OFFICERS AND BILLETS.
_If_ the officers of His Majesty's Service have a wonderful innings in
the piping times of peace, they have a very rough outing in the time of
war. It is not all beer and skittles, for, in addition to facing death,
they have to pay for the privilege of doing the same. The sword and
revolver with which they kill the Huns is purchased out of their
pockets. The few shillings per diem which they receive will not even pay
for their food and drinks. This system has many disadvantages for the
poor but keen soldier. It has practically denied thousands the right to
make the Army a profession, and has turned many educated N.C.O.'s out
into the world to become somewhat fierce antagonists of a system largely
founded on privilege and caste. But things are improving. And, in
passing, it is only fair to observe that the men produced by the old
system were really of the ruling caste--leaders and fighters, and
gentlemen with very few exceptions. It is true they purchased text-books
and never read them, yet it is equally true that, in war, they have
seldom failed, and have even managed to outdo such skilful tacticians
and strategists as the Germans. The Militia, of course, was never so
efficient as the Regular Army. That could not be expected. The officers
were mainly men of means who had served in the Regular Army; others were
county gentlemen with a passion for rank and arms; some the well-to-do
sons of ambitious business men; while the more junior officers were
cadets of poor but good families, who used the Militia as a back door to
the Army. And in this time of war the vacancies were largely filled by
the wonderful children of the O.T.C. An occasional ranker with a
corpulent quartermaster gave such a gathering a democratic leavening,
which did no harm. This, then, was the sort of stuff which composed the
regiment under review. All had fighting instincts, and every man
believed that it was "the thing to do." They felt it a pleasure to
serve, and deemed it an honour to die. There was no vulgar bragging
about what they would do with the Germans. Indeed, they had chivalry
enough to accord the Germans admiration for their work. War was no
picnic to them. If they had slacked it in the past, they bucked into
their job with a thoroughness which did them credit. In brief, they
represented a few of the willing thousands who have always been eager to
die for the Britain which, unfortunately, left them and their men in the
lurch when saddled with poverty and old age. A materialist has termed
such men the "Fools of Imperialism." Thank God, materialists are in the
minority. Such "fools" have secured to us a mighty heritage. Men of this
breed have stuck to the flag in the freezing Antarctic and in the
sun-baked East. We know little of them, and in the times of peace care
less. Yet when the drums of war are rolling hard, we turn and yell for
their arms and aid. How brutally selfish; how horribly weird! Let us
hope the war will teach us to honour and care for such men, when these
awful days are past.
Now let us review these gentlemen and their billet. First, there was old
Colonel Corkleg. He was a tough old dog, with a red nose and cork stump,
the relic of a grim struggle with Dervishes. He could neck the best part
of a bottle of Scotch at a sitting, yet, next morning, he would be found
in his cold tub before parade. Spick and span as a dandy, erect as a
Guardsman, as strict as Wellington, yet every inch a gentleman. The men
loved him because he gave them a square deal. And he knew his job. True,
he could curse like Marlborough's men in Flanders, but you cannot drill
Militiamen without a wide vocabulary of oaths. The more original the
better. To these heroic scallywags, it was the hall-mark of soldierly
efficiency. But Colonel Corkleg could do more than curse. He could drill
and manoeuvre his men "on the top of a barrel," as the old
sergeant-major used to say. When he shouted "'Shun" they shivered; when
he roared out "double" they ran like hares. And he was not afraid. Men
loved to tell of how he had killed a dozen niggers in a skirmish, and
captured a cannibal king with only a smile and a walking-stick. You will
therefore realise that Colonel Corkleg was a good fellow; you will also
understand how every man felt confidence in his leadership. Confidence
in a colonel, let me tell you, is worth everything in a fight.
The second in command was "The Dandy Major," a rollicking squire who
owned broad acres and big cellars. A bit of a Beau Brummell, too. He was
measured for his socks, pyjamas, and ties. There was a touch about his
waist-line which suggested the "Nut," and a look in his eye which was
deadly. The subalterns said that he had kissed everything human, from a
Geisha girl to an Eskimo. He had done everything from killing a tiger to
sticking a Hun, and had crowned his career with the capture of a famous
beauty of the land.
