THE NEW ARMY OFFICER.
‘The New Army Officer is the finest production of the twentieth
century,’ said Captain Cheerall at one of his lectures. ‘He is as
fascinating as, frequently, he is irritating, for he is no lover of
conventions. His success is staggering, particularly to the Germans,
and his bravery is the talk of the world. I, of the Old Army, salute
the New Crusader; but I am sorry to say a few ancient mandarins don’t.
We have to destroy this prejudice, or else remove all those who fail to
encourage the bright young men who have led our platoons, companies,
and regiments to victory.
‘The New Officer is an Edison and a Trojan.
‘While I am proud of that glorious Old Army which I saw bleeding at
Mons and expiring at Ypres, I do feel we must cease to talk of the old
and concentrate on the new. The New Army is fighting to–day, and it is
most discouraging to our latest cavalier to remind him continually of
his temporary rank and temporary job.
‘That word “temporary” ought to be silenced for ever.
‘The New Officer has proved that leadership is no monopoly, and that
warfare is not difficult to master. He has exploded the theory that it
takes twenty years to make a colonel, and forty to make a general. He
has shocked our drill–sergeants, and surprised our Napoleons by his
ruthless destruction of shams and his nimble seizure of facts. He is
the daring, dashing, dauntless Brigadier Gerard.
‘He is an optimist, and therefore successful.
‘If the New Officer owes a great deal to his predecessor, his
predecessor must also acknowledge his debt. The sincerity, the
enthusiasm, the intelligence, and the business ability of the new
man have been priceless assets in this war. What _would_ this Empire
have done without the splendid fellow who chucked his wealth and
his pleasures into the dust–heap, and came to us for a job? He was
irrepressible! If his chest was small, he bribed men to slip him
through. If his heart was diseased, it suddenly became cured. If
varicose veins were in his legs, he had them cut out. If he was forty
or fifty, he became twenty or thirty. And if he hadn’t experience, he
always said, “I’ll d—— soon learn.”
‘He was a blood–thirsty crusader.
‘Now, when he joined we were mournful. We looked at him and sighed.
“The correct thing,” somehow or other, wasn’t in his keeping. He was
inclined to call the colonel “Alf” and the sergeant–major “Bill.” He
didn’t know! And, oh dear—his word of command! It was so respectable—so
tame! He seemed to apologise to the troops for his presence—yea, his
very existence. Yet he was a sticker. He was cursed from dawn till
sunset. In those early days he was occasionally insulted and abused.
There was a war on, and we regarded him as shell–fodder, and not as
human. Let us apologise now. We were worried. The Old Army was dying.
The Huns were knocking at the gates, and we, with our old conservative
ideas, regarded him as a forlorn hope, and sometimes as “a wash–out.”
‘How wrong, how terribly unjust, we were!
‘But he always said, “Yes, sir.” He always smiled. His trust was
embarrassing, and his docility staggering. To us, his masters, jailers,
and martinets, he yielded a homage which made us feel like gods. His
very willingness made us misjudge him and think him a fool. “No guts”
was a term frequently on our lips. We, with the vanity of the old
and tried, could not see that he was of our blood, our faith, our
schooling, our patriotism, and our pride. Of these virtues we imagined
we had the monopoly. What insolence! What fools we were!
‘But we were worried about the war.
‘In those anxious, awful days we had no rifles, no uniforms, no
equipment to spare; no brass bands, no flashing swords or coloured
fripperies of rank and standing. Yet this amazing youth was undaunted.
He shoved dummy guns into the hands of his platoon, made trenches with
fire–shovels and trowels, used _living_ brigadiers for targets, and
gave the command, “At the enemy—at four hundred—fire!” The brigadiers
woke up and—smiled. The imagination of the New Officer was helpful.
He could talk, for he was educated. And he pictured German armies on
the move, German hordes at the double, and to meet them roused his
civvy–clad platoon to the heights of devilry and daring, then charged
with his little bamboo cane—to glory.
‘By Gad! he always won.
