ANNUAL TRAINING.
_The_ annual training of the Glesca Mileeshy was an event of importance.
It cleared the Models and allowed the local policemen an opportunity for
holidays. To the gallant Militiamen the training meant six weeks' pay, a
bounty, his shirts, and a pair of boots. The shirts and boots were
important items, for many arrived shirtless and almost bootless. As the
average Militiaman had no permanent place of abode, he was summoned to
camp by a proclamation in big type, which was pasted on the kirk,
police, and public-house doors. This notice was hardly necessary. The
men enjoyed the training, and were always pleased when the date came
round. They journeyed to their headquarters in various ways. Some
cheerfully hoofed it; others rode in their tinker's carts; but the
majority went by train. When they arrived in Blacktoon, they found a
hearty welcome prepared by the local publicans. Tons of bread and cheese
were cut and ready; fresh barrels turned on; and hauf mutchkins piled up
behind the counter ready for the fray. There was a wild rush for these
bars, and above the din nought could be heard but the clamouring for "a
gill and a pint."
"Hello, M'Greegor, whaur hae ye been a' this time?"
"In Barlinnie."
"Whut fur?"
"Takin' the len' o' anither chap's watch. But what hae ye been daein'
yersel', Wull?"
"The same auld job."
"Naethin'?"
"Na, I'm in the umbrella trade, ye ken, an' the wife's on the road wi'
me. She sells laces, an' mooches the grub. Man, it's the best thing I
ever did, when I got mairret. There's naething like a wife tae work for
ye, lad."
This is a sample of the greetings exchanged over the foaming ale. When
all had sufficient, and were more or less groggy about the legs, they
sallied out into the streets _en route_ for the barracks. Of course the
town was prepared. The Chief Constable had a "Guard of Honour" right to
the barracks gate, while the Parish Minister had quietly lectured the
old maids and young maids to be indoors on that occasion. The more timid
shopkeepers "baured the windows and door," but all the bairns turned out
to see the fun. Up the streets they leisurely ambled, some mumbling on
the way--
"Soon we'll be married
Never more to part,
For little Annie Rooney
She is my sweetheart."
Others warbled--
"I'm fu' the noo, I'm absolutely fu',
But I adore the country I was born in.
My name is Jock M'Craw,
An' I dinnae care a straw,
For I've something in the bottle for the mornin'."
But the majority sang--
"We're soldiers of the King, my lads,
Who've been, my lads, who've seen, my lads,
The fights for Britain's Glory, lads,
When we've had to show them what we mean;
And when they ask us how it's done,
We proudly point to every one--
Yes, we proudly point to every one
Of Britain's soldiers of the King."
And in this stirring tune all eventually joined, formed into a rough
formation, and tramped nobly through the barracks gate and on to the
square. Colonel Corkleg's eyes moistened with emotion as he saw them
come in. If they were rough dogs, he knew them to be faithful, and he
lived for the day when he would lead them into action once more. They
were immediately formed into companies, given out their kits, and told
to change--but not in the barracks rooms. Oh no, that was never
permitted, for the plain reason "that their own clothes could 'walk.'"
They changed in the open, which necessitated the drawing of the blinds
in the married quarters.
All were thankful to discard their unsanitary rags, and feel the comfort
of good shirts, uniforms, and boots. The better suits of clothing were
packed away, but many of the more tattered and torn had to be destroyed.
This outfitting occupied most of the day. At 5 _P.M._ the bugle sounded
"Fall in." The parade, of course, was unsteady, nearly every man being
fu'. But when old Colonel Corkleg yelled, "Glesca Mileeshy--'Shun,"
there was a lull and a steadiness which displayed the soldier born.
"All present, sir," reported the adjutant.
"Form fours--right--by the left--quick march." Off they stepped to "The
Cock o' the North," played by the pipers, and followed by "Stop your
ticklin', Jock," drummed out by the band. As they marched through the
gates, there was a rousing cheer from the ladies in shawls, who quickly
spotted their particular "lovers." These women yelled out a parting
jest, and the glib reminder, "Send me a quid oot o' yer bounty."
