TRAINING FOR WAR.
_The_ soldier of to-day is a very different person to the one of fifty
years ago. In the past, all that was asked of a Tommy was clean buttons,
a padded chest, and handling of arms. To-day, the soldier is equal to
the officer of Wellington's time. His brain is a well-packed
encyclopedia on everything from minor tactics to sanitary duties in war.
In the past, he was a machine--a splendid machine; now he is an
individualist, one trained to use his science in such a way that he
feels that upon his conduct the fate of a battle depends. Many stripes
have been lost, and many hearts broken, in the achievement of this
necessary standard; but, thank Heaven, common-sense has come to stay. It
is now practically impossible for an officer to hide his inefficiency
under a mask of haughty reserve. Modern tactics demand that he shall
teach his men the alphabet of military affairs, as well as those
side-issues which count so much in the making of a soldier. Mental
superiority and physical efficiency are the only qualities which can
inspire loyalty, discipline, and confidence. Of course, the strain is
hard, especially upon an officer. Too hard, perhaps, when one thinks of
the niggardly pay and the chance of losing one's life in the tender and
more useful years. Nevertheless, it is mighty interesting and equally
amusing. Imagine a corps like the Glesca Mileeshy suddenly mobilised and
ordered to train and become fit within three months. Fortunately Colonel
Corkleg was a resourceful and a clever man. He commenced at the
bottom--that is, on the square. It is there that obedience and
discipline are developed and perfected. When a regiment can march and
drill like the Guards' Brigade, there is no fear for its conduct in the
sternest battle. This was the colonel's reasoning, and all agreed that
he was correct. Each company then went out to march and drill. Let us
study a sample. This was Captain Coronet's company. His colour-sergeant,
known as Fiery Dick, was a regular terror. This valiant was supported by
Sergeants Maloney, O'Dooley, M'Sappy, and Greegor. Very tough gents, I
assure you. If they lacked a knowledge of the three R's and perfection
in the King's English, they could bash their sections about in the most
vigorous style. The preliminary address of Fiery Dick was interesting.
"Look 'ere, you funny bundles of humanity, you've got to drill like
soldiers, not like fishermen. And when I says ''Shun,' I means ''Shun.'
None of your hankey-pankey tricks, such as wiping your wet noses on your
sleeve, or keeking round the corner for a smell of the canteen. Stand
erect, head still, eyes to your front, and puff out your chest. Keep
your thumbs in line with the seam of your trousers, not inside of the
next man's pocket. Remember, pickpocketing's not allowed in His
Majesty's Service. If you want a bob, I'll lend you one--and charge you
interest. Now--'Shun!" This evidently was not perfect. "Here, O'Riley,
don't squint at me like that. That's dumb insolence. Won't have it. None
of your moonlighter tricks here."
"To the divil wid ye," muttered O'Riley, who was a bit of a hard case.
"Take his name, Sergeant Maloney. I'll teach him not to talk back in the
ranks. Squad--'Shun!" There was now a stillness that pleased the
professional eye.
"Not bad for Militiamen. Now we'll try the slope. Look slippy! Chuck it
about. It won't bite you. And don't wobble your head like a looney in
the asylum. Squad--Slope. Macsausage, wait for the last word--you're too
slippy--expect you've been a bookie in civil life, always slipping the
cops. Stand still, Private Rednose. Squad--Slope--arms!" There was a
weird attempt at precision. Weird is the word, for Fiery Dick
immediately bellowed, "As you were." They tumbled back to the order
again. "You for soldiers--you're like a lot of monkeys gettin' up a
pole. But I'll teach you--Double march." Off they galloped round the
square, to the grim delight of Dick, who heaved his chest with martial
pride, and followed their antics with his eyes. "Double," he roared, as
they slacked a little. "Who told you to crawl like worms? Hi, M'Ginty,
you're rolling like a bloomin' old fishwife. O'Riley, I'll get a
stretcher for you, you lazy spud-eating Paddy."
"Ach, to H---- wid you," shouted back O'Riley.
