JOHN BROWN
JOHN BROWN
CONFESSIONS OF A NEW ARMY CADET
BY
R. W. CAMPBELL
Author of
‘Private Spud Tamson;’ ‘Sgt. Spud Tamson, V.C.;’ ‘Donald and Helen;’
‘The Mixed Division;’ ‘The Kangaroo Marines;’ and
‘Dorothy, V.A.D., and the Doctor’
LONDON: 38 Soho Square, W.1
W. & R. CHAMBERS, LIMITED
EDINBURGH: 339 High Street
1919
Edinburgh
Printed by W. & R. Chambers, Limited.
DEDICATED
TO
THE OFFICERS
OF
THE 51ST AND 52ND DIVISIONS
MANY OF WHOM I HAD THE GREAT
HONOUR AND PLEASURE TO
INSTRUCT IN THE
RUDIMENTS OF WAR
CONTENTS.
CHAPTER PAGE
I. THE CADET SCHOOL 1
II. THE SERGEANT–MAJOR FROM THE GUARDS 10
III. CUSTOMS OF THE SERVICE 19
IV. WHAT WE TALKED ABOUT 32
V. A CANADIAN NEWSPAPER 42
VI. THE MODERN GIRL 47
VII. PSYCHOLOGY 60
VIII. THE VALUE OF SPORT 80
IX. JOHN BROWN’S LETTERS 93
X. MAKING UP WITH ADELA 99
XI. THE NOISE OF WAR 106
XII. BLASE–BONES FROM SANDWURSE 114
XIII. OUR DEAR OLD COMMANDANT 128
XIV. NOT UNDERSTOOD 142
XV. MOTHER COMES TO SCHOOL 151
XVI. THE NEW ARMY OFFICER 161
XVII. STEADY OLD ADELA 173
XVIII. GENERAL POM–POM 186
XIX. ‘THE BOYS’ 195
XX. A JOLLY RAG 203
XXI. HISTORY AND ESPRIT DE CORPS 224
XXII. THE SPIRIT OF GOD 236
XXIII. WE DISCUSS THE SCHOOL 241
XXIV. THE COMMANDANT’S FAREWELL 254
LIST OF BOOKS BY THE SAME AUTHOR.
SNOOKER TAM. (Chambers) 2/6 net.
DOROTHY, V.A.D., AND THE DOCTOR. (Chambers) 1/6 net.
PRIVATE SPUD TAMSON. (Blackwood) 2/– net.
SERGT. SPUD TAMSON, V.C. (Hutchinson) 6/– net.
DONALD AND HELEN. (Hutchinson) 6/– net.
THE MIXED DIVISION. (Hutchinson) 2/– net.
THE KANGAROO MARINES. (Cassells) 2/– net.
THE MAKING OF MICKY M’GHEE. (Poems). (Allen & Unwin) 3/6 net.
JOHN BROWN.
CHAPTER I.
THE CADET SCHOOL.
I.
No doubt you have seen, in the highways and byways, a lot of youths
in khaki with white bands round their caps. These ‘boys’ are called
cadets, and are usually men home from the front to train for
commissions. In Sandhurst they are officially styled gentlemen cadets;
but apparently we are not supposed to be gentlemen—we’re just cadets.
Funny, isn’t it? But that’s the way of the army.
Well, my name is John Brown—a very ordinary name—and I’m one of those
fellows. Before the war I evaded toil by becoming a student, and spent
a lot of time on ‘ologies and ‘osophies. Now I’m learning to be a
_pukka_ officer, and the leader of sixty men to the cannon’s mouth.
When I left my battalion for the cadet school I shed no tears. They
were in the trenches, or, rather, in the mud. And it cost a pair of
brand–new boots to get on to the road. However, I survived, and in due
time landed at Windmoor. This is a ‘blasted heath,’ swept by the winds,
and isolated from picture–shows, barmaids, and revues; not a petticoat
in sight, and at every corner a notice which amounts to: ‘England
expects that every cadet this day will do his duty.’
