CUSTOMS OF THE SERVICE.
I.
The old ‘com.’ fairly caught me out at the ‘prelim.’ We had a general
knowledge paper set—a fairly easy thing. I finished mine in about
half–an–hour; then, getting bored waiting for Beefy, I started to write
some skittish answers for my own amusement. Beefy, who is a practical
joker, got hold of these, and when we were asked to pass our papers
up, substituted the wretched things for my real answers. Just to show
you how I put my foot in it, here are samples of the silly tripe I
concocted.
(_Q._) What is meant by strategy? (_A._) Giving a fellow a thick
ear—suddenly.
(_Q._) Explain the term Tactics. (_A._) Correct handling of a platoon
when passing a brewery.
(_Q._) What is an outpost? (_A._) A military mortuary.
(_Q._) What is meant by camouflage? (_A._) Wearing a Burberry to hide a
hole in your pants.
(_Q._) Who is Allenby? (_A._) The fellow who _didn’t_ make a mess of
Gaza.
(_Q._) What should an officer always say to the men? (_A._) ‘Get your
hair cut.’
Now, just imagine what the old ‘com.’ thought of me when he went
through this piffle. I was in a blue funk. To make matters worse, it
was Saturday and leave–day. Adela had got her mother and father off to
a Red Cross bazaar, and she had engaged the drawing–room for us—all to
ourselves. Beefy and her sister had commandeered the dining–room. This
heavenly prospect was damped by a terrible cloud.
‘Cheer up, John Brown,’ said Beefy.
‘That’s all jolly fine, Beefy. You’ve let me down, and if I get chucked
out, it’s all your fault.’
‘You’re a ruddy pessimist. The old colonel is a sport. He’ll be tickled
to death. Of course, he will probably have you up, make a hellifa
fuss, &c.; but when you go out he’ll burst with laughter. You have got
no humour, you silly ass. And you forget that the old chap used to
do things at Sandhurst. Hang it all! it’s only a rag; and if there’s
trouble, John, I’ll own up. I’m not a sneak.’
‘Fall in for lecture,’ shouted the C.S.M. ‘And, I say,’ he added.
‘What, sergeant–major?’
‘Is John Brown here?’
‘Yes.’
‘You’re for orderly–room after the lecture. Make your will out. You’re
going to be hanged, drawn, and quartered.’
‘Right–o!’ I answered, making the best of a bad job.
II.
We then marched away to the lecture–hall to hear the adjutant on his
favourite topic—’Customs of the Service.’ He was not a bad lecturer,
and quite funny at times. We called him ‘Blasé Percy.’ He had been at
Mons, the Marne, and Ypres. Half his nose was off; he had a glass eye,
a dummy hand, a silver plate in his tummy, and a game leg. Poor chap!
no wonder he was _blasé_. For all that, he was a sport, and had the
Legion of Honour.
‘Now, gentlemen,’ he said, ‘when you’ve finished wiping your feet on
the tables, I’ll start. You’ve got to go through it, so don’t go to
sleep. My lecture is “The Customs of the Service.” When you leave
here you will have commissions. And when you join your regiments, try
to do “the correct thing.” Don’t lurch into your new battalion like
an actor–manager looking for trouble. Slide in quietly, just like a
little dawg. If you’re not humble by nature, look as humble as you
can. When reporting to the adjutant, don’t have a woodbine between
your lips and your hands in your pockets. He will eat you alive. When
I was a sub. I saved myself an awful lot of trouble by cutting the
English Dictionary down to two words—“Yes, sir.” If you’re not brainy,
that’s quite a good scheme. The adjutant will mark you down as decent
and harmless, and the men won’t know. Of course, this beastly war has
upset our easy old system. You’ve got to be intelligent to please the
newspapers. It’s a bit of a bore, but the best people are trying to do
it, and it’s good to be in the fashion. At the same time, it isn’t the
correct thing to argue the point with majors and colonels. They are
big–bugs in the military scheme, and should an old gentleman announce
in the anteroom that Macedonia is in Texas, or that Florrie Forde is
the wife of President Wilson, don’t call him a liar. You will make him
unhappy, and when he gets you on parade, he’ll most likely twist your
tail. Use your brains, certainly; but don’t advertise them—that’s bad
form.
