MY DEAR CHARLES,--We're having a great time with our new arrival, one of
those confounded civilians, who are only let into the business because
the business, in these modern and highly complicated days, cannot be
carried on without them. He's a jolly old Lieutenant of about fifty
years; he has a concentrated experience of the world but doesn't
remember having been mixed up in a big European war before. At first I
kept on telling him that business is one thing and war is another, but
he wouldn't see it and persisted in doing and saying and thinking things
which were bound to land us in a national disaster. He had no respect
whatever for the Pass Memo., his central and sole idea being to push
along with the elimination of the Bosch. When he wanted something done,
he just went to the Top-man of the department, called him "I say," and
went straight to the point. The Top-man had never been asked to do
business this way before.
He put up with it a dozen times or so, but finally he had to take steps.
So he wrote a little note on a Buff slip and addressed it, very rightly
of course, to the Top-man but one; and the Top-man but one read it and
passed it very carefully to the Top-man but two; and so, with that
inevitability which is the hall-mark of the system, it was passed and
passed and passed until it came (in less than a week) to the office of
the ancient Lieutenant on the opposite side of the street. And it ran:
"Lieutenant So-and-So should be notified that it is neither necessary
nor desirable that he should call personally at this office to transact
his business. Matters should be put forward by him through the usual
course of correspondence." The ancient Lieutenant, who wouldn't hurt
anybody's feelings for the world, felt that it was up to him to put the
matter right. So he stepped across to the Top-man's office, and when the
Top-man asked him, somewhat pointedly, if he had received his note, the
Ancient very genially replied, "Yes, thank you," and explained that he
had just looked in personally to acknowledge receipt of same.
It sounds as if a dreadful quarrel would be raging between the Ancient
on one side and on the other the Top-man, the whole series of
under-Top-men and all persons in any way representing the military
system. You'd expect to hear that the Ancient's conversation at mess is
insubordinate, rebellious, or at least bitterly sarcastic. No such
thing; the old gentleman becomes a more ardent militarist every day;
wants to see once for all an end of all lawyer-politicians, and all
so-called "business-men." "We have made a poor show of being civilians,"
is his point; "let's try being soldiers for a generation or two."
On the whole he thinks we should find it easier to carry on as a British
Empire in uniform than as a German province in mufti. He says that
what's wrong with Prussian Militarism is that it is Prussian; to
succeed, the thing has to be run by gentlemen.
A Top-man honoured our mess the other night. Under the mellowing
influence of our Curried Bully he unbent somewhat and encouraged the
Ancient on his pet subject. Under the influence of the latter's theories
he unbent still further. He discoursed upon the true inwardness of the
military method of running an office, pausing at last for the Ancient to
say a few words. "Oh," said he, "I don't allow myself to be put off by a
trifle like that. There's many a kind heart behind a Buff slip, and we
all have our little weaknesses." The idea of having a little weakness
was so novel to the Top-man that it caused him to choke and to be led
from the mess, eventually, in a state of nervous exhaustion.
The latest information from the trenches goes to support the maxim that
all one requires to wage war is a bold face and a gas helmet. A very
distinguished O.C. went up the other day to inspect the trenches of his
command and to express such views of their faults and the faults of
their inmates as might occur to him from time to time. He had progressed
some way up the communication trench, when it struck him that, whereas
his recent order had been particularly menacing to everyone of whatever
rank who was discovered there or thereabouts without a gas helmet,
nevertheless he himself was at that moment innocent of such furniture.
Fortunately there came from the opposite direction an odds-and-end
private, with nothing in his favour except the wearing of the well-known
satchel so much in vogue in Flanders society for the carrying of gas
helmets. That was enough for the Commander; this was essentially one of
those privates to be called "My man," and treated as such. Politely but
firmly he was requested to part with his satchel as a temporary loan to
his General. Firmly, if respectfully, he refused to comply. Them was his
orders. The Commander congratulated him on his very proper attitude,
explained to him the nature of the higher commands and demanded the
satchel. The man looked like being stony about it, but the Commander
became irresistibly commanding and got the satchel at last. He buckled
it on, and the party proceeded, characterising the reluctance of the
private to part with his treasure as almost an exaggerated sense of
obedience to printed orders.
Gas helmets always exercise a peculiar fascination for people who
inspect trenches, and the matter was now especially prominent in the
mind of the Commander as he marched along, outwardly appearing to be at
his happiest here, inwardly thanking goodness that his home was
elsewhere. Conceive his delight to discover a subaltern, fresh from
ablutions, with no satchel upon him! The subaltern, distinctly aware of
this amongst his many failings, was all for being passed by as
insignificant; the Commander was all for a scene. Everybody halted, and
the air became pregnant with possibilities.... It was a nicely
calculated speech, leading up gradually to the pointed contrast between
(_a_) overworked Commander, weighed down with responsibilities, absorbed
day and night in momentous matters of large principle, nevertheless
infallible on smallest detail and now in possession of gas helmet, one,
and (_b_) very junior subaltern, free to enjoy the open-air
irresponsible life of the trenches, yet neglecting even the few small
matters entrusted to him, without same.
"And what's more, Sir," he concluded, "I doubt very much whether, if
someone gave you a helmet now, you'd know what to do with it. Here, take
mine." (The attendant Brass-hats liked the "mine," but very discreetly
kept their emotions to themselves.)
It was not a peculiarly clean or remarkably well-packed satchel which
the trembling hand of the disgraced subaltern took from the Commander,
and the latter did not intend to let attention dwell too long upon the
grimy details of its exterior. Fixing the steel eye of conscious
rectitude on his victim, he leant slightly towards him and very
unmistakably shouted at him the one dread word, "GAS!".... Unfortunately
for the Commander the subaltern not only knew what to do next, but also
had just the physical strength remaining in his fingers to start doing
it. With the eyes of all upon him (and by this time there had gathered
round quite a nice little crowd, thoroughly conversant with the event in
progress), the subaltern opened the satchel alleged to belong to the
Commander and took from it--no, Charles, not a gas helmet, but a pair of
socks--and _such_ socks too!
Yours ever, HENRY.
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[Illustration: SINKING.]
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