Major Tartan was the junior major. He was chief of a clan possessing
numerous castles and miles of heather. He looked a ghillie, and was very
proud of his calves. These never required the Sassenach stuffing of
cotton wool. And in his bedroom he hung a painted scroll of his lineage.
That was his weakness. He could recite his descent from Macdonald
M'Tartan, who ran away with the wife of Dugald M'Phail, once chief of
the thieves on Benmore. He loved the kilt and he lived in it. It greatly
distressed him to think that his regiment had the awful trews. But this
owner of Highland homes and grouse moors hadn't a bean to call his own.
Everything was mortgaged, even his kilt, and that was a sore strait for
a true Highland gentleman. So he lived in a cottage on the shore of a
lonely loch. There he read the 'Spectator,' drank Scotch, and cursed the
Government, as every Tory is expected to do. Yet he was as proud as
Caesar. He was content to accept the little dole left when his lawyers
paid the interests on his heavily mortgaged bonds. He was glad of this
war. It gave him something to do. And he had the dour, grim, hacking
qualities which always distinguish the Highland soldier. If he was as
surly as a Highland bull, he was also as kind as a little child. His
last shilling had often gone into the beer-pot of a scheming Militiaman.
Militiamen, I can assure you, are like Chinamen--as deep as the seas and
as canny as the snakes. They can squeeze blood out of a stone, and so
this kind old major was frequently their prey.
The most interesting senior captain was Captain Coronet. A splendid
fellow, but annoyingly clean. He washed himself six times per day. His
shirts were spotless, and his clothes were aided by corsets. Captain
Coronet had the waist-line of a lady, and the smooth creamed complexion
of a girl. His features were regularly massaged, and he always prided
himself on his pinky-coloured nails. Through the ages his family had
fought like devils for God and Duty. Their tombs could be found in
Flanders, Egypt, and burning Hindostan. Naturally he was rich. Tons of
gold lay to hand, and he lavishly sent it round. An awfully good fellow,
as an Oxford grad. would say. Soldiering was his game. He cursed the
passing of the Feudal System and the rise of commerce. Killing was the
family job. Leading was his special prerogative. Naturally he scorned
the man in trade, and only had time for men of his caste. Haughty as a
Prussian to all who would ape his own, yet as generous as a monk to the
poor beggars in the ranks. He loved good deeds, and did them without
offence. When he gave a thousand guineas he did not inform the Press. A
civilian would sum him up as a snob; a soldier would call him a man, and
would follow him to the gates of death. True, Captain Coronet had the
little faults of his kind, but these were mainly affected and
superficial--simply a pose, which hid a real white man. When you scratch
the skin of such a type you will find a courage and grit which simply
staggers. If you know the Army you will understand. He was called the
chocolate soldier for many a day, till once a man was drowning in a
tidal river before the eyes of the whole regiment. No one ventured to
the rescue except Coronet. He plunged in, rescued his man after a
thrilling struggle, and calmly brought him up to the bank. All he ever
said about it was that "it was beastly wet."
Another interesting gent was Captain Hardup. He was a professional
Militiaman, and therefore a mystery. His pedigree was uncertain; his
schooling vague; while his cheques were frequently marked "overdrawn."
But he had the necessary qualifications to keep up appearances--that is
to say, he had a knickerbocker suit, a club address, and a mess kit,
which, by the way, had the appearance of having passed through the hands
of grenadiers, fusiliers, light infantry, and other branches of the
service. In the times of peace he collared a living, for about four and
a half months of the year, by training with various militia corps. For
this he received a captain's pay, which was supplemented by his winnings
at bridge and an occasional cheque for taking a richer fellow's turn of
duty. The county men tolerated him, regarding him as a necessary evil,
and, at times, a useful friend. What Captain Hardup did when the Militia
"broke down" was wrapped in a cloud. Some said he canvassed for
insurance; others averred that he travelled for beer; while a few
suggested that he ran baby incubators at country fairs. Nevertheless,
Hardup was a man of experience. He knew his job, and could even tell
when a Militiaman had no feet in his socks. To Colonel Corkleg he was
invaluable, for he could twist a company outside in.
