NEW YEAR'S EVE.
_The_ end of the year is always a merry--and a critical--time in a
Scottish regiment. Since the invention of whisky and haggis, New Year
has become the season of high feeding and hard drinking. Even the Free
Kirker deems it his duty to carry a hauf-mutchkin and a cake. And in the
Army it has long been the custom to almost abandon discipline and allow
officers and men to enjoy themselves in a thoroughly hearty way. But on
this New Year's Eve there were circumstances which compelled Colonel
Corkleg to adopt stern measures so as to keep his men in hand. The first
and most important was the activity of the Teutons. These alert students
of human nature knew the value of landing in Scotland. They also
understood the tippling temperament of the average Scot at this period.
And as they had every ship and Zeppelin ready to disturb the orgies of
the Scottish nation, it was essential to be spruce, sober, and alert.
Every officer realised this, but every Tommy entirely disagreed. They
would spend their Ne'erday, come what may. Colonel Corkleg and his
fellow-chiefs decided to counteract their schemes of revelry. Passes
were barred after 9.30 _P.M._ Every road was picketed. Every
public-house within a radius of three miles had almost a regiment on
duty at the door. All mounted men were turned into policemen, while all
N.C.O.'s were duly warned to abstain from the evils of the national
fire-water. Each company officer harangued his men about the wine which
stingeth like a serpent and biteth like an adder. And Sergeant-Major
Fireworks, with his crony, Sergeant Bludgeon, suddenly became pious and
abstemious--in anticipation of events. The final stratagem, however,
staggered all. No man was to be paid on this--the great day.
Lamentations, groans, and curses were heard on all sides when this order
went round. It almost smashed the ingenious scheming of thirsty
gentlemen who knew every shebeen in Mudtown. Nevertheless they sallied
forth, determined to get hospitality--or demand it--from their many pals
and patrons. Down the muddy road they tramped, singing--
"We've had no pay,
We've had no pay,
We've had no pay,
No b----y pay to-day."
And drink they found. Those that did not secure it, managed to collar a
draught of methylated spirits--a time-honoured beverage amongst
penurious Scots. Having had their fill, they sauntered towards the Cross
to bring the New Year in. The pickets, however, requested or shoved them
back to billets without ceremony. And, amazing to relate, on the roll
being called, only ten were absent. When "lights out" went, there was a
prompt response, which surprised the officers. These unsuspecting
gentlemen, believing that the usual revelries would not occur, departed
to their beds to rave about the splendid discipline of the regiment.
Sergeant-Major Fireworks and Sergeant Bludgeon knew better. The
deathlike stillness they gauged to be a deep game.
"Don't trust them, major?"
"No; I'm too old a soldier for that. They've got something on--I bet.
Let's have a walk round."
Quietly they slipped round the billets of the regiment.
"Here, Bludgeon--what's that?" said the S.M. peering through the
darkness.
"It's a long pole, and the blighters are sliding down it."
"A pole!"
"Yes. Listen."
One by one, over a hundred men slid down the long pole from the window
to a quiet field. There they were gathering prior to a general advance
on Mudtown Mission Hall, where a hundred mill-girls had pledged to bring
the New Year in and kiss them under the mistletoe. It was an awkward
situation--doubly awkward because of their discontent about pay and the
lures of the buxom wenches beyond. Once women enter into such problems
the difficulties are manifold. A thousand men with fixed bayonets would
not stop this contingent. Something unusual and extraordinary had to be
done. For once, Sergeant Bludgeon knew that his immortal stick was
useless. Yet he knew there was only one road to the Mission. This
climbed up a hill through a deep sort of gully. The head of that gully
must be held at all costs.
"I've got the idea, major," whispered the provost-sergeant.
"What?"
"Weesht! This way," and off scampered the wardens of military
discipline. On arriving at the guard-room, Sergeant Bludgeon 'phoned to
the local Fire Brigade. In a few words he explained his needs, and
requested that the great steam fire-engine should be rushed at once to
the head of the Mudtown road. There the firemaster was ordered to clear
for action and wait for orders.
"That will do them, major," said Bludgeon with a sardonic grin, as he
replaced the 'phone and led his superior quietly by a circuitous route
to the scene of the coming action. The fire-engine was waiting behind a
great hedge. Three powerful nozzles lay ready for drenching deeds.
Quietly Bludgeon detailed his orders; the firemen gladly concurred. Just
as the final points had been explained there was heard a low mumbling of
voices and soft patter of feet.
"The blighters have got their boots off," whispered Bludgeon.
"But--listen!"
"We've fairly bate them this time," said the apparent leader.
"Ay! Auld Bludgeon 'ill get a fricht in the mornin'."
"Man, we'll hae a fine time. Thae weemin 'ill hae plenty o' hard stuff
an' shortbread."
"If you get there!" muttered Fireworks under his breath, as he espied
the column of crawling and creeping revellers.
"Ready?" whispered Bludgeon.
"Yes," answered the firemaster.
"Fire!"
The three great nozzles sent forth gigantic waves of freezing water. The
leading men were knocked down and almost petrified with the amazing
deluge. Those behind were also drenched and chilled to the bone.
"God! It's the Germans," said a silly youth, as he turned and fled. But
the harder cases cursed and charged up towards the foaming nozzles. The
firemaster simply increased the water-power and down they went like
ninepins, rolling and cursing in the most awful manner. Still, they were
all as game as bantams, and cunningly clambered up the banks to make a
flank attack. Here another surprise awaited them, for on reaching the
top they heard a voice yell out, "Rapid fire". Twenty rifles spat out
their lurid, flashing lights. The crash was terrific and terrified many.