"Halt!" roared Dick, aflame with military wrath. "What do you mean,
talking back to a Non-Commissioned Officer?"
"Yis couldn't drill my ould cat," leered O'Riley in a fearless way.
"What--you---- How dare----"
"Aisy, sargint, or, be jabers, you'll burst."
"Sergeant Maloney, march him to the clink. Skilly and cells will teach
him."
"Thank yis, sargint--I'll get a sleep in the clink," chirped O'Riley as
he was marched away.
"Double march," roared Dick to the remainder again. When he had almost
pumped the last breath out of their bodies he gave the halt,
then--"Stand at ease."
"Wipe your sweat off, and then we'll try the slope again." Gladly they
mopped their brows. When finished, the old sergeant ordered,
"Slope--arms." Every rifle went bang on to the shoulder with a precision
that was truly amazing.
"That's the way. You can do it when you like. Now, Present--arms." This
had its faults.
"Keep your stomachs in--it's corsets you want. And grip your guns. They
ain't dynamite. Just think it's a beer pot. No laughing, Muldoon, or
I'll clap you in with O'Riley."
"I couldn't help----"
"Silence! Who ever heard of talking in the ranks? Company--Slope--arms.
By the right--Quick march."
"By the right! By the right! Don't wobble like ducks in a mud-pond. Hold
your heads up--swing your arms--stick out your measly chests, and march.
Steady now! About--turn. One--two--three--four--Step out--you're not at
O'Riley's funeral yet. Right--form. Come round like one man. Keep back,
Tamson, it's not dinner-time yet."
"I weesh it wis," whispered Tamson.
"Squad--Halt! Stand at--ease," concluded Fiery Dick. "Now you section
commanders march off your sections. Slip it across them. If they look
sideways, double them till their wind-bags burst."
The sergeants gladly complied, for they were itching to emulate the
style of their worthy "Flag," as the colour-sergeant is known in the
Service. When sufficiently apart, the din commenced.
"Left--right--left--haud up yer heids--oot wi' yer chists--eyes aff the
grun, there's nae money there," piped Sergeant Greegor, the sprightly
commander of No. 1 section. His colleagues followed suit, much to the
amusement of Captain Coronet and his Subs (Lieutenants Greens and
Briefs), who quietly observed all from a corner of the drill-ground.
This section drill went on for a week. At the conclusion, the company
commander and his subalterns fell to and instructed them in company
drill. The methods of these gentlemen were of the polite order. Their
adjectives had not the strong flavour of Fiery Dick's. Indeed, their
treatment was much too ladylike in the opinion of the sergeants.
However, these trusty henchmen kept the scallywags in order. If they
stumbled, mumbled, or jumbled when on parade, a quiet dig with a boot
mended matters.
Having polished the eight companies into shape and order, Colonel
Corkleg and his adjutant decided on battalion drill. Battallion drill
under such a colonel was a treat. He was a martinet, and could drill a
regiment like a Guardsman.
"Battalion reported present, sir," announced the adjutant on the first
parade.
"Thank you," said the colonel, clearing his throat, and viewing a
thousand expectant souls.
"Battalion--what's all the moving now? When I say 'Battalion,' every man
should stand still and wait for the next word of command. Who's that
moving about on the right of Number Eight? Sergeant-Major."
"Yes, sir."
"Take the name of the fat, red-headed man--third from the right of
Number Eight. Give him marked drill. That will teach him."
"Battalion--'Shun. Slope--arms. By the right, quick--march." Any man who
quivered an eyelid or turned his eyes the eighth of an inch was promptly
collared and marked for drill. Up and down they went, neither looking to
the left nor to the right, as if in terror of their lives. The bailies
of a hundred towns, with all the men in blue, had tried to quell and
train this same material, but it had been left to Colonel Corkleg to
instil into them that orders were orders. Discipline--discipline, and
obedience, the holy watchword of His Majesty's men. From a sullen,
slovenly, careless gang of devil-may-care cut-throats and vagabonds, he
whacked them into a regiment of steady, proud, and sterling men. And he
did not hesitate to curse them. He knew his men. There was not a sense
of cruelty or spite in Colonel Corkleg's soul. He was a gentleman, but
he knew that these men were the victims of environment. In their dreary
crime-and drink-sodden homes they had learned to emulate the
law-breaker, to idolise the criminal, and applaud the football god.
