots to go and hear men like Allenby, Robertson, and Wilson; but we’ve got a contempt for all those old blighters who sneer at us, who think we’re not gentlemen, and regard us simply as cannon-fodder. The army isn’t democratic enough. It’s a close preserve, and we Liberals are going to shake it up. All the same, I don’t dislike this school. As John says, the commandant is a dear old father and a gentleman. If it weren’t for men like him, we’d all get fed up. As for the sergeant-major, he’s a terror, but he does know his job, and he has taught us a lot. These men are all right. It’s the system that’s all wrong. Yet I’m sorry to go, for I have had a good time with you fellows here. One thing the army does teach, and that is friendship. I wouldn’t have been out of this job for a fortune, and when we part I’ll be a sorry man.’

‘Hear, hear!’ roared Beefy.

‘Gentlemen,’ said Ginger, rising, ‘you’ve just heard my honourable friend, the member for the Manchester School, heave things off his chest. Having done so, he’s perfectly happy, for the great secret of keeping such a person in order is to let him talk—talk hard and talk long. He’s a most terrible Radical, and should he be the Secretary for War in the next Government, it will be necessary for me to remove him with a BOMB.’

‘Keep to the point,’ said Nobby.

‘Very well, the point is the school. Much of what Nobby has said is true. Now and again we’ve been terribly bored with the “padding” some of these fellows stuff into their lectures. The majority are afraid to be original. Still, on reflection, I think it fair to say that many never expected they would have to be schoolmasters. Again, nearly all of them were brought up under the old system, when thinking was very bad form. Still, they have worked hard. They have treated us well. The defects which exist are due to the system, and not to the men. Unfortunately a few imagine we are Tommies who have never been to school. They import into their lectures a lot of stuff which is pure bluff and part nonsense. We have seen the defects of the General Staff, and we are prepared to realise all their difficulties, as well as to note their triumphs. But it is sheer nonsense to paint them as supermen. That is a good enough stunt when talking to a platoon who cannot reason things out, and who, if told of little things, would expand them into big things and commence to grouse. But if we are going to be officers, then we want to know all the wrinkles. As Cheerall insists, study where we failed, why we failed, and how we might have avoided failure. It’s no good cloaking things. We were at Loos. We were at Cambrai. But it is frequently forgotten that we can see things, for many of us are educated. We’re not here for fun; we’re here for business.

‘What is always forgotten by military mandarins is that the nation is in arms. Again we are fighting for our very lives. But I don’t think we can apply Nobby’s sweeping reforms in the middle of a war. Remember Russia! There they abolished the salute. What happened? The army became a mob, and Russia was sold to Germany. The defection of Russia is the condemnation of Democracy—at least, of Lenin’s Democracy. And I, for one, am up against all Bolsheviks. Nobby, of course, doesn’t mean all this. Still, it takes an Oxford man to balance his impetuous moods and keep the ship right.’

‘Don’t swing the lead, Ginger,’ cried Nobby.

‘I am not swinging it, old chap. Your political strategy is one-sided, and sometimes lacks vision. Frequently you throw out constructive ideas, but you want to achieve them by destructive methods. You can’t do that; or, at least, if you do there will be chaos. You keep shouting for Democracy, but you’ve had it for three hundred years. You really want the moon. I’m with you, heart and soul, when you talk about brains, but I’m up against your method of reform. Go slow, old man. Work your reforms one by one, without creating panic and disorder. There are tremendous forces at work to-day. Unreason and anarchy are rampant. Give the mob its head and this old Empire will tumble like a pack of cards. You condemn Oxford, you curse the classics, you tilt at the historical and true political instinct, and you fail to note that the old system made us what we are—the greatest Empire, the greatest people, one of the most democratic on the earth.’

‘Question,’ said Tosher.