‘Even then we doubted him. We somehow felt he wouldn’t “pan out.” Most
excellent for the Boys’ Brigade, or the like; but for a war—well, we
should see! At last the uniforms came, the rifles too; but somebody
forgot the ammunition. He said, “Oh, that’s the bally War Office again.
Let’s carry on with these dummy clips.” Standing, lying, kneeling, and
sitting, he taught the wonders of rapid fire, and how to make a “group”
on the square head of the pimple–dotted Boche. Jules Verne wasn’t in
it! His men made bull’s–eyes on the colonel’s tummy, and riddled the
nether regions of the twenty–stone quartermaster.
‘Then we called him a ruddy swanker.
‘For all that, he went on. The fellow was clean mad to “get out.” We
said, “Yes, when we’ve put you through the mill.” And we did! We froze
him on the ranges; soaked him on parade; tore his feet on the route
march; and almost broke the valves of his heart charging mountains, and
doubling for miles in heavy marching order. But he stuck it, and when
he came in, stood us a drink, and said, “D—— it all, do send us to the
Front, sir!”
‘We commenced to think he wasn’t bad.
‘And then he started to think and to do things, for he felt his feet on
firmer ground. Red tape he damned. For example, he got fed up ending
his letters: “I have the honour to be, sir, your obedient servant,
WILLIAM WINKIE.” And he introduced this reform: “Yours truly, W.
WINKIE.”
‘We were shocked, of course. The other had been done since the time
of Moses. This was a most atrocious outrage against the all–holy
conventions. An explanation was immediately demanded—in writing. He
replied: “I’m a business man, and there’s a war on.”
‘The old brigadier expired with apoplexy.
‘His brevity was startling. Instead of replying, “I beg to acknowledge
receipt of yours,” &c., he simply stated, “Received, noted, and filed.”
‘But he did a more startling thing. He actually dethroned the pen
and brought the typewriter into the company office. He also enlisted
his shorthand clerk, and purchased a small card–index system, with
which he created a little bureau, labelled: “Accounts,” “Equipment,”
“Correspondence.”
‘This had never been done by the best people, for we always thought it
very bad form to make the army business–like. If our fathers had sold
shirts, beer, or bacon, we never mentioned it. And we had always been
most careful to hide away the prompt, precise, methodical methods of
our wealthy parents. We worshipped “form” and hated facts. But this
fellow day after day continued, quietly but effectively, to cut out
all the appalling bluff and nonsense of centuries. We didn’t like
this—at first. Indeed, the ancient adjutant, trained in the methods of
Wellington and the Duke of Cambridge, took seriously ill, and—retired.
‘The C.O. turned in despair to the New Officer.
‘“I’ll take it on, sir,” he said, “but I must have an absolutely free
hand.”
‘“Why?”
‘“Well, I’m a business man.”
‘He was so persuasive about his methods that he was permitted to
get his foot inside the orderly–room door. Then he shoved his whole
personality into it. With a sweep of his pen he returned all the
elderly red–tape clerks to duty. In came his shorthand clerks,
typewriter, card–index, and books on “system.” There was a bonfire
of ancient rubbish, and the erection of neat shelves, methodically
arranged and labelled: “Training,” “Finance,” “Correspondence,”
“Records,” “Blunders,” “Results.”
‘The C.O. was astonished at the peace, smoothness, and efficiency. He
was also amused when the new adjutant suggested that he (the C.O.)
might dictate all his letters to the shorthand clerk. “Saves time, sir,
and will let you get out to see what is going on.” The Old Man had a
shot at this. He discovered that he need only spend half–an–hour on
correspondence instead of _three hours_.
‘Result: he was always on parade, and _training improved_.
‘Secretly we admired all this, but some of us got jealous. We grew
petty, and showed it in our memos. But he called us up, and said, “Look
here, Tom, Dick, and Harry, I’m not here for my health. I’m here for
business. If you don’t like my methods, you had better move to another
battalion.”
‘And the old C.O. backed him up.
‘At last we voiced our true thoughts, and said, “The New Man is an
organiser. He can do things. And he does save us a tremendous lot of
trouble with the paymaster, the Command, and the War Office.” Having
paid this homage, we started to go to him for advice on administration.
