MOBILISATION.
_When_ Spud arrived at Bogmoor Camp he found the regiment in an excited
but jovial mood. They were going to war. War, to militiamen, meant
bounties, blood, and loot. Though these men were, in many ways, the
scrapings of humanity, they had those rugged, almost brutal qualities
essential in war. Like bulldogs, they could bite, and once having
nibbled an enemy, they could hang on till the end. Of course the
regiment was not up to war strength in officers or men. That deficiency,
however, was being attended to. Hundreds of men had been already wired
for. These were known as the Militia Reserve, or "The Royal Standbacks,"
to quote the barrack-room wags. All day they came trooping in; some from
the open road, others from the Model, a few quite recently from the
jail. They all looked like villains in their muddy rags, but once in
khaki, many had the appearance of real good Guardsmen. Naturally, there
were many reunions, and these had to be sealed in beer. The canteen
quickly became a Tower of Babel, wreathed in thick tobacco smoke, and
permeated with the nauseating breath of the merry Falstaffs, who
incessantly called for the proverbial pint. Discipline was not exacted
on this, the first day. It was useless to expect it; the officers knew
the calibre of their men.
While the men were thus celebrating the "Great Day," and discussing how
they would dispose of Kaiser Bill, the officers were also arriving from
many corners of the land. Some came post-haste from the grouse moors;
others had hurried from Piccadilly; a few had been dug out of ruined
castles, where they represented a poor but splendid nobility. Of course
there were new hands. These gentlemen came from the O.T.C., in official
language, The Officers' Training Corps. This is an organisation devised
by a great War Minister to create heroes out of Carnegie's pet children
at our universities. In theory, a perfect system: in practice, at times
disappointing. There being no compulsion, the more robust students had
shunned the Corps, leaving its ranks open to a few keen, and a greater
number of the health culture species, who recognised that a
drill-sergeant might improve their chest measurement and digestion.
Still it was a scheme acquired in the Lager-laden garrisons of Germany,
and we Britishers, perforce, had accepted it as the hall-mark of German
military efficiency. However, Second Lieutenants Briefs, Coals, and
Grain were detached to this Militia regiment and duly arrived. Briefs,
who was studying for the law, arrived in a greatcoat, with an umbrella
above his military accoutrements to keep off the rain. As this umbrella
trick was the particular prerogative of the late Duke of Cambridge,
Briefs was immediately arrested by his brother subalterns for being
"Improperly dressed," and forced to pay drinks all round. Drinks all
round are very expensive in His Majesty's Service. He never erred again.
Second Lieutenant Coals was vomited out of one of his father's pits. He
was as black as the devil's waistcoat, and as big as a bullock. He
didn't know much about form fours, but he could kill a pit pony with a
punch and chuck a man over his head. "A useful man," the colonel
whispered to the adjutant, and then in a louder tone remarked, "Put Mr
Coals in No. 3 Company." This company, by the way, had its records in
the poaching and wife-beating annals of every Parish Council. Coals was
therefore in a sphere where his hulking personality would be useful.
Second Lieutenant Grain had the smell of horses about him. He was
studying for medicine, but he knew more about his father's Clydesdales.
Indeed, when he arrived, his boots had the scent of the stable, and his
coat a few stray wisps of straw sticking around. A rough but likely
looking chap. The colonel saw this, and after looking him up and down
remarked, "You'll be transport officer. Here are some warrants--go out
anywhere, everywhere, for two days. Commandeer 107 horses, and mind--no
crocks."
"Very good, sir," replied Grain, disappearing with the transport
sergeant. He returned two days later with 107 thoroughbred hunters,
Clydesdales, and roadsters. The colonel gasped when he saw them on the
square, and promptly stood the subaltern a drink.
"Useful man, that Grain," he said to the adjutant that night. "The
O.T.C. has been kind to us, if they've been unkind to other regiments.
Get him gazetted lieutenant."