Their philosophy was material--necessarily so: for poverty made them
steal; environment sent them out to seek the heat of the ale-house and
the shelter of the jail. Brutes, some people would call them. But they
had never seen these men dying on the sands of Egypt or on the plains of
Hindostan. Colonel Corkleg had. While he cursed them in his stern way,
that was simply because these men knew no other tongue. In his heart he
loved them as his own children. They had stuck to him in many a bloody
combat. He knew this same type would stick to him again. Yes, and the
men loved him, too. They were shrewd. A cruel world had given them a
keen perception. One look at a man and they knew him to be friend or
foe. Many a time old Corkleg had met them on the open road and stopped
his high-stepping mare to give them a lift and the price of their doss.
Often had Colonel Corkleg amazed his guests at his country-seat by
hauling a dirty old blackguard off the highway and introducing him as
"one of his boys."
Having steadied them up at drill, the regiment was then initiated into
the wonders of modern war. First came musketry. Musketry was never good
in the British Army till the War Office made a soldier shoot for his
pay. This truly brilliant thought made Thomas Atkins spot the bull as he
never did before. Those who hitherto spent their lives in tasting ale
realised that during musketry they had to study abstinence and do with a
pint a day--a great sacrifice on the part of such men. Next they
discovered the difference between the line of sight and the trajectory.
This kept them low--dead on at six o'clock. The ribbons on their caps,
or the fluttering flags on the range, gave all the tip of the wind;
while the wonders of the wind-gauge aided in getting the bullets into
the best billets every time. All of these theories were amply explained
by the N.C.O.'s, who had learned the latest crazes from "The madmen of
Hythe." Those queer professors of the art of shooting went to bed with
their rifles. They wallowed in cartridges, and prayed for new ideas to
get the British Army bulls. And to the horror of all thirsty privates
they invented green-and khaki-coloured targets at which the soldier had
to pop to qualify for his pay. Standing, kneeling, lying, and sitting,
the Tommy was expected to hit the khaki specks on the landscape. Rapid
fire was another theme, while grouping, and cones of fire, they argued,
were the theories to win a modern war. Very excellent, but, at first,
annoying to those who had been used to firing volleys and keeping their
cartridges still till they saw "the whites of the enemy's eyes." Yet, in
time, all realised that the madmen of Hythe were right, and so the
British Army has become the finest shooting force in the world.
Of course, the best-regulated systems are liable to fraud. Spud Tamson
proved that. While marking at the butts, under the officer of the day,
he found that a pencil pushed sharply through the target resembled the
puncture of a bullet. Now this was a great discovery. It meant salvation
to many of his pals who were third-class shots. It also indicated to
Tamson the road to a lucrative income by charging so much per head for
every bull that he secured by the aid of his pencil. Naturally there
were risks, but Tamson was willing to take them. To ensure success, he
squared his orderly sergeant to get him the job of permanent marker at
the butts. Having accomplished that, Spud intimated to many hopeless
aspirants for first-class shot that he could pull them through, and thus
secure them the threepence a day which is the reward for musketry
efficiency. He put dozens through his hands; indeed, he was so zealous
that not a third-class shot was found in many of the companies.
"This is really marvellous shooting, sir," said the A.A.G. to the G.O.C.
one day during this regiment's course. "Not a third-class shot, so far."
"Don't believe it. There's something wrong there," quickly observed the
general, who knew the rifle upside down. "I'll test this regiment
to-day," he concluded, putting on his cap and making for the range.
There he found a company doing great things at the game. Bull after bull
was going up to the delight of all, especially Colonel Corkleg, who was
proud of his men's achievement.