‘It is a question,’ retorted Ginger, swinging round towards his interrupter, ‘but it’s a question concerning your educational defects. You are not taught these things in Canadian schools. It’s not your fault; it’s your Government’s. But there’s no excuse for Nobby. He accepts the whole “Democratic” scheme with all its blunders. You can carry out his ideas in a parish council, but you can’t do it with an army. And while I have endorsed a good deal of his plea for intellect, I am not blind to what we have accomplished. He’s a lawyer, but he’s not judicial, for he has not given the other side of the case. We started with an army of one hundred and seventy thousand strong. We now have an army of five millions. We have increased the corps of officers from ten thousand to one hundred thousand. When we started at Mons we had only shrapnel, and that was short. Now we have the finest Ministry of Munitions in the world. We have shipped an army of millions over the seas, and lost only two thousand men by drowning. Thanks to the navy, of course. There were no such schools of instruction in 1914; now there are hundreds. It’s all very wonderful. It has been done slowly, quietly, effectively. True, there have been horrible blunders, and we have had reverses. So has the enemy. But in all manœuvre battles we have beaten the Germans.’

‘Hear, hear, Ginger!’ some of us shouted.

‘Now you see where Nobby is wrong. He concentrates on the failures and forgets the triumphs. And that is the greatest defect of his Radical friends. For all that, I’m not going to say we’re perfect—no army is perfect—but I do say we, as a nation, have done our best. Certainly, there are much-needed reforms. I’m with Nobby on the subject of brains, but I’m not going to back up his horrible methods of smashing down to build up. You can’t do that in war-time! Graft the new on to the old, and we’ll win.

‘As for the school, it has been a priceless boon for fellowship. I’ve really learnt to love old Nobby, and tried to understand him. And Tosher, the man-eating, constitution-smashing Canadian—well, we’ve just taken him into our arms! Like all Colonials, he’s a good fellow. Then there’s Beefy—dear old Beefy—the king of the ballet, the god of the bar, yet the toughest devil who ever came out of Cambridge. He’s real good! John Brown, of course, is a dreamer. He revels in romance, girls, and philosophy. You’ll find him in a barrage writing to Adela and moralising about the smell. Finally, there’s dear old Pieface, the best fellow who ever wore a holy collar.

‘Now, to be serious, boys. I like the school; but I like you more. We’ve learnt a lot about war; but we’ve learnt more about each other. We may not live; but if we do, then “The Dauntless Six” will meet at Ciro’s, fill a bumper, and drink long and deep to the happiest school-days of our lives.’

‘Hear, hear, Ginger!’ we shouted as he sat down.

‘I guess I’ve got to get into this business with my feet,’ said Tosher.

‘Try your head,’ mumbled Ginger.

‘It’s right there, old child, every time,’ answered Tosher, touching his forehead. ‘We ain’t no one-eyed chicks from Alabama; we get our wisdom-teeth in a hard country, where the snow buries you for six months, and the sun bakes you in the summer. Why, it just makes me sad to see the Balliol joint pumping out, “Go slow,” “Steady up,” and calling old Nobby a Bolshevik. Nobby is the only spring chicken in the crowd—but you don’t understand him. He wants to sweep up all your old institooshuns, and give you all a real good time.’

‘Keep to the point, Buffalo Bill,’ said Beefy.

‘I’m sitting on it, and it’s real hard. Now I’m going to skin your eyes. I likes this institooshun. It’s durned slow, and there ain’t enough ginger in the Old Man. Yet I reckon I’ve got wise here. They’ve knocked all the Tommy’s grouse out of me, and given me hope of a better land—a commission, a servant, and a waiter to bring me cocktails and fat havanas. They’ve shown me how to eat an omelet, and warned me off drinking out of a finger-bowl; taught me how to sign myself “Your obedient servant” when I don’t feel like it; and to say “sir” to all the chicks that’ll want a job from me after the war. They took me in, a tow-headed gum-chewer, and they reckon they’re turning me out real prime, first-class, lead-’em-to-Hell stuff. As one of those old professors said, “He was a Canadian when he came; now he’s a gentleman.”

‘Well, boys, I’m real grateful for it all, though I haven’t much time for etiquette, and ain’t no use at the “How d’ye do?” business. Out West we introduce with revolvers, and get our photo taken when there’s a hundred dollars on our head.