This was one instance of the work of mobilisation. And mobilisation, I
can assure you, is enough to send men to the grave. Think of gathering
1200 men, then fitting them out for war. Trousers came from Pimlico,
buttons from Birmingham, thread from Timbuctoo, jackets from the
sewing-rooms of the Hebrews, while rifles came in instalments from
Woolwich, Stirling, Ashanti, and Lahore. Shovels were found in the
ironmongers next the barracks; shirts were collared in the nearest
emporium; plates, basins, knives, forks, and spoons were found in the
fish and chip bazaars of the town. "Buy locally," was the order from the
C.O.O.--(the Chief Ordnance Officer)--a very important personage, whose
duty is to supply everything, from siege guns to bed pans. Imagine the
worry! The Quartermaster took heart disease and died; the
Quartermaster-Sergeant got drunk and was reduced, and so the work
devolved upon a faithful corporal and a few intelligent aides. But the
work went on, for Colonel Corkleg was a soldier. He might easily have
given Napoleon points in organisation for war.
Accommodation was also difficult. No more tents could be had. Twenty men
were therefore crammed into these little canvas homes. To avoid a plague
and prevent bloodshed, the colonel ordered all men to place their socks
outside the tents. If you know the Militia you will understand. But even
tents have their limits. The newer arrivals had to be billeted in the
homes of the citizens near by. These Weary Willies lolled in their
feather beds like princes. It was a hustling time. The colonel cursed
from reveille till tattoo. Still, in seven days he had the job done, and
wired to the War Office--"Ready."
Back came the reply, "Proceed at once to Mudtown, for Coast Defence."
"Coast Defence!" muttered the old colonel, purple with rage. "Coast
Defence!...!...?..."
His after-remarks cannot be printed, for he was a true soldier. He
wanted to see Red Blood--not the billets of a seaside town. He could
handle his men in a battle like a boy playing "bools," but billets, he
knew, meant worry, trouble, and crime. Still, orders were orders, and he
at once obeyed. In three hours the regiment stood in marching order, and
to the tune of "Hielan' Laddie" blithely marched to the train. It was
followed by thousands--wives, sweethearts, mothers, and friends. There
were tears, cheers, and jeers.
"Here's a scone, Jimmy, keep up yer heirt," said an old budie, throwing
a tartan-coloured scone to her son.
"Hie, you!" shouted a woman in a shawl to a roguish-looking private with
an amorous leer in his eye.
"Me!" he answered mockingly.
"Ay, you--ye hinnae paid for yer wean--ye low rascal. But I'll pit the
polis on ye--ye'll no diddle me."
"Yer haverin'; awa' an' waash yer een;" and on marched the careless
prodigal to the train.
"Haw, look at oor Jock--he's the only man in step," yelled the admirer
of Jock Broon, a fifteen-stone corporal, whose belt was too small and
tied with string.
"Is that oor Tam?" queried a half-blind woman, as a rakish-looking youth
went by.
"He's thin enough for a pull through," interjected a friend of Tam's.
"An' there's Puddin' Johnson--he's awfu' like a barrel."
"I weesh I wis a barrel--I'm awfu' dry," answered the man concerned.
Behind this valiant stepped Lance-Corporal Spud Tamson, his chest puffed
out like a bantam and his calves well stuffed with cotton wool. He was
an important person, for he marched in the supernumerary rank. Dignity
was part of his job. Still, he had time to wink at the lassies as he
went by. Close to the station he sighted his fond parent somewhat elated
with the thoughts of war, and aided by the cheapest gin. He would show
him something.
"Left--right--left--March by the right," yelled Spud, as his section
struggled and rolled up to the waiting train.
"Guid, Spud! Guid! You've the bluid o' the Tamsons. Man, I'm prood o'
ye." Spud winked and passed on.