The subalterns, of course, were equally interesting; they always are.
These youthful officers are the life of a regiment. Invariably they are
splendid sportsmen. To the outside world they present a haughty air,
which generally merits for them the title of snobs. But this is an
unfair characterisation. The air of supreme importance which they adopt
is really the result of old army training, which compels an officer to
hide his virtues and his failings under a mask of chilling hauteur.
Scrape that, and you will always find a generous heart and a kindly
soul. It is in the mess that you realise this. There, they are all big
bouncing boys, full of innocent fun and youthful candour. To them a
spade is a spade. If a brother officer is really a prig and abuses his
men, these youths will take it out of his skin. A broken bed and a
broken head is the penalty of unpopularity. Tar and feathers is the
punishment of the cad. Drinks all round is usually the verdict when a
subaltern forgets his manners and commits a smaller sin. The mess is the
school for courage, honour, and truth. In the British officers' anteroom
you will find the foundations of that splendid chivalry which has given
us fame. Isolated cases to the contrary usually mean that the colonel is
an idiot, and the adjutant a fool. But these are rare, and when found
the War Office has a blunt style of treatment. A German officer has
shown us, in the pages of 'Life in a Garrison Town,' how things are in
the Army of the Kaiser. You will not find these things in the Army of
our King. This statement can also be applied to the Militia and
Territorials.
And this was the type in Colonel Corkleg's corps. Jim Longlegs, the
senior sub, was cox of the Cambridge boat. His nose had been flattened
while learning the noble art of self-defence. He could tear a pack of
cards with his hands, and crack an iron bar over his knee. He was
clean-limbed and alert, good at a spree, and if he did like a
whisky-and-soda, he could drink it as Luther did, in the manner of a
gentleman.
Cocky Dan was an impish sprite from a public school. He was five feet of
delightful impudence and daring. His nose was always stuck in the Maxim
gun. This tricky machine was his hobby and his job. When he rode
alongside of it on his piebald charger he resembled a beaming boy scout
with the all-round cords. Cocky Dan was a name that suited him. And then
there was Willie Winkie, the sausage merchant's son, who tried so hard
to be a gentleman. He would have been a perfect gentleman if he hadn't
worried too much about 'Etiquette for Officers,' and that other social
handbook, 'Manners made Easy.' Billy Isaacs was hampered by his name.
Not that he was a Jew, but, as he said himself, one of his female
ancestors had got mixed up in a money-lending affair with a Hebrew, who
was financing her fads in silks, port, and rouge. To save the family
pewter and the old manorial brick bungalow, she married the man, and
thus hampered a decent fellow with a hooked proboscis and an ikey name.
Still, he was a devil at finance, and almost sent the colour-sergeant
insane when he balanced a halfpenny out in his pay-sheet. Then there was
Gerald Hay Du Patti Brown, who made the dickens of a row about some of
his people coming over with William the Conqueror. This carried him far
till Second Lieutenant Briefs discovered in the Doomsday Book that his
ancestor was a pioneer-sergeant in the army which landed at Hastings in
1066. Still, he was a good fellow, and always willing to stand a port
the day before the month's pay was due. Brown's boon companion was Giddy
Greens, a husky youth intimate with the musical comedy stars. He had
only a hundred a year, and was always dodging the Jews. His suits were
easily the best, for the reason that he changed his tailor monthly and
always burnt their bills. But there, one might rave for ever about the
subalterns of this famous corps.