‘We ain’t here for amusement; we’re here to fight. You can’t do that with kid gloves. It’s red fighting that will kill the Hun—not talking. And, as Nobby says, we need more brains. That’s a plain proposition, and I’m his man. However, we haven’t been skinned in this saloon bar. The Old Man is a white man. He has been real good to me and you. Our time’s been a happy time. I’ve learned to love the Old Country. We Canadians may be tough, we may even seem white-fanged gunmen, but, I tell you, we’re in with you to the end.

‘God help the Huns when I go back!’

‘Hear, hear, old Tosher! You’re the goods,’ shouted Billy, rising to wind up our informal discussion.

‘And now, boys, a last word. Tosher has shown you the real soul of Canada, the spirit which brings the Canadians over, and in which they die. To us all it is a great revelation. He has been a good pal, just as you all have been, and our time here has been one of joy. Never mind this eternal discussion about brains. Leave that to the powers that be. Look at ourselves. Are we better men? Are we better soldiers? Are we really fit to lead our own clean boys? That to me is the real issue. Somehow, I think we’ll do fairly well. We are all agreed about fighting the German. We are determined to do so. In this school they have improved us, and made us more fit for the task. We have had a dear old gentleman for a father; our instructors have all been kind; every one of the staff has done his duty. It is up to us to show our appreciation, and, when we leave here, to serve our God, to honour the King, and die if need be, like true British soldiers.’

We got up silently, and went to bed.

The thought of parting had gripped the soul!

---

CHAPTER XXIV.

THE COMMANDANT’S FAREWELL.

There was no mock hilarity on the final morning. We had too much to do. Kits had to be packed, books returned, the hut scrubbed out, and everything left shining and in order, for the pride of an army is ‘handing over’ in a spotless condition. That is always a good test of a well-trained and disciplined unit. Hitherto we had not been bothered about falderals; we were learning and swotting, and the commandant had little use for eye-wash. But this day we knew he expected to see tables—nay, floors—off which a king might eat his food. The ‘Old Man’ was not disappointed, for we all desired to leave the school with his fatherly benediction.

The boys were a bit sad. Tosher, Beefy, Nobby, Ginger, Billy, and myself—thanks to the good offices of Captain Cheerall—were to be gazetted to the same battalion. This was a piece of luck. But there were other good friends who were being scattered to the four ends of the earth. Many were bound to be killed; others we might never come across again. They were our brothers-in-arms, and we loved them as only men can love. The war and the army had opened our hearts. We men of all classes, all professions, have been linked into a loving community, which only death can sever.

‘Stand to your beds!’ roared the sergeant-major. We sprang to attention, and the colonel entered. His keen eye saw everything spotless and shining. He smiled and muttered, ‘Splendid, men!—splendid!’ and went off round the other huts. When this was over we were marched to the lecture-room to hear the ‘com.’s’ farewell.

‘Gentlemen,’ he said, ‘this will be a happy day for you. You are going forward. The King’s commission will shortly be yours. You will join battalions already famous. The good name of those regiments and the honour of our country will then be in your keeping. We have done our best for you, and I feel you will not let this school down. We have had our hard times, our sad times, also our jolly times, together. No doubt you were often bored, and did your share of grousing. That is only human. If you cannot see a marked improvement in yourselves, I can see it in you. You were more or less rebellious when you arrived. You all had different ideas of discipline, training, tradition, and esprit de corps. Many of these ideas were sound; others were not at all practical. But by steady grinding, patient teaching, and persistent application, my staff have created at least a seed-bed in good soil, and it is for you to develop the fruits of our instruction. We have not aimed at making you generals. Our job was to make you subalterns. There are other schools to teach you the arts of the higher command. Perhaps this elementary curriculum was too slow for the more brilliant; but these bright ornaments must remember that in a school like this we have to adapt our arrangements to the intellect of the majority, and not of the minority. The brainy minority can take care of themselves. It is for us to help the less fortunate, and give them confidence and the hall-mark of efficiency. I have a reason for making this remark, for I know we have intellectuals here, and I should regret if they left feeling we have not given them enough.

‘You must also remember that your training has been crammed into four months instead of three years, as we used to put in at Sandhurst. We are at war, and we cannot go into the bowels of everything. Still, considering all our disabilities, such as the absence of many brilliant men at the Front, I do feel we have reason to think that, on the whole, the course has been successful.’