"Here, my lad," said the G.O.C. to a blind-looking man firing at a
target, "give me your rifle." Lying down, the general fired two shots.
"What's that?" he inquired casually.
"Two bulls, sir," answered the colonel.
"Bulls, eh?"
"Yes, sir."
"Very well--blow the cease fire."
This was sounded, and the general ran up to the butts. There he found
the zealous Tamson "pasting up."
"Show me the last two shots on number one target," ordered the general.
"Here they are, sir," replied the cool and resourceful rascal.
"Umph! Not much of a bullet went in there."
"Oh yes, sir, that's right enough. I saw them spit on."
"Well, lend me your pencil for a minute, my lad."
Out came Tamson's pencil, which he handed to the general.
"Now, look here, young man--I fired the last two shots at number one
target, but I fired them in the air. They went miles from
here--somewhere in the sky."
"It's gey funny, sir."
"Not so very funny, either," replied the G.O.C., "especially when I look
at your pencil. It's the exact circumference of a bullet, and a little
paste on each side shows that you have been sticking it through the
target."
"No' me, sir! No' me, sir!"
"Oh no--it was your pencil. Put him in the guardroom, colonel, and all
of your companies must fire over again with neutral officers in the
butts. Good-day." And off stamped the G.O.C. with a grim smile in his
eyes. He knew Tommy Atkins, and had caught many a regiment before. In
the next shooting many "marksmen" suddenly fell to the status of
third-class shots. Thus was a Bisley standard foiled. Tamson got seven
days' cells without the proverbial option. But he didn't mind. He was
thirty shillings to the good. Colonel Corkleg's opinion cannot be
printed.
Having performed the necessary musketry course, all hands were initiated
into skirmishing and the need of taking cover. Skirmishing, as you are
aware, was invented to dodge the unpleasant effects of "Black Marias,"
"Coal Boxes," and whizzing volleys of death in tabloid form. This new
formation gives all the sporting chance of getting through a war and
winning a medal and a wife. As for taking cover, that undignified game
has robbed war of much of its chivalry, compelling the most austere
martinet to hide behind a blade of grass. This sort of thing would not
have pleased the army of Wellington. Imagine the Iron Duke's Guards,
clad in the glories of red and gold, hiding in a mud-hole, or crawling
along a ditch, like a lot of boy scouts. These gentlemen would have
declared that the Army was going to the dogs. Speaking of dogs, the
soldier of to-day is very much of a dog. He is expected to scent,
crouch, crawl, and spring on his prey. The closer he gets to mother
earth the better his chance of getting a bite. Of course, such a
proceeding is very annoying to one with the girth of Falstaff or Bailie
Nicol Jarvie. And it was a very difficult matter to get these gallants
to understand the tricks of the weasel. The sudden flop on to mother
earth at first dislocated the internal bag of tricks. Crawling, too, was
bad for their tender knees. Nor did they realise that the effect of
posing with their nether regions like humps of khaki meant an unpleasant
wound. Think, then, of the difficulties. Imagine training one thousand
men into crawling monkeys. You can picture the scene. How weird! How
funny! But it had to be done. As the drill-book says, "You must see
without being seen, and take advantage of all cover." Thus did the
Glesca Mileeshy wriggle and crawl. Darwin would have been delighted. The
sight would have convinced him that man _did_ come from the crawling and
clambering apes of the forest.
A week of this business fitted them for a more interesting
stage--namely, "Artillery Formations," or, in other words, the tactical
disposition of men to avoid the effects of artillery fire. The modern
shrapnel shell has a forward throw of about 200 yards and a lateral
spread of 50 yards. This necessitates the breaking of a company into
four little groups. Two groups or sections are in the front line, about
50 yards apart; two in the rear line with about 200 yards between them
and the first line, and about 50 yards between sections. The four
sections then move forward in a sort of diamond formation. This really
prevents a gunner getting the correct range, and even if he does get a
hit he can only blot out one of the sections. The sporting chance of
life, you will observe, is there for all. Quite a cunning device of our
General Staff; presenting to every man the opportunity of glory and the
chance (sometimes meagre) of getting home to one's own fireside.