After the halt was given, entraining commenced. Now, it is a rule in the
service that when a regiment entrains every door and every bar of the
station has to be guarded to prevent the rush for liquid refreshments.
Colonel Corkleg had duly provided for this, and smiled grimly as he
quickly entrained his men. Nearly all had been settled in their
carriages when he was startled by a queer sound from the other side of
the line. He went to the end of the train and looked across. "Well, I'm
d----," he muttered. This is what had happened. As quickly as the bold
Militiamen had been ushered into their compartments, the more daring
quietly opened the doors on the other side of the train, jumped down on
to the rails and clambering on to the platform rushed the refreshment
bar. The colonel saw hundreds struggling and fighting for "a gill and a
pint" round three demented waitresses. It was an awkward moment, but
Colonel Corkleg had experienced many in his life. For such moments he
had one really trusty man. This was Sergeant Bludgeon, the
provost-sergeant, an ex-champion wrestler and hammer-thrower. He had
muscles like boxing-gloves, and he never struck a man without
dislocating his framework. His stick was the most powerful thing in the
regiment. It had quelled many mutinies. Thus was it called in again.
Sergeant Bludgeon knew what was in the colonel's brain, for he stood
twitching his murderous-looking stick in anticipation of orders.
"Sergeant Bludgeon--clear 'em out," the colonel ordered.
Bludgeon was across the line in a flash. Like a cyclone he fell on to
the stragglers in rear. Half pushing and pitching, he dumped a dozen
back on to the rails, then with a superhuman jerk he burst into the bar.
His great stick whirled in the air and fell with a terrific clash on to
the marble slab. There was a fearful clattering of pots, glasses, and
money, as the startled men jumped back; next came a click of heels as
Bludgeon thundered, "'Shun." Every man stood as still and erect as Roman
sentinels.
"About turn." They whipped round like men of the Guards.
"Double march," finally roared the provost-sergeant as they scampered
out of the bar. In three minutes every man was back in the train.
"All correct, sir," said Sergeant Bludgeon grimly, a few minutes later,
to the colonel, who had quietly observed the scene.
"Any casualties?" queried the colonel with a grin, as he looked at the
sergeant's stick.
"None, sir,--this time."
"Thank you, sergeant," concluded the colonel, ordering the train to go.
As it slipped out amidst the deafening cheers, he turned and remarked to
the adjutant--
"Useful man, that!--useful man!"
"Yes, sir," replied the adjutant.
The journey to Mudtown was a long one--sufficiently long to allow some
of the inebriates time to soak into their bodies a few "hauf mutchkins"
and some bottles of Bass. This refreshment, with the heat and roll of
the train, quickly let loose the lung-power of the crowd. They sang,
danced, and yelled with a devilish delight, and at times threatened
disaster to every window and every N.C.O. in the carriages. Poor Spud
Tamson shivered in his corner. He was in charge of eight tough-looking
pirates, who knew neither fear nor pain. Fortunately they regarded
Spud's stripe as a necessary evil, and eventually left him alone. And so
pandemonium reigned till Mudtown came in sight. The fame of the Glesca
Mileeshy had travelled before them. There was no civic welcome. The
Provost had locked his chain and robes of office up in his safe; while
his nervous citizens sat fearfully in their little suburban homes. In
every manse the minister prayed for guidance in the coming trials; while
every mother gathered her daughters round and told them that, on no
account, must they go out at nights. They became still more alarmed when
the news trickled round that the regiment was to be billeted in church
halls, picture houses, and other public buildings near. It was
monstrous, they argued. How dare the War Office do such a thing? They
would protest. Poor ignorant souls, they did not know their danger. They
never realised the perils of invasion; nor the fact that they had in
their midst the toughest and finest bunch of fighters in the British
Army. Drunkards and devils, may be, but soldiers to a man. Meantime, the
tradesmen of Mudtown beamed with delight. They had no use or time for
the men as men, but they were delighted with the prospect of a boom in
trade. And, of course, the publicans were careful to hoist the Union
Jack above their barrels, and put out the sign, "All Soldiers Welcome
Here."