‘Hear, hear, sir!’ we shouted.

‘I said, at the beginning, you will no doubt feel glad at going forward. I also am glad; but I am sorry too. This has been the most interesting of all my “courses,” and there are faces I shall miss, even that of my good Canadian friend, who, I understand, rejoices in the remarkable sobriquet of “Tosher.”’ (Loud laughter.) ‘I can assure you, gentlemen, I have learnt a lot from you. Here we have a pleasant mixing of the classes and the masses; also a sprinkling of splendid fellows from overseas. This confirms my view that ours is a Democratic army, also an Imperial army. I rejoice! This is a splendid signpost to the future. When the job is done, we shall settle down more friendlily, without the class distinctions and the horrible class war that were the curse of this country prior to 1914. You will also be interested to hear that, if you men are going forward, I too am about to receive promotion. I am taking unto myself a charming lady’——

We cheered tremendously. (By the way, the lady in question was none other than my aunt Jane!)

‘Yes—and next week I leave the school and the army—for ever. I am old now. My day is done. I came back again only to help the Old Land in its hour of pain and woe. Yet I think I have the wisdom of my race. This is a young man’s war. It is not for me to keep youth and vigour back; to stand a bulwark against progress, and put back the clock, so that I, a soldier of the past, may continue to enjoy the fruits of command. No! That is folly! We must win this war. Age cannot do it! It is beyond us! To youth we must hand the sword and the laurels! And yet, when I take off my Sam Browne belt and shove on my tweeds, I shall feel like a captain without a ship, like a man without a cause. However, there’s my lady. She will help me through!’

‘Hear, hear, sir!’

‘Another intimation. My successor is Captain Cheerall. This officer is of the Old Army, yet of the New. To me he has been a loyal colleague, a zealous friend, and an invaluable assistant. He is an extraordinary compound of intellect and emotion. Every time he talks to me, I feel I must clap him on the back. The school is, therefore, in good hands. When I have gone, perhaps the intellectuals will not feel so bored.’

‘You never bore us, sir,’ shouted Ginger, and all of us gave a cheer.

‘Thank you, gentlemen. Your kindness will lighten my coming darkness. But it’s of you I must speak. Do not think me a great Christian, for I am not. But this war, somehow or other, has brought me face to face with the fact: IT IS A HOLY WAR. We are not out for LOOT. We are out for PRINCIPLES. It is our testing-time. God and THE BRUTE are struggling for mastery. The religion, the morality, the safety of nations, mothers, and babes are in your keeping. Should we lose, the Cross will lose. I do beseech you to think it out, to lead clean lives, to go forward with the heart and aim of crusaders. It is not a burden! It is a privilege! There is no question of false glory. It is DUTY! And DUTY is the hall-mark of honour. Would to God that I were as young as you, so that I might fight the good fight and lead you on! Again, you have all got mothers, sisters, sweethearts; some of you have wives, perhaps bonny little babes. It is for you to guard them. The dripping sword must not be seen by their eyes, nor their blood stain your hearths. Think of Belgium! Think of Serbia! Think of Rumania!

‘Do not waste your time hating! Your work is KILLING. War is Germany’s religion! Brutality is her philosophy! Domination is ever her aim and vaunted creed! You must destroy the loathsome gods of Germany.

‘Well, gentlemen, I think that is all. I shall watch your careers. I shall keep your records in my study. Each great deed will be noted in my little book. The higher you go, the more I shall be pleased. And never think of me as your commandant. Think of me as your friend, as a father—for to me you’re boys, just dear boys, and I love you because you are going forth to help this dear Old Land.

‘Good-bye,’ he said with emotion, and turned away.

Tosher Johnson led a terrific cheer, and cried, ‘Let’s carry the Old Man round.’ We rushed him, lifted him high on our shoulders, and carried him across to the officers’ mess, singing:

‘For he’s a jolly good fellow,
For he’s a jolly good fellow,
For he’s a jolly good fellow,

Which no cadet denies.

‘Hip—hip—hooray! Hip—hip—hooray! Hip—hip—hooray!’

Thus the New Army parted from the Old.

Edinburgh: Printed by W. & R. Chambers, Limited.