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!