Artillery formation was at first a weird business to the old soldiers
accustomed to the straight business and marching with their whiskers in
line. The idea of manoeuvring in a lot of disordered groups distinctly
upset their precise barrack-square drill. It didn't look well, and that
seemed a weak point in the scheme. However, as the G.O.C. remarked,
"They would be glad of it when the Kaiser had his guns going at them."
But we must get on. Well, on reaching, say, seven hundred yards, all
were impressed with the need of urgently and rapidly extending to avoid
the rude effect of the enemy's rifle-fire. An enemy has little respect
for football-like crowds advancing to the attack. Their machine-guns
usually squirt out lead injections at a furious rate, with the most
startling results, hence the open order at the range indicated. It is
here, too, that the soldier must get behind a blade of grass or a jam
tin, anything likely to stop the bullet from putting him on the roll of
honour. From a vantage point, all are expected to create as many German
widows as they possibly can. Quite a murderous job, but delightfully
thrilling to the man who has the hereditary thirst for blood. In such a
phase, the third-class shot is of little account. The marksman, however,
has the time of his life. He can inoculate the brain or the little Mary
of his foe at will. Indeed, he can play nasty tricks with the angles of
the square-headed Teuton. If such is the case at seven and six hundred
yards, imagine the deadliness of matters at five, four, and lesser
ranges.
Mistakes will happen in field-firing practices, as officers know to
their sorrow. Many rifle-ranges are used as grazing grounds for cattle
and sheep. These quadrupeds, as you are aware, have very bad manners.
They persist in getting in front of the targets just as a company is
opening out a deadly volley. Officers under such circumstances are
always careful to cease fire and clear the offenders away. But on one
occasion at the Mudtown range the officers happened to be having a
little refreshment in the range-keeper's hut. During this interval a
flock of prize sheep happened to stroll along in front of the khaki
figures. Just then Sergeant Maloney bellowed out--"At the enemy in
front--at four hundred--rapid fire."
"Z--r--r--r--p," rattled the volley--not at the targets. The devil had
tempted the noble Militiamen to pot the sheep in front. Fifty fell,
others screamed and ran blindly about with bullets in their skin.
"Cease fire!" roared Sergeant Maloney, but too late! The damage had been
done. "What the ...?..."
Then the officers arrived. More ...? ...?...?...
Next the farmer, and still more ...? ...?...?...
Finally the colonel!...?...!...!...?...!
Sergeant Maloney was placed under arrest, and every man was marched back
to the guardroom. This little incident cost the small sum of two hundred
pounds. The officers gladly paid--for the honour of the regiment. But
the affair was chronicled deep in regimental memories, especially in the
canteen, where the culprits received a certain amount of hero-worship.
"It wis d---- guid," as Tamson often remarked.
Another interesting phase of modern training is scouting. Each battalion
has about twenty men trained for this job. The toughs of a battalion
make the best scouts. They will face anything, from a mad bull to a
German Division. Life to them is cheap. They glory in slitting an
enemy's throat and getting back with sound news. Naturally the training
of such gentlemen in peace times is troublesome. They _will_ get lost.
Any colonel will tell you that at manoeuvres he sees his scouts at the
beginning of an attack, seldom during or after the mimic battles,
especially in a district where inns and hospitable old ladies abound.
For example, in one great fight on the Hills of Mudtown, Colonel Corkleg
was determined to win the day. Information of the enemy's whereabouts
was, of course, absolutely essential for victory. For this he hailed his
worthy band of scouts. Spud Tamson was one. They were told to double out
a mile or so ahead and get in touch. As soon as they located the enemy,
all were instructed to retire at once with their reports. Gleefully they
marched away. Their intentions were good, but, alas! Colonel Corkleg was
opposed by a colonel of a Territorial Corps who had studied well the
temperament of the Militiamen against him. This alert Terrier instructed
his scout officer to bag the enemy's scouts at all costs, and see that
they were well treated.