Now, the billets in which they were lodged at Mudtown was hardly in
keeping with their tastes. It was a musty manor, with a touch of age and
a scent of dead cats. Dirt was rampant and barrenness profound. Where
the pictures once hung they found great holes, while through the windows
came sparrows, bats, and rain. The floor was rotten, indeed Colonel
Corkleg lost his artificial stump in a mouldy corner of his room. There
wasn't a bath. All had to wash themselves in biscuit tins, and wipe
their faces on a greasy roller towel. As to the kitchen, only a single
fire remained to cook soup, fish, entrees, and sweets. These had to be
served up on one old kitchen table.
"This is----" muttered the colonel.
"Yes, sir," replied the adjutant.
Still, it was war time, so things had to be devised. Tables were made
out of floor boarding and salmon boxes; beds were created out of
blankets, ancient and modern. These were sewn together in the form of
sleeping bags. Candles were used for illumination; while other
necessaries were begged, borrowed, or stolen from patrons and friends.
But all the worry or discomfort did not upset the usual cheerfulness of
the subs. Life to them was one continual round of joy. They danced till
their legs burst through the floors, and sang so loud that the senior
major vigorously protested. Guest-nights were occasionally held, when
fellow-officers in other corps arrived to sample their good things.
Tinned sardines, ration beef, Irish stew, slippery jellies, and musty
macaroni were served on the one plate, liquid refreshments were gladly
drunk out of bowls and collapsible mugs. After these sumptuous repasts
the senior sub, Jim Longlegs, put his juniors through the "Modulator."
This is a performance which the priggish youth hates like prussic acid,
but one much enjoyed by all true sportsmen. In the course of this
ceremony, a sub may be ordered to stand on his head, sing "Annie Laurie"
in that position, and afterwards endeavour to swallow a Scotch. A
somewhat ignoble performance to the uninitiated, but underneath all
these foolish pranks there is a deep reasoning, and that is the teaching
of youth a respect for authority and a prompt obedience to orders.
Anteroom court martials were also held in the billets of Mudtown. At
these tribunals all delinquents were bluntly catechised for their sins.
For instance, Cocky Dan was charged with "irregular conduct, unable to
control his horse, riding through a ham merchant's window and sitting in
a basket of rotten eggs." This conduct was deemed unbecoming to an
officer and a gentleman, so Cocky Dan received a formal sentence of
"drinks all round, and to sleep three nights without his pyjamas." Being
winter, this sentence will be well understood. Du Patti Brown was also
arraigned on a charge of "unauthorised swank--blowing his horn about his
Norman pedigree, having a double-barrelled and plebian name, and
attempting to enter his name in Burke's Peerage." This was deemed a
fraud. His sentence was "a cold tub in full regimentals, and afterwards
drinking two quarts of ice-cold water." Billy Isaacs was charged with
"Jewish tendencies, in that he in the billets of Mudtown did order a
fatigue party from his company to search for the sum of one penny which
he had lost on parade." Sentence of death was passed, but this was
remitted on the understanding that Billy Isaacs would lend every
subaltern a "fiver" till next pay-day.
There _were_ nights when the wine was rich and merriment strong. On
these occasions the spirit of mischief and devilry became rampant. One
of these famous nights was the celebration of Captain Coronet's
receiving what he described as another "beastly legacy of fifty thousand
from an old aunt, who had cheated her heirs for ninety-five years." The
flowing bowl went round. Colonel Corkleg, with "The Dandy Major" and
Major Tartan, like true sportsmen, helped to consume a few quarts of
champagne vintage. Their red faces and beaming eyes told all that they
had reached that stage which demands, for a senior, immediate retirement
from the scene of action, so as not to prejudice good order and military
discipline. In the privacy of their rooms they supped more wine, damned
the Kaiser and the Radicals, and figured out their actual part in the
triumphal march through the Unter der Linden. Meantime, the gay young
bloods danced and hooched to their hearts' delight. Choruses, of course,
were popular, and many of those songs so dear to all of our public
schools echoed out into the still Mudtown night. And then the Tempter
came into Jim Longlegs' brain.
"Let's rag the captains," he whispered round.