A bugle-call in Mudtown Station was the signal to get out of the train.
The men rolled, jumped, and staggered down. The more merry chorused--
"I'm fu' the noo, I'm absolutely fu',
But I adore the country I was born in.
My name is Jock M'Craw,
But I dinnae care a straw,
For I've something in the bottle for the mornin'."
"Silence," roared the mountainous Sergeant-Major Fireworks. His voice
made the station tremble, and the men gave a perceptible shiver as they
fell into the ranks. Sergeant-Majors are wonderful men.
"Form fours--right," ordered the colonel, and into the town stepped the
famous corps of Militiamen. They staggered bravely on till the halt was
given in a sort of square. There the billeting officer met them, and
issued the accommodation orders. The regiment then divided to the
various halls and billets in the town. Spud Tamson found himself and his
company in an old church, and, strange to say, he was allotted the
pulpit as his doss. This was hardly in keeping with his theology, but
such is the fortune of war. Another company was shoved into an old
picture house, the platform of which was promptly captured as a
rendezvous for card-playing and clog dancing. Barns, stables, and old
manor-houses accommodated the remaining companies. Flower gardens were
immediately converted into cook-houses; wash-houses became
colour-sergeants' parlours, and old closets were cornered as the special
quarters of such important people as the cooks and pioneers. A disused
backyard with a tarpaulin over was transformed into the quartermaster's
stores. This quickly became a centre of curiosity. Citizens were much
interested and amused to observe ration parties coming out from this
place, their loaves of bread in somewhat doubtful blankets, and great
chunks of juicy red beef in their horny hands. Hunger, however, is "good
sauce, while plain feeding means high thinking,"--so the philosophers
say. Colonel Corkleg sometimes disagreed about the high thinking. In
fact, he believed that the issue of one pound of beef per man was
designed to give soldiers a primitive lust for blood.
It is easy to imagine the difficulties of training, organising, and
disciplining a battalion in billets. It is like trying to make
alligators out of snakes. Men get into all sorts of corners when they
ought to be on parade. Visitors are also a nuisance. Maiden ladies will
insist on entering to read the New Testament while the men are careering
round in their somewhat spare night attire. Deputations frequently
arrive with shortbread and liquid refreshments for their pals just as
the colonel is making his inspection. And the night-birds find the
windows a convenient exit into the darkness where they may pursue the
antics of the owl. Can you wonder, then, that the officers felt
depressed? Still, difficulties are made to be conquered, and Colonel
Corkleg determined to conquer them. Sergeant-Major Fireworks and
Sergeant Bludgeon would see to that.
Meantime the regiment, like the civil population of the country, was
most excited about the German advance. Belgium was to be invaded, Paris
taken, next London, and then--Mudtown. So there was really a chance of
seeing service in their own native land. That was a solace to the
bloodthirsty warriors. During many of these discussions in the billets
some wag incidentally remarked that Mudtown was crammed full of German
waiters.
"Germans! Whaur?" queried the patriotic Spud.
"In a' the hotels," replied the informer, Micky Cameron by name.
"They're spies," declared Spud, who had read all the penny horribles in
his days.
"Ay, 'yin o' them gied me a pint, an' asked me hoo mony men were in the
regiment."
"I tell't ye," declared our heroic lance-corporal, who then declared his
intention of leading an attack on the German waiters.
"A'm wi' ye," declared Micky Cameron.
"An' me."
"An' me."
"An' me," shouted many others all over the room. That settled the
attack, and made Lance-Corporal Spud Tamson conjure up visions of fame
and promotion by his daring night raids on the hotels. A conference was
next called to discuss details.
"Should we shoot them?" asked Micky.
"Na, that'll mak' owre much noise," interjected Spud.