"I understand, sir," replied his alert intelligence officer. This smart
young subaltern marched off his merry men towards the enemy. He did not
worry about using his glasses or sending his men ahead to crawl through
hedges and drain-pipes. No, he simply marched them to the village, which
lay in the centre of the manoeuvre area. There was only one inn. In that
hostelry he was sure to find the opposing Buffalo Bills.
"Steady," he cried, as they drew near. Creeping forward, he peered
through a corner of a window. Yes, there they were, sitting round a
table and enjoying four ale of an appetising kind. There was another
attraction--a buxom wench of eighteen, who had singled out Spud Tamson
as the object of her jests and affection. This bold young man was
leering into her eyes with a persistency akin to the style of Don Juan.
"Good!" muttered the subaltern as he crept back again to his waiting
men.
"Sergeant."
"Yes, sir," answered the subaltern's henchman.
"Here's five shillings. Take half the men and get inside there. Pay for
all they want and keep them merry. Whatever you do, see that they are
well entertained for two hours."
"Very good, sir," replied the non-com., boldly stepping towards the
door. The officer then crept away with the remaining scouts. In twenty
minutes he located Colonel Corkleg's Corps in quarter column behind a
hill, with only half a company thrown out as an observation post. The
colonel was waiting for his scouts before he set out to annihilate
"those bally amateurs," as he termed the Territorials. While he was
fretting, fuming, and cursing the overdue scouts, the gallant subaltern
was busily pedalling back on a borrowed bicycle with his report.
"Well," said the Territorial colonel, as his chief scout arrived.
"I've bagged all their scouts, sir, and we can decimate the whole
regiment."
"Good," said the C.O., avoiding unnecessary inquiries in anticipation of
future trouble with headquarters.
"You can double the regiment, sir, to within five hundred yards of the
enemy. One company might engage their observation post; the remainder
might make a detour with our Maxim guns and annihilate the regiment."
"Right--lead the way," ordered the colonel, signalling the advance.
Quickly they covered the ground. In half an hour they arrived at the
point to deploy. Leaving a company to engage the enemy in front, the
others circled round, then moved into long skirmishing lines. Down on
their knees they went, and up the hill all quietly crawled to bag the
Glesca Mileeshy.
"Where _are_ those scouts?" said Colonel Corkleg in a furious manner.
"_Can't_ understand, sir--most annoying," replied the adjutant.
"It's worse--it's _damned_ annoying," raved the colonel, looking at his
watch. "But we can't wait. We had better move out to----"
"Bang!" interjected a shot in his rear. Next there was a fierce volley
of blank on three sides of his position, while away to the front he
heard the volleys of his defending outposts. The startling onslaught
frightened his charger, which reared and flung him to mother earth. The
crack of the enemy's Maxims and the terrible crash of their musketry
threw the regiment, for the moment, into a state of panic and alarm.
"Good Lord!--they've trapped us," roared the angry colonel, as he was
helped to his feet.
"Yes, sir," replied the adjutant.
"Extend--extend," ordered the now alert veteran, in an endeavour to save
his regiment. Alas! he was too late. Like one man the whole seven
companies of Territorials fixed their bayonets and charged down on to
the surprised Militiamen. It was, indeed, a glorious victory--one which
startled the Brigadier, who happened to ride on to the scene.
"You've been scuppered, Corkleg," said the general, with a dry grin.
"Yes, sir," was the tart reply of the disconsolate C.O.
"Well--you're out of action. But why were you caught napping?"
"Waiting for my scouts, sir."
"Ah, Corkleg," interjected the Brigadier, "I thought you knew better.
