A COMPANY OFFICER'S WORRIES.
_Uneasy_ lies the head that wears a captain's crown, for the lot of a
company officer is like that of a policeman--not a very happy one. He is
not only captain of 120 souls, but father, jailor, pastor, and
moneylender. His day is a day of toil and worry. It is only a strong man
who can hold a company within bounds and at the same time retain their
love and respect. A captain must necessarily be a gentleman. I do not
mean by that that he must have his name on the scroll of peers, but
rather the possession of honour, with a great sense of justice and
infinite tact. The company officer is the man who has helped to win many
battles. Quebec, Waterloo, and Mons were successes because the company
officer loved his men and the men loved their company officer. Germans
cannot understand how British soldiers fight and die so gloriously
without that brutal discipline so characteristic of Teuton arms. When
Germans are captured, it is always noted how the officers refuse to
sympathise with their men in their shame and defeat. They stand aloof
and scorn the men who have braved so much for the Fatherland. They seem
to loathe the men, who have really done remarkably well in view of the
overpowering opposition of the Allies. To a Britisher this is
disgusting, for the Britisher realises that Love rules this whole world.
"Look after the men," said Colonel Corkleg, "and when you're in a tight
corner they'll look after you." That was why no officer of his regiment
ever tasted food till the men had been fed; why many an officer carried
a sick man's rifle and pack on a weary march; why they bribed everybody
and anybody in the Quartermaster's stores for extra bread, extra beef,
spare boots, shirts, and socks. In the officers' mess no one dared to
allude to his men in scornful tones. The subalterns themselves deemed
this an offence which merited a cold bath in full regimentals and drinks
all round. But there, it is the company officer we have to specially
deal with at the moment.
An efficient company officer must know every man's name and understand
each man's temperament. More important, he must be able to handle each
man's moods, to instil into him the best and kill the worst. There are
men that he must curse, and curse loud and long; there are others he
must only coax and wheedle like an obstinate beauty in a ballroom. When
there is mutiny, unhappiness, and discontent, never blame the men; blame
the officer. He doesn't know his job, and should get the boot. A
well-disciplined company means a happy company. To a casual observer,
the average company officer may seem an idle person who issues orders
then disappears. Not at all. Every day he finds a thousand problems. For
example, Captain Coronet was one day met at the corner of the billet by
Private Micky Malone, who carried a black-bordered envelope in his hand.
"Beg pardon, sor, can I spake?"
"Well, Malone."
"My ould father's dead, sor--can I get a wake-end pass?"
"Your father?" queried the captain, who knew his man.
"Yes, sor, he died wid consumption o' the bowels."
"But look here, Malone, your father died last year, for I remember
giving you a pass and lending you a pound to go to the funeral."
"That was the wife's father."
"How _many_ fathers _have_ you got?"
"Wan, sor."
"But look here, Malone, you've had about a dozen grandfathers, fathers,
mothers, sisters, and wives who have died since mobilisation. You're a
bit of a liar--eh?"
"Ach, sure, sor, ye know I'm dacent. I've only been in the guardhouse
twice this month."
"But why do you tell lies, Malone?"
"Well, sor, to tell ye the truth, Widow Riley's havin' a dance for the
bhoys. She's a bit swate on me, an' she's asked me through."
"That's a different story. Why didn't you tell me that at first?"
"Sure, sor, I only told the truth once in me life, an' the ould judge
sentenced me to thirty days."
"Well, you can have a pass--but, by the way, let me see that letter."
Malone hesitated, then handed the captain the black-bordered epistle.
This the company officer carefully perused. A smile crept over his face
as he remarked--"Look here, Malone, this is the same letter that
Cameron, M'Haggis, and Muldoon showed me when they wanted leave for a
funeral."
"Yis, sor."
"You pass this round, I suppose?"
"Yis, sor."
"Well, you won't pass it round any more, understand!" said the captain,
tearing it up.
"Yis, sor," replied Malone, saluting smartly, and marching off to report
to his cronies how the captain had collared this general service
document.
Just as Captain Coronet reached the foot of the stairs he was met by
Private Sneaky, a weedish-looking gent.
"Well?"
"I waant tae mak' a complaint, sir."
"What about?"
"Private M'Ginty punched me for naethin' at a', an' gied me a black
e'e."
"I see; well, come with me," said the captain, entering the billet and
calling for M'Ginty.
"Look here, M'Ginty, this man complains that you struck him without
cause."
"Well, sir, he's a greedy yin. He's pinched wan o' the recruit's dinner
every day for a week, so I jist punched him on the nose."
"Quite right, M'Ginty. If you get him at it again, knock his head off,
and break every bone in his body. Get out, you scoundrel." Off tailed
the little rascal, for in all regiments you will find a few
undesirables.
"Private M'Nab wishes to see you, sir," then remarked the
colour-sergeant.
"What is it, M'Nab," inquired the captain kindly, for M'Nab was a good
soldier.
"The wife's bad, sir, an' the wee boy's got consumption. The doctor says
they're tae get steak, eggs, an' beef-tea, but I canna' dae that on a
shillin' a day."
"I'm sorry to hear that, M'Nab--very sorry. But look here, I'll write to
the doctor to-day and tell him to buy everything that they need. Will
that keep your mind easy?"
"Thenk ye, sir. It's awfu' guid o' ye."
"And it's very good of you, M'Nab, one with all your responsibilities,
to serve your country. That's why I do it."