"Right ho," all cried. Now this is a violation of the unwritten law. A
captain in the service is a little tin god. He must not be ragged by his
juniors. But the spirit of mischief abounded. Armed with mops, brooms,
hose pipes, and minus their caps and jackets, they rushed the captains'
rooms. Danger had been scented. As they entered the sacred sanctum they
were received with well-directed douches from buckets of water. This
soaked them to the skin, and for a moment checked the general advance.
"Charge!" ordered the senior sub. An order is an order, so they promptly
obeyed. There was a merry scrum. Jim Longlegs seized the nearest man and
promptly commenced to give this somewhat portly person a half-nelson and
a duck in a basin. Heavens! when he looked at his antagonist's face he
found it was that of Major Tartan, who had been visiting the captains'
rooms. He was nonplussed for a moment, for a major is like the prophet
Allah, one of the Holy of Holies. To even touch a hair of his head is
more irreligious than the tearing out of the precious eyes of a
Brahmin's god. But the major was a sport. The temporary astonishment of
the senior sub was used by him to the best advantage. With a great
effort he encircled Longlegs' waist, and heaved him with a terrible
crash to the floor. The lamp was smashed and the revellers found
themselves in darkness. This lessened the fear of the consequences. Beds
were lifted and crashed around. Basins were emptied out over the
blankets. Brooms smashed through the windows, while many of the captains
and subs had their shirts torn from their backs. And then the whistle
blew "Retire." The subs retired singing "Rule, Britannia," and yelling
"Glory, Glory, Halleujah,
Glory, Glory, Halleujah,
Glory, Glory, Halleujah,
We've wrecked the Captains' Home."
It was in the after-discussion of the night's escapade that Cocky Dan
dared Jim Longlegs to sneak into the C.O.'s room and collar the
colonel's cork leg, which always lay by the side of his bed.
"Done," said the senior sub before he realised his venture. But it had
to go on. His pluck was at stake. There was a tense silence as he crept
out of the room in his stocking soles. Quietly he opened the colonel's
door and slipped inside. The old gentleman lay on his bed asleep. Jim
crept forward and stealthily picked up the colonel's cork limb. He
smiled grimly as he turned towards the door. Cocky Dan would have to
yield him that fiver after all. But just as he touched the handle there
was a rustle on the bed and then a terrible roar--
"Damn you, Mr Longlegs--how dare you?...?...?" cursed the colonel, who
slept lightly, due to his years of living amongst the Dervishes and
Afridis.
"I'm--I'm--I'm sor----"
"Put that leg down--get out, you scamp. Report to me in the morning."
The senior sub placed the leg down again, in the most shamefaced manner.
He was sorry he had been caught. He had meant no disrespect, for the
colonel was a lovable old gentleman at heart. But he had violated a
sacred rule, and he guessed what the morning would bring forth. When he
arrived back in the subs' rooms his fellow-officers went pale with
terror and quickly scampered to bed.
"I think we ought to report this ragging business to the colonel," said
a supercilious senior to old Major Tartan next morning.
"What?"
"Report it to the colonel!"
"Don't be an ass," said old Tartan, stumping out of the room. He had
been a true subaltern in his day.
The colonel, however, ordered the adjutant to bring Mr Longlegs in.
"Well," commenced the old gentleman in his best official manner.
"I--I--I'm very sorry, sir."
"Should think you would be! Damned impertinence, sir. How dare you? How
dare you? Never heard of such a thing in my life. Good mind to cashier
you."
"Really, I'm very sorry----"
"Hold your tongue, sir."
Then he harangued him in the best style of Judge Hawkins for a quarter
of an hour, after which the senior sub felt like a little grease spot
instead of a man.
"Now you can go, sir; don't let it happen again--understand!"
"Yes, sir," said Longlegs, saluting and marching out.
As the door shut, the colonel, with a subdued twinkle in his eye,
remarked--"Useful man that, eh?"
"Yes, sir," replied the adjutant.