Scouts are the only privileged absentees at this game. Have a look in
the nearest public-house," concluded the Brigadier as he rode away, well
pleased with the work of "those d---- amateurs," as Colonel Corkleg had
termed the enemy. By the way, this defeated colonel _did_ look for his
missing men. With his adjutant he rode towards the village. As they
neared the inn, sounds of revelry rent the air. A cracked piano was
playing "Tipperary," while many fuddled voices mumbled out the words of
this popular air. "Tipperary" was followed by a general shout of--
"Oh, we won't go home till morning,
We won't go home till morning,
We won't go home till mor-n-n-ing,
And so say all of us."
"'Shun!" roared the adjutant, as he led the way into the tap-room.
Spud Tamson disengaged his arm from the barmaid's neck and jumped, or,
rather, staggered to attention with his pals.
"What are you men doing here?"
"We're scouts," answered all, with one accord.
"And who are you?" inquired the colonel of the Territorial's sergeant
and his party.
"Scouts, sir."
Corkleg stamped out and rode home like the Kaiser in a rage. For the
next ten days the scouts of the Glesca Mileeshy were under the care of
Sergeant Bludgeon, the police sergeant. His total prohibition campaign
made them thirsty, but not wiser, men.
Any chapter on training must also refer to night operations, generally
called Night Attacks. These operations are never popular in times of
training. They interfere with social engagements. The finest dinners
have to be refused, and the most amorous engagements cancelled. These
attacks in real war are simply organised nightmares to shorten the life
of the enemy. They are difficult, and only successful under the most
favourable conditions. Mistakes always happen. And, to an officer, such
sorties are anxious affairs. Think of leading a company, every man of
which has a bayonet as keen as a razor edge. Remember that every bayonet
is carried at the "Charge." If there is a sudden halt in the course of
the advance, the officer's anatomy generally acts as a sort of buffer
for the nearest blade. Indeed, it is safe to assert that the reason for
an officer's quick and gallant advance in the assault is not his thirst
for death ahead, but his fear of death from some careless fellow behind.
To prevent such accidents, the officers of the Glesca Mileeshy always
carried coats, canteens, and a general emporium on their backs. These
articles were most useful as a shield in case of accidents.
Talking was barred and smoking absolutely prohibited. The red glow of
one cigarette on a night job is enough to give a whole Division away.
This had to be deeply impressed on the brains of these gallants. They
did their best to comply--a severe test to the garrulous gentry who also
believed in "thick black." Subdued excitement was always characteristic
of these affairs. The chirping of a bird, the rustle of leaves and
creaking of trees, were signs of "the enemy."
Preliminary night attacks were done on the Mudtown Common--a great
expanse which had been gifted by a king to the sweethearts of all ages.
The loneliness and darkness of this area may be imagined. This place, by
the way, was the rendezvous of the Territorials at dusk. In all of its
dark corners these gay Lotharios told the old, old tale. The Militia
knew this, and, still bitter with the poison of their great defeat,
determined to have revenge. It was to be accomplished on a night attack.
"We'll get oor ain back the nicht," said Spud Tamson on hearing the
orders given for night operations.
"How?" asked Micky Cameron.
"The Terriers are no' trainin' the nicht. They'll be a' owre the place.
We'll capture them an' their weemin and bring them in tae the colonel."
This great plot was quietly sent round. When the regiment paraded, all
were thrilled with the prospect of fun ahead. Of course the officers
knew nothing about it. That would have spoiled the game.
"Gentlemen," said the colonel to his group of officers, "we shall
imagine an enemy at the other end of the Common. Our plan is to make a
simple reconnaissance from this, our outpost line. Two companies will go
out, the remainder will stay here. The enemy which is represented by the
Mudshire Militia will also have strong patrols in front. Elude or
capture them, but do something useful."
"Very good, sir," replied the officers concerned, moving off. These
officers split up their companies into strong patrols and sent them out
as arranged. The darkness swallowed them up almost instantly. For half
an hour there was a tense silence, broken only by an occasional patter
of feet, as a scout returned with the necessary false news from the
various patrols to keep the officers at ease while the comedy went on in
the darkness. Then the trouble began. Shouts and screams rent the wintry
air and carried far, while here and there a thud or scuffling noise made
the expectant colonel and his staff prick up their ears.