‘This is no Utopia,’ I muttered, falling into the first hut by the way.
Ye gods! There was an old colonel, with eyes like a hawk and cheeks
like dumplings; and what do you think he was doing? _Cutting his corns._
‘What the—why the—who the devil _are_ you, sah?’
‘John Brown, sir,’ I said meekly, for never in my life had I seen such
a perfect relic of the Napoleonic wars.
‘Get to blazes out of this, John Brown!’ he roared, putting his fat
feet on the floor and banging the door. I was again alone—on the
blasted heath. The old gent inside was Colonel Eat–All, the commandant.
Rumour says he devoured two dervishes at Omdurman. I stumbled on once
more, and found the orderly–room.
‘This way,’ said Sergeant–Major Kneesup, introducing me to the
adjutant. I clicked my heels in the style of a Guardsman, and saluted
like a railway signal.
‘Well?’ said a blasé–looking gent with three pips, looking up at me
from his papers.
‘John Brown, sir.’
‘Who sent you here?’
‘The War Office.’
‘Umph! I know nothing about you. You had better go back to your
regiment for your papers.’
‘But I can’t go all the way to France, sir.’
‘Well, no—perhaps not. Wait a minute,’ he said, ringing a bell. A clerk
answered.
‘Have you any papers dealing with Cadet John Brown?’
‘Yes, sir. Came a fortnight ago.’
‘Thank you. That’s all.’ The clerk went out.
‘Oh, it’s all right, Brown. Just go over to No. 1 Company. You’ll
see Sergeant–Major Smartem there. He’ll fix you up. Good luck!’ he
concluded with a genial smile.
I saluted and went out, marvelling at the _methods_ of the British Army.
I dug out the sergeant–major, and again announced that I was John Brown.
‘That’s a fine name to go to bed with.’
‘It’s the one my mother gave me.’
‘Oh, well, you can’t help it. Here’s your blankets; there’s your bed.
You’ll get your equipment to–morrow. Shove this white band on your cap.
Tea’s at five o’clock. The lavatory’s down there. That’s the canteen
over yonder. And when you want writing–paper, hymns, or free salvation,
there’s a Y.M.C.A. down the road. Now, push off—_John Brown_.’
I was extremely grateful for all this information in tabloid form, but
I had a lurking suspicion that my name was going to be a subject of
rude jest. However, I am an optimist. I pitched my bag into a corner of
the hut, pulled out a little book called _The Pleasures of Hope_, and
commenced to read till tea–time. But I was disturbed. Cadet after cadet
came filing in. They were all new and rather green, except one man,
called Beefy Jones.
‘What a ruddy place for a cadet school!’ he roared.
‘My dear chap, it is designed to protect our morality,’ muttered a
spectacled youth, who looked like (and proved to be) an ex–parson.
‘Morality! After all that time at the front! What a jest!’ exclaimed
Beefy, banging his kit down.
In half–an–hour we were all good pals. Beefy confided to me that he
had a ripping girl five miles away, and she had a jolly sister. If
I wanted an intro., it was all right. He would fix it up. While the
ex–parson—Billy Greens by name—suggested that I might help him to hand
out the hymn–books at Sunday services. I promised to do so. (My father
was in the Diplomatic Service.) And so twenty of us settled down to
life in our hut at Windmoor Cadet School.
Tea–time proved that the rations were good, and when Lieutenant Blessem
(our platoon officer) came round for complaints, we shouted, ‘None,
sir.’
‘That’s a good start,’ he said with a smile. ‘I want you boys to be
happy here. If you’re in trouble, or want to know anything, come down
to my hut and I’ll help you. But remember this, boys’——
‘What, sir?’ said Beefy.
‘This platoon has got to be top–hole at everything.’
‘Hear, hear, sir!’ we roared, rattling our plates as he went out.