He gave us heaps.
‘But we still wondered how he would “pan out” in the field.
‘Next, we went out. The New Man was told to entrain the battalion at
the station, where a train would be in waiting. When he got there he
discovered the R.T.O. had forgotten—the luggage–vans. He asked no
questions, but collared two vans on the siding, had them hitched on to
the train, loaded up, shoved the troops in, reported “All correct,”
and we started to move.
‘“What the devil do you mean taking those vans?” roared the annoyed
R.T.O.
‘“You go and learn your business, sonny. I’m a railway manager.
Good–bye.”
‘We lay back and simply roared with laughter.
‘Crossing the Channel, we of the old school were just a bit worried.
We had grown to like the new fellow an awful lot. He was so willing,
so decent, so obliging, and so keen. Still, we did think he was not
quite the type. His business abilities were admirable. But what about
leadership?
‘This problem had yet to be solved.
‘However, we plugged into the trenches, and he started on his new
job. He was “jumpy” a little, and felt at sea. But he was a sticker.
Above all, he was cheerful. He kept the men happy—fought like a devil
with the quartermaster about his company’s rations, saw to the rum,
stole wood for his men’s fires, robbed the A.S.C. of coal and coke,
made braziers out of biscuit–boxes, and organised concerts under heavy
bombardments. He wasn’t afraid to grouse, but he never bucked at a job.
‘We did feel immensely grateful.
‘Next, the great offensive. What a day! The barrage of the enemy
was sheer murder; but he leaped over the bags like a fine British
gentleman, and kept his eye on the OBJECTIVE. The C.O. was killed, the
major was killed, company commanders were wounded, and the New Man
found he was alone.
‘_His hour had come._
‘Some weak fool shouted, “Retire!” but the New Man clapped a revolver
to the demoralised man’s ear and said, “Go on.” He went! The weaker
were impressed; the brave were thrilled. Old Army sergeants vowed
he was “the goods,” and loyally backed him up. And on through hell,
through death, and a blood–soaked shambles went the New Crusader with
his battalion. The objective was reached, but we had only three hundred
men instead of a thousand. There were no bombs, little ammunition, no
water, no rations, and the men were _absolutely done_. All round were
the bursting shells, the spluttering maxims, the choking gas, and the
agonies of war. His flanks were in the air, but he extended his thin
line, sent back the runners, dug in, and opened fire.
‘On came the Germans.
‘But the God of all men was on his side. Providence protects the brave.
His fame had trickled down the line, and anxious generals vowed he
_would_ be supported. Company after company was slaughtered in the
attempt. Then up came the Guards—the flower of British chivalry. The
Old Crusaders were determined that the New would not be surrounded,
jabbed, and crucified. Through that cruel barrage they tramped as if on
parade.
‘And while they were advancing, the New Man, though weary, wounded,
and blood–stained, was fighting a dauntless battle. Three hundred
men had dropped to two hundred. His flanks were burst. He was almost
surrounded. The bayonets of Potsdam were glittering at his breast, but
he cried, “Fight on—fight on! No damn surrender to these Huns!”
‘“Ay, ay, sir,” responded his glorious men.
‘Just as the mad finale was reached, when the fate of the New Man and
his heroic battalion seemed sealed, a cheer burst on the air, and the
Guards broke through. The Old and the New joined hands, then fought the
Hun with cold steel till he squealed like a pig and—RAN.
‘Four Guardsmen carried the New Man down the line.
‘And then the world—and the Old Army—woke up. The chivalry of ages
was in the New Cavalier. His battered and bleeding form was carried
through a guard of honour to the place where the sick are healed.
Women sent him flowers; old generals paid him homage; and, like a true
Britisher, he inquired, “What’s all the fuss about? It wasn’t I—it was
the MEN.”
‘But the King gave him the Victoria Cross.
‘The Guards presented arms.
‘The Old Army cheered.
‘And the world said, “Well done!”
‘I salute the New Army Officer,’ concluded Captain Cheerall.
The school jumped to its feet and almost went mad with cheering.
_Why don’t we have more lectures like that?_