"What the devil is wrong?" said Corkleg anxiously.
"There's women there, that is evident from the screaming," ventured
Coronet.
"It seems to me your patrols have gone woman hunting instead of man
hunting."
"Well--eh--yes."
"Send another patrol out and see what's on, and stop that awful din,"
ordered the irate C.O.
Another patrol went forth, but to no purpose. The screaming and
scuffling continued, to the annoyance of the officers and the secret
delight of the men. To understand it better, let us picture the scene.
In each dark corner, and beneath every great oak tree, was a loving
couple. These youthful warriors and their girls were lost to the world.
What mattered the Germans? What mattered the waiting sergeants who were
calling the roll in the billets beyond? They loved and were beloved. And
so into each servant and shop-girl's ear they poured those words which
have thrilled all women since the advent of Eve. So lost were they in
this fairyland that none heard the crawling patrols of the Glesca
Mileeshy. The real enemy mattered little to these warriors. It was the
Terriers' blood they desired. Into each nook and up to each tree went
these rascals. Just as each pair were renewing their bonds of affection
in a long--long--kiss there was a general shout of "Hands up" all over
the Mudtown Common.
"Oh!" shrieked the girls.
"Get out," roared the Terriers.
"Hands up," persisted the Militiamen, presenting their glittering
bayonets in a manner distressful to the anatomy of the men. This
menacing attitude, with the fierce expression on the tough faces of the
aggressors, sent nearly all the ladies into tears and hysterics. But all
the tears and shrieks were of little avail. They were prisoners, and, as
such, would be presented to the powers that be. They cursed and
struggled, but the rifle slings and bootlaces of their captors
eventually subdued all resistance. Pitiful they looked; more pitiful
were the girls who followed their captured braves, with handkerchiefs to
their eyes.
This, then, was the awful din which Colonel Corkleg had heard. Louder it
grew as the returning warriors neared the zone of flashing torchlights,
which now indicated the end of the operations and the position of the
outpost lines.
"In the name of Heaven, what is this?" ejaculated the C.O. on seeing one
patrol emerging into the light with four battered Terriers and their
weeping lovers.
"Prisoners, sir," was a Tommy's blunt reply.
"What--more of them?" he again remarked as a great big sergeant was
carried in, all gagged and bound. This was the scout-sergeant who had
played his part so well in the old village inn. The colonel recognised
the N.C.O., and inwardly chuckled.
"Still more, sir," ventured the adjutant, as four more patrols came
forward with the battered remnants of the Territorial Force.
"But these men are not the enemy," insisted the colonel in his official
tone.
"Na, sir, but they _were_ the enemy the ither day. We're piyin' them
back," chirped Micky Cameron.
"Ay! an' here's an officer," gleefully yelled a brave then coming into
the light.
"A what?" queried the now startled colonel.
"An officer, sir," said Spud Tamson, saluting proudly as he presented
the form of a young subaltern who had been having a quiet stroll with
the daughter of the Brigadier.
"I protest, sir. It is an insult to me and my regiment."
"Yes, positively disgusting," pouted a very charming maid of seventeen,
with a haughty flush on her cheek.
"We didnae protest the ither day when you made us fu' in the pub,"
chirped Spud, almost sticking his nose into the young scout-officer's
face.
"Silence!" roared Colonel Corkleg.
Addressing the officer, he said, "I apologise for this rude interference
with your very pleasant mission. I can well understand your
indignation," at the same time casting a roguish glance at the pretty
girl.
"Oh, it's all right, sir," replied the subaltern, saluting and marching
off.
A similar apology was tendered to all the other captured swains when
they were allowed to depart. "Fall in" was then sounded, and all marched
merrily home. In the officers' mess that night the laughter was loud and
long, for their men had squared the defeat of the previous day. Even the
colonel let himself go, and laughed till his old artificial leg rattled
on the floor with glee.
"Useful men, eh," he concluded.
"Yes, sir," replied the adjutant.