Blessem was a sport. After tea we got piles of books thrown at us, as
well as the standing orders of the school—a moral code akin to the
Koran, insisting on sobriety, sincerity, and big salaams. These orders
endorsed the ancient theory that women and wine are the root of all
evil.
Beefy grinned, then shoved me on the back of his motor–bike and whirled
me over to Sweetville, where I was introduced to Adela, a peach of a
girl, who had never been kissed. What luck!
It was 7 P.M. when I met Adela. I kissed her at 9; promised to marry
her at 9.15; and at 9.30 (to the minute) Beefy and I were answering
roll–call at the camp five miles away. Some hustle—eh, what?
We made our beds down and got in between the blankets. About ‘Lights
out’ there was an infernal din outside the hut. Somebody was running
round shouting, ‘John Brown! Where the ‘ell’s John Brown?’ Then some
fifty huts started a chorus of—
‘John Brown’s body lies a–mouldering in the grave,
As we go marching along,’ &c., &c.
Beefy led the chorus in our own hut—much to my annoyance. At last the
door opened, and the sergeant–major bawled, ‘Silence!’ They shut up. He
next inquired if John Brown lived there.
‘Yes, sergeant–major. Here I am.’
‘Telegram for you.’
‘Oh, thanks,’ I muttered, thinking it was some wonderful effusion from
Adela. On opening the brown envelope I read: ‘Sending you cough–drops,
Keating’s powder, and body–belt.—MOTHER.’
As the lights went down I thought of the dear, good soul who was so
careful of my welfare. Mothers may be silly, but they _always love
their boys_.
II.
Next morning we were routed out at reveille, and hunted off to tub
ourselves in an open–air wash–house. One fellow, ‘Ginger Thomson,’
objected. We carried him out and flung him into the bath—clothes and
all. There was no early parade that day, so we got ready for the
commandant’s inspection at 10 A.M. This was a real good show. We were
formed up in close column of platoons. At 10 A.M. (to the minute)
Colonel Eat–All came bouncing on to the parade–ground—like a great
Rugby football—dressed in khaki and splashed with ribbons. He had
every decoration from the Order of the Blue Nile to a Companionship of
Serajobitch (with swords). My word, he looked his part! I trembled.
‘Well, gentlemen,’ he said, ‘I’m glad to meet you. I hope we’ll
get on together, but I’ll have no nonsense, no slacking, and no
back–answers. I’ve trained lions, burglars, and Gurkhas, and have
commanded everything from mule transport to camel corps. You’re here
to work—_work_. And when I’ve finished with you, you’ll be fit to scale
the Alps, and eat Germans or smelling Bulgars. You won’t get strategy
out of the _Bystander_ or tactics from the _Pink–Un_. The infantry
drill book is better than Nat Gould, and _Needham’s Tactics_ more
important than the sexual stuff of Oscar Wilde. Keep out in the open
air, and don’t hug the stove and the tea–pot. Get your tummies hard, so
that you can live on boot–leather, horse–flesh, and cinders. War is to
the strong, and you’ve got to be supermen—and gentlemen. We produce no
jelly–fish in this emporium. We want “white men” and leaders. We’re up
against the Hun. He isn’t a d—— fool! Get that out of your headpieces.
If you are going to beat him, you have got to know the tricks of Boney,
the science of Maude, and the dare–devil tactics of Allenby. You can
get all this _here_, if you pay attention and carry out your job. Good
luck to you!’ And off he stamped, to the amusement of all. As he passed
my platoon he caught sight of me. My mouth was open.
‘What’s your name, my lad?’
‘John Brown, sir.’
‘Well, if you keep your mouth open like that in Mesopotamia, you’ll
catch everything from black cholera to cerebro–spinal meningitis. Keep
your mouth shut—John Brown!’
From that day every cadet in the battalion took up the gag of, ‘_Keep
your mouth shut_—_John Brown_!’