‘A man is judged by little things, and it is very easy to discover a
man’s temperament and schooling. For example, in one battalion to
which I was attached, a gorgeous youth barged in and presented his card
to the adjutant as if he were a commercial traveller. Mark you, he was
only joining his battalion that day; but the adjutant was amused to
read the following:
+---------------------------------------+
| _LIEUT. TED TIDDLEWINKS, Esq.,_ |
| _1st Batt. Bombing Buffs._ |
| |
| Tel. address: Red Villa, |
| “Hustle.” Tooting. |
+---------------------------------------+
‘Now, that visiting–card was all right for “The Bing Boys,” but it was
no good for an officer of His Majesty’s Service. I agree it wouldn’t
prevent our going on with the war. And I am glad to say it was no
indication of the real ability of dear old Ted, as he turned out to be.
But officers are officers. We control the actions of millions of men,
and it’s not at all a bad thing to make the British Army a school for
etiquette and good manners. Ted, I may tell you, was an advertising
agent in civil life. He simply couldn’t help getting that card printed.
From his telegraphic address you will observe he was a hustler, and we
can do with lots of men like him. However, the adjutant handed him over
to me, and I got him to dump his one thousand gold–edged, red–lettered
visiting–cards into the ashpit, and gave him a bit of pasteboard like
this:
+----------------------------+
| _MR TED TIDDLEWINKS,_ |
| _1st Batt. Bombing Buffs._ |
+----------------------------+
‘Thus was he shorn of all his gilt, his Esq., his Red Villa, Tooting,
tel. address, and all the fripperies of Suburbia. No officer requires
a brass band or a newspaper poster to announce his commission or
importance. The uniform is good enough, and it’s a mighty good
kit, too. Ted was such a good fellow, so willing, so generous, and
afterwards so brave that we adopted him as a regimental mascot. He’s
now a captain, a D.S.O. And what do you think that devil Ted is going
to do next week?’
‘What, sir?’ I asked.
‘He’s going to marry my sister.’
‘Hear, hear!’
‘My sister, I may tell you, is a jolly good–looking gel—so is Ted
good–looking—and when she asked my benediction, I wired: “God bless
you, Red Villa and all.”
‘Another point. Don’t start attempting to tip adjutants and colonels.
You may be very rich, and imagine that if you send me a gold cigar–case
studded with diamonds I shall pass you out for your commission.
Personally, I should have no hesitation in court–martialling a man who
did so. I recall a youth named Solomon M’Isaaks, who blew in from the
Argentine. Out there he had to deal with grafters and twisters. To
get business he had to give palm–oil by the gallon. He was not at all
a desirable fellow. He wanted short cuts to success, and didn’t like
the daily grind of orderly officer, drill, marching, &c. Somehow or
other he suddenly conceived the idea that by patronage he might buy a
colonelcy or a brigadier’s job. So he started to throw fivers about
like hot peas, and ended up by sending a cheque to a brigade major.
That finished him. He was booted out. If there is one thing we ought
to be proud of, it is that the British Army has not the graft of South
America. Merit counts, although I’m just afraid a sneak soft–soaps his
way occasionally by acting the part of Uriah Heap.
‘I may also tell you there are hundreds of little things you have
got to know. For example, when the commanding officer enters the
anteroom every officer must promptly rise to attention—as a mark of
respect. Colonels do not insist on this from mere vanity. It is really
discipline, and as all of you may be colonels some day, you will
realise the benefit of the system. Another custom is, when you meet
the C.O., the major, or the adjutant in the morning, salute smartly,
and say, “Good–morning, sir.” If the C.O. had occasion the day before
to reprimand you for some error, make a point of saying a cheerful
“Good–morning,” and he will _then_ know that you are no petty–minded
individual.
‘Remember your table manners. For dinner assemble in the anteroom five
minutes before the time. Allow the C.O. and seniors to lead the way to
the table, and take your seats quietly. Don’t eat with your knife; and
when you finish a course, put your knife and fork together. When a mess
servant sees a new officer leave his knife and fork sprawling all over
the plate he says nothing—but he thinks a lot. He really believes the
delinquent is not a gentleman. And it is most important that officers
should convey to all ranks that they have a knowledge of the courtesies
which are the hall–mark of all well–trained people.
‘Of course, you may say, “What has all this got to do with winning the
war?” My reply is, it is _the whole scheme_. For example, the German
officer is quite a brave man, but he is not a gentleman. His manners to
the German soldiers are the manners of a brute. He never uses “please,”
seldom “thanks;” while Faith, Hope, and Charity are absent from his
curriculum. His whole life is based on brute–power, the penal code,
and—_orders_. What a difference from the British Army! Our discipline
is the firmest, yet the kindest, in the world, simply because cadets
and _all_ officers have had their noses shoved on the grindstone by
sergeant–majors, lecturers, and seniors, who insist that if you fail in
your duty, and neglect to cultivate the love and the friendship of your
men, then you are absolutely no use to the British Army.