"I've an awfu' guid razor," remarked Beefy M'Lean, as he thumbed a
murderous-looking blade. Other methods were suggested, such as
pole-axing, hanging, and tying them up in barbed wire. But the cautious
spirit, engendered by Tamson's stripe, ruled all these murderous designs
out of order.
"Let's mak' them a' prisoners an' march them to the colonel." This was
finally agreed to, and the party sallied out to tackle the first
hotel--namely, The Grand, where twenty waiters were employed.
"Whaur are ye gaun?" a sentry asked.
"Active Service," chirped Micky Cameron, giving him a wink.
On arriving at the hotel they tackled the back door. A patriotic
kitchen-maid told them that the waiters were upstairs in their bedrooms.
"But there's wan," she remarked, pointing to a portly Teuton carrying a
salver into the dining-room.
"Charge!" ordered Tamson. The wild, murderous crew tore like Dervishes
through the hall. Poor Otto von Onions was so startled that he dropped
his dish of choice grilled steak. Then, realising his danger, he lifted
a carving-knife and edged towards the stairs. Kismet was with him.
Tamson's army halted to pick up and sample the steaks. This was a golden
chance for Otto. He turned and dashed up the stairs.
"Come on, lads," ordered Spud. His men followed with the half-chewed
steaks sticking out of their mouths. Up the stairs they panted and
yelled, alarming all the guests into a state of hysterics. Old ladies
shrieked in terror, while the younger women swooned away on the various
landings. At last Otto von Onions was brought to bay. Spud's army found
him, knife in hand, at his bedroom door.
"Stops, or I vill kill yous all. I am a naturalusized ceetezan."
"A what?" queried Micky.
"A Breeteesh subjects. I haf Scotteesh wifes and cheeldrens."
"Oh, you've more than wan wife, eh?" asked Spud.
"No! No! One wifes."
"You're a spy," roared Micky, advancing under the cover of a broom.
"I keel you! I keel you!" shrieked the foreigner.
"Awa' an' kill yer granny," roared the intrepid Militiaman, striking him
with the broom and wresting the knife right out of his hand.
"No keel me--no keel me--kind shentlemans. I give you
moneys--wheesky--ceegars."
"Noo, you're talkin'," said Spud. "Oot wi' it." From his trunk the
terrified Teuton disgorged his gold, his fine Havannas, and a bottle of
Special Scotch. This loot was quickly collared and lodged in various
pockets.
"An' noo tell me whaur these ither Germans stay?" asked Tamson.
"Away! They mobilised. Gone Shermanys."
"When?"
"To-nights. Ten train. They Shermans. I, Breeteesh subjects," he
declared again.
"All right, old cock, we'll let you off," concluded the valiant
lance-corporal, looking at the clock, which had just turned 9.30 _P.M._
Turning to his men, he said, "Look here, boys, we've time tae capture
them deevils. Come on--aff tae the station." And down the stairs they
walloped like a lot of schoolboys. The terrified visitors gave a sigh of
relief as they went out through the great hall door, while poor Otto von
Onions sat down and cried.
"This way, lads," yelled Spud, as they thundered into the Mudtown
Station. There they saw a mongrel gang of heavily-built Germans waiting
for the train. A Consular official with a ponderous umbrella was in
charge. He had them marshalled in a rough sort of group. Some had still
their tail-coats on, others had napkins round their necks, while a few
showed their bare heels over the tops of their shoes. A villainous
crowd; more ready to use the stiletto than their fists. All were eagerly
discussing the great Day, and how long it would take them to invade our
country, when they were startled by the terrific yell of Spud Tamson's
men.
Charge! was the order of the day. In a second a peaceful station was
turned into a bear garden. Kicks, shrieks, and yells rent the air. Human
beings rocked to and fro, and tumbled over the luggage littered over the
platform.
"I protest, in the name of the Kaiser," said the Consular gent with the
umbrella.