"I'll no' forget you, sir," concluded M'Nab with a lump in his throat,
as he saluted and marched away.
"Here's a letter from Private Smith's mother, sir. She says he hasn't
sent any money for a month, sir, and when he was on pass he got drunk,
smashed up the crockery, and pawned the old woman's bedclothes."
"Call him up."
"What's this you have been doing?"
"Nothing, sir," was the insolent reply.
"Do you call insulting and robbing your mother, nothing? You're a low
rascal. Now, look here, I'm sending your mother two pounds to-day to
keep her going. But I'm going to stop it out of your pay. Charity would
be wasted on a man like you. And if I were not an officer I would give
you a sound thrashing."
"I'm sorry, sir,--I'll no' dae it again."
"You had better not--fall out."
"Private O'Toole has lost his eye, sir," remarked the colour-sergeant.
"What!" exclaimed the amazed captain.
"His eye, sir."
"Is he in hospital?"
"No, sir."
"Why not? He must be in agony. How did it happen?"
"It's a false one, sir," chirped in O'Toole with a grin.
"Ah!" laughed the captain, "I never knew that before."
"I used tae hae a guid wan, sir, but I lost it. The wife gied me yin oot
o' a doll's e'e. It didnae look weel, but it wis guid enough."
"How did you lose that one?"
"I left it on the bed tae watch ma hauf loaf. When I came back it wis
awa'."
"Well, I'll buy you a new one. Still, I don't see how you can shoot at
the Germans."
"If I cannae shoot, sir, I can feel them wi' the bayonet. Nelson had
only wan e'e, sir."
"All right, O'Toole."
"Thank you, sir."
"What's next, colour-sergeant?"
"The meat is short. All the men are complaining, but the cook says the
weight's there."
"Umph! Is the cook married?"
"No, sir; but I believe he is well in with a widow in the town."
"Well, colour-sergeant, you know what widows are, and you know what
cooks are. Put a policeman on to watch him. You'll probably find him
carrying all the choice steaks out at night. If you nab him, I'll deal
with him."
"Then, sir, a lot of the blankets are being stolen."
"Heavens! This life is full of troubles. What is the cause?"
"Women, sir! Women! Root of all evil, sir."
"Well, I'll see the colonel about that."
(Next day Sergeant Bludgeon and his policemen raided the haunts of every
Mary Ann in Mudtown. Two hundred blankets were found--and collared.)
"Some of the boots have gone amissing. These devils would steal the
sugar out of your tea, sir. I'm nearly balmy, sir. They pawn them for
beer, sir."
"Well, I'm----!" ejaculated Coronet. "What are we to do?"
"Make them march in their bare feet, sir. That will teach them. They'll
soon find another pair--without paying for them. You're too
kind-hearted, sir. They put it on to you."
"I suppose they do; in fact, I know they do. But there! they can fight
like Trojans. And that is a great consolation, should we ever get in a
fix. Now, is there any more correspondence?"
"Just one letter, sir. And a queer one, too. Here it is," said the
colour-sergeant, handing over a dirty, grease-marked epistle.
----
_Dear Officer_,--
I'm in grate pane, my Sweethart Privit Spud Tamson in your Kumpany is
gaun wi' ither weemin. He hisnae ritten me for a fortnicht. And a lad on
Pass tell't me that he wis flirtin' an' kissin' ither lasses (servants
in big hooses). He promist tae mairry me owre a year ago, an' I've been
savin' up. It's jist awfu'. If he disnae stop it, I'll droon masel' in
the Clyde. Wull ye tell him that, kind sir. I'll no' forget ye, and I'll
send ye a pair o' hame-made socks at Ne'erday.
I Am,
Yours Respeckfully,
_Mary Ann_.
"The limit, sir, eh?"
"Worse than that. Call that man up."
"Yes, sir," said Tamson, unprepared for the revelations concerning his
infidelity.
"Listen," said the captain, in his most solemn tones. Then he read the
amazing document, during which Private Spud Tamson grew red, then white,
red again, and finally finished up in a sort of purple, apoplectic hue.
"Very serious, Tamson. I'm afraid you are a cabbage-hearted youth. And
you seem to have been having the time of your life below stairs."
"The lassie's bletherin', sir. I wis jist gettin' a feed. A' the cooks
are kind tae the sodgers."
"Cupboard love, I suppose?"
"Na, beefsteak, sir."
"I'm afraid you'll be landed in for a breach of promise case. Pretty
serious that, Tamson."
"I'll square her a' richt, sir."
"How?"
"Buy her a new shawl on piy-day."
"It's not a shawl your Mary Ann wants. It's love. Do you know what that
means?"
"Fine, sir."
"What is it?"
"Oh, kissin'."
"Anything else?"
"Gettin' mairret, sir."
"And----"
"Sausage and eggs for breakfast."
"That's stomach love, Tamson; but there, I expect your heart's all
right. See and write that girl a letter. She's pretty bad."
"All right, sir--ay----"
"What?"
"Can you lend me a shullin' tae buy a stamp, sir?"
"Yes--when you bring the letter."
Thus was Tamson reminded of the obligations of the past. His lapse had
only been of a temporary kind. He had simply been enjoying himself in
the kitchens of the mighty suburbanites of Mudtown. The much-blotted and
effusive epistle which he penned was generously marked with crosses, and
in each corner was placed a crude-looking heart with the shaft of Cupid
piercing through.
Such are the worries of a company officer.