‘Again, when you want to leave the mess table before the mess president
does so, you must go and ask his permission. On a guest–night you must
not leave the room, except on a point of duty; and you should remain
with the guests of the evening till they go.
‘Here are a few more hints in brief, which I call the Subaltern’s Ten
Commandments.
‘(1) Thou shalt drink soda–water.
‘(2) Thou shalt not wear pink socks or yellow shoes, or carry Mills
grenades on leave with the pin half–out.
‘(3) Thou shalt not address generals as “Dear old Charlie.”
‘(4) Thou shalt not kiss V.A.D.’s—_in public_.
‘(5) Thou shalt aspire to the V.C.—if thou cannot become an R.T.O.
‘(6) Thou shalt smile, even when thy calf has “stopped one.”
‘(7) Thou shalt permit the men to sing, dance, and be merry, for on the
morrow they may die.
‘(8) Thou shalt covet the Kaiser’s blood, his ox, and his ass, and
everything that is the Kaiser’s.
‘(9) Thou shalt be chivalrous.
‘(10) Honour thy King and serve thy Motherland, that thy labours may
gain unto thee three pips and a D.S.O.
‘I think that is all just now, gentlemen,’ concluded the adjutant.
‘Fall out, please.’
III.
At other times this most excellent lecture would have cheered me
up, but the coming ordeal made me tremble, and I shuffled to the
orderly–room with a heavy, heavy heart. I wasn’t worrying so much about
what the ‘Old Man’ was going to say; it was the thought of my leave’s
being ruthlessly cancelled that made me sick of life. Adela—alone in
the drawing–room—waiting for me. To be denied that hour of crowded life
seemed like cutting the legs off a race–horse.
As I passed the orderly–room I saw the commandant had a fierce and
livery look, for it was a raw, wet morning.
‘Quick march—right wheel—left wheel—halt!—Hands back!—John Brown, sir,’
announced the sergeant–major.
The ‘com.’ looked up. His eyes were sparkling fire, his moustache
was like that of a walrus, his cheeks were puffed with wrath, and
his neck _was_ red. He struck terror into my soul, and I quaked like
a schoolboy. I didn’t know, of course, that this was the official
orderly–room manner, specially cultivated by ancient mandarins to
impress all tyros with the majesty of military law.
‘Well, young man,’ he blurted out, ‘I have seen your effusion. It’s all
right for _Comic Cuts_, but it’s a personal affront to me. Do you think
the army and the war a cock–eyed revue for flippant cadets to throw
their mocking tosh’——
‘Really, sir, I’m—I’m’——
‘Silence, d—— you! You, a future officer, get an examination–paper
given you, and you deliberately sit down and turn it into a music–hall
farce. It’s outrageous! It’s a scandal! You’re a disgrace! When I
commanded the Fuzzy–Wuzzy Camel Corps I would have shot an officer for
such an offence. Do you realise the enormity of your crime? It’s almost
treason. Under the Manual of Military Law I can do anything with you
for this. And if I were the C.I.C. I might order you to be strung up by
the thumbs. What do you mean, sah? What the devil do you mean, sah?’ he
concluded, stabbing the blotting–paper with a pen and making it break
into a thousand fragments.
It was impressive—awe–inspiring! I felt like a worm between two stones.
I am five feet ten inches, but at the moment I seemed no higher than a
grease–spot.
‘Please, sir, I’——
‘“Please” be d——! Speak like a soldier.’
‘I did two papers, sir—the correct one and this one. Unfortunately this
silly one was sent up. I did it for my own amusement. I’m most awfully
sorry, sir.’
‘You’re most _awfully_ sorry, are you? Where is the proper paper,
then?’ he roared.
‘Here, sir,’ I said, handing it over.
His eye quickly scanned it over. ‘Humph! saves your bacon, my lad. I
was preparing to heave you out, bag and baggage. However, you’re a
youngster. I’ve got boys of my own. I’ll give you a chance. Come again
and you’ll be shot! Now, are you due for leave to–day?’
‘I hope you won’t stop it, sir. I’ve an important engagement with a
tailor about my uniform.’
‘Did you say a tailor or—a lady?’ he inquired, looking deep into my
eyes.
‘A—lady, sir.’
‘Well, I have no desire that an innocent person should suffer for your
misdeeds. You can have your leave. But never come here again—John
Brown.’
‘Thank you, sir.’
I was marched out. As the orderly–room closed I heard the ‘Old Man’
burst into laughter, and say to the adjutant, ‘By Jove! we put the wind
up that young bounder.’
‘_Yes, sir_,’ replied the adjutant.