"Tak' that, in the name o' the King," said Spud, delivering a terrific
punch on the German's bulbous nose. Blood burst all over his ponderous
paunch, but he was game, and pluckily tackled Spud with his umbrella.
One whack over his enemy's head smashed the whole framework.
"Made in Germany," yelled Spud, giving him one full on the waist-line.
He staggered and fell into a writhing mass of Germans and Militiamen.
Micky Cameron was seen furiously belting a stout little German, with one
hand; with the other he was rapidly relieving him of his watch, money,
and trinkets, including a few silver napkin rings which the waiter had
"borrowed" as a present for the Kaiser. Beefy Duncan found a fiendish
delight in flattening the nose of Adolph Squarehead, the late boots of
The Grand; while they nobly strived to tap blood and gather as much loot
as possible in the struggle. It was a titanic conflict. Blood, skin, and
hair were flying like snowflakes. Faces resembled lumps of beefsteak
instead of respectable features. And although the Militia were
outnumbered, they struggled bravely on. At last there was a cry of
"Surrender." The Germans shrieked for mercy, while the stationmaster
vainly implored for peace. An armistice was granted, during which the
enemy gathered up their false teeth, collars, and other displaced
apparel.
"Fall in now," ordered Lance-Corporal Tamson, as he wiped his bleeding
nose.
"Quick march," and out of the station marched the escort with their
captures. Hundreds had gathered and followed the convoy along. Spud
headed straight for the Officers' Mess. There was no halt on arriving at
the door. He marched them into the anteroom, where Colonel Corkleg and
his officers were enjoying an evening smoke. All were startled at the
sight of the twenty bleeding and battered Germans as well as the
rowdy-looking escort. Before they had recovered, the whole lot was in
the room, and Spud Tamson standing to attention at their head.
"What the devil do you mean, corporal?" roared the colonel.
"Twenty prisoners, sir. They're a' spies. We captured them at the
station."
"In the name of the Kaiser, I protest----"
"Haud yer tongue--I'm speakin'," said the corporal to the Consular
gentleman. But the colonel had realised that this assault on these
Germans was a breach of the Convention. It was awkward, and although he
had no love for the enemy he knew that International law permitted their
being mobilised and shipped to their country. The colonel felt an inward
pride as he surveyed the bleeding captures, but he had to assume the
mask of duty. Turning to the adjutant he said, "Place this corporal and
all of our men in the guardroom; I will see them to-morrow." Turning to
the Germans, the colonel remarked in his best official tone, "I'm sorry,
gentlemen, that you should have been assaulted. It is all through the
ignorance of my men, as you see----"
"In the name of the Kaiser, I pro----"
"Very well," interjected the colonel, "you may lodge that protest when
we arrive in Berlin. Now, you may go," he said, pointing to the door.
Gladly they tripped to the station. Another train conveyed these
battered Teutons to the Port of Hull, where they found a steamer for
Lagerland.
Of course there was a Court of Inquiry, the result of which was a
Regimental Court-Martial for Spud and his pals. Diplomatic reasons
demanded punishment, and Colonel Corkleg had to comply.
That day was a memorable one in the annals of this corps, for inside the
Reading Room the bandaged Militiamen stood before their judges. After a
pile of evidence had been read and the usual formalities finished,
Colonel Corkleg asked, "Do you all plead guilty?"
"Yes, sir," was the firm response.
"Well, Lance-Corporal Tamson, I sentence you to be reduced, and fourteen
days' field imprisonment with hard labour. The remainder are sentenced
to seven days' field imprisonment."
"March them out, sergeant-major," ordered the adjutant. Without a
tremble, they turned about and tramped from the room.
"Useful man, that Tamson," the colonel remarked, with a twinkle in his
eye.
"Yes, sir," replied the adjutant, who, by the way, was a perfect
military machine, knowing everything from the strength of a regiment to
the number of grain seeds per diem allowed to a transport horse.