"Mebbe," was the reply of all, for Militiamen are absent-minded beggars.
Discipline works wonders. By the time the regiment had reached Bogmoor
Camp all were thoroughly sober and obedient. Strange to relate, they
found themselves camped side by side with the Perth Mileeshy, a
notorious body, recruited from the marmalade and jute-making town of
Dundee. These regiments were deadly rivals, and the reason was not far
to seek. In the Grand Manoeuvres held ten years previous to the camp
mentioned, the Perth Mileeshy had mutinied and robbed the Glesca
Mileeshy canteen. This terrible breach of courtesy was never forgotten,
and anger was always stirred when both corps were deep in their cups.
The trouble commenced again on this, the first night in camp. And all
through an old Glesca hand, who remembered that the Perth Mileeshy had
broken the square in the Soudan Campaign. This daring gent stalked into
the Perthshire's canteen.
"What d'ye waant?" asked the waiter, somewhat surlily.
"Ceevility first, and then a pint o' broken squares."
"Chuck him oot! Chuck him oot," shouted a dozen enraged Perthshire
hands.
"Gie's that pint," said the Glesca man quite coolly, and after his first
mouthful he turned to the "enemy" and remarked, "You couldna chuck your
denner oot." This was a challenge quickly accepted. In a flash he was
seized and surrounded. But his shouts brought a rallying crowd of the
Glesca Mileeshy, and then the battle commenced. Skin, hair, and blood
went flying. Men hooched, punched, cursed, and yelled. Burly tramps and
burglars laid out their terrific blows on the heads and faces of the
puny "Dundee Jam Sodgers," as they were called. In ten minutes the once
peaceful canteen resembled a shambles. Tables were destroyed, and the
stores of bread, cheese, cigarettes, and beer stolen or scattered
around. The fight, originally confined to a hundred men, eventually
developed into a tussle between eight hundred. Discipline for the moment
was useless. Officers and Non-Coms. were simply swept aside, and though
Colonel Corkleg had a scowl on his face, he had a smile in his
heart--his men were winning, and he hated the Perth Mileeshy like
poison. Nevertheless matters looked black, and something had to be done.
This was Spud Tamson's opportunity for fame and lance-corporal. Rushing
up to the colonel he saluted and said, "Wull I turn the hose pipe on
them, sur?"
"Good idea, my lad. Yes, put it on, full steam ahead."
Spud rushed to the water-stand, fixed up the hose, then running it out
he let go. Swish went the cold battering fluid into the angry,
struggling mob. Militiamen hate water as much as they do soap. And
Spud's terrible shower-bath was too much. They broke and fled, the water
and blood trickling down their faces and clothes and damping the stolen
goods in their pockets. Just as they dispersed the "Fall in" sounded.
All doubled on parade, where the roll was called, and the seething
excited mass reduced to silence and order.
"Parade--'Shun," yelled Colonel Corkleg. They sprang up like the Guards'
Brigade.
"Every man will empty his pockets of the stolen goods. Then the
companies will march in succession off parade."
There was a titter and then a chuckle as the sergeants went round and
ordered the looters to lay out their wares on the ground in front. Tins
of paste, blacking, polish, cheese, cakes, cigars, cigarettes,
buttonhooks, lemonade, &c., were quickly disgorged. When finished each
company marched off. When the last one had left the ground the old
colonel quietly chuckled as he looked along the sixteen lines of stolen
goods.
"D---- rascals, but d---- good soldiers," he muttered. Then, turning to
the sergeant-major, he ordered him to return the wares to the
much-battered canteen of the Perth Mileeshy.
Next day in the regimental order there appeared: "Promotions--Private
Spud Tamson, promoted Lance-Corporal for meritorious conduct."