They rolled and fell back into the foaming lane of water.
"Are ye kill't?" one asked.
"Na, that's only blank ammunition. Charge!" yelled the leader, leading
the way up the bank in an angry and determined style. Soaked as they
were, they meant to conquer. It was an awkward moment, and Bludgeon
thought that his great scheme was about to fail. Up over the bank came
the half-drenched army. But just as they got up to make a final
onslaught, Bludgeon rose from behind the hedge. He lifted his big stick
in the air, at the same time yelled, "Fix bayonets--charge!"
"Heevens! It's Bludgeon. He'll kill us," yelled a timid soul.
The name of Bludgeon--not the bayonets--was enough. All turned and fell,
or scrambled into the now surging stream of water and dashed for home.
"That's one little lot settled," chirped the Napoleonic
provost-sergeant, as he listened to the yells of the fast retiring mob.
Turning to the firemaster, he thanked him for his services, and,
accompanied by Fireworks, made for the main billets of the regiment. But
if he had nobly killed the raid on the Mission Hall, he and the
sergeant-major had still to reckon with the devotees of Bacchus now
running riot in the great rooms in which they lived. This place, so
peaceful at "Lights out," was now alive with lights, laughter, and
singing. You see, the hour was twelve, and, in accordance with custom,
the Glesca Mileeshy were acting up to all traditions.
"Expected that?" said Fireworks, pausing to listen to the awful din.
"Yes," said Bludgeon, gripping his stick in a way that boded ill for the
revellers beyond. Through the great doors they quietly slipped, and, in
a flash, were inside the rooms of the men. What a sight! Five hundred
men, dressed something like Adam in the Garden of Eden, doing
cake-walks, Highland flings, and Irish jigs. Some also chirped the "Wee
Deoch-an-Doris," while others glibly sang--
"Oh, it's nice tae get up in the mornin',
But it's better tae lie in yer bed."
In another room Bludgeon saw Tamson at the head of a procession of
worthies. Round his attenuated shanks was a tattered blanket, on his
head a dixey lid, in his right hand a mop, and in the other a bottle,
which, alas, was empty. His entourage was dressed in similar style. This
procession was accompanied by mouth-organs and melodeons, playing "The
Lament of Lochaber," which signified the general wail of the unpaid
habitues of the barrack-room. Round and round they went, knocking here
and there, and occasionally throwing a more peaceful soul out of his bed
and through the window to the green below. Next came a sword-dance by
Mickey Cameron, after that a fling by the general company, followed by
"The Floo'ers o' Edinburgh," and other well-known barn dances. The
entertainment was more pleasant than annoying. Indeed it was so orderly
that Bludgeon and Fireworks thought it better to leave them alone. But
in the midst of their revelry another company decided to pay a fraternal
call. They arrived beating a march on ration tins and old canteens.
Unfortunately, they decided to take charge of Tamson's party, and
generally boss the show.
"Here," said Tamson, "this is oor pitch--clear!"
"Awa' an' bile yer heid," replied a bulbous-nosed private, giving him a
push.
"Wha are ye pushin'?"
"You!"
That was enough. Tamson hit out. His friends followed suit. In two
minutes the room was a bear-garden. Brooms, pokers, shovels, rifles, and
other hefty weapons were being wielded with cool indifference as to the
result. Blood, hair, and skin were flying like snowflakes. The lights
were smashed, and darkness reigned. Still the fight went on in the inky
night. It was serious, so Bludgeon set to with his stick and voice to
quell the awful din. This was useless. The fight had got beyond control.
"It's hopeless, sergeant-major. We can't stop this Donnybrook."
"Pretty bad, certainly, but it's got to be stopped."
"Why not sound the alarm?"
"Yes; the very thing," answered Fireworks, dashing out for a bugler. In
a few minutes the shrill call of the bugle pierced through the din.
"It's the alarm," a voice yelled.
"Yes--Fall-in!" shrieked Tamson.
The din ceased, and the combatants fled to their rifles, packs, and
ammunition-pouches. By the aid of matches and candles they dressed,
flung on their equipment, grasped their rifles and dashed breathlessly
on to the parade-ground. In twenty minutes every man was present and
ready for action--a tribute to the discipline and zeal of the corps.
"Well, sergeant-major--what's up?" asked the adjutant on arriving at the
muster-place.
"A free fight, sir. Only way to quell it."
"What's that?" interjected the colonel, who, at that moment, made his
bow.
"A free fight--skin and hair all round. Had to sound the alarm, sir.
Only way--absolutely, sir----"
"When did you sound it?"
"Twenty minutes ago, sir."
"Twenty minutes! That's good business!"
"Yes, sir."
"Why were they fighting--too much beer?"
"The want of it."
"Well--I suppose some concession has to be made," he muttered, walking
to the head of the column.
"Battalion--'Shun!"
All sprang up like Guardsmen.
"Look here, men, I don't mind you making a butcher's shop of a German's
face, but I object to your doing that with your own. They are not too
pretty at the best of times. If you make them worse you'll frighten
every woman in Mudtown. However, you have turned out remarkably quick.
And as you are not required on a Hun-hunting expedition, I propose--on
this special occasion--to march you all to the canteen and give you a
pint of beer. But, mark you, if I hear a word from you after you go to
bed again, I'll have the canteen closed for a month, and feed you on
salt herrings, just to tickle your thirst and teach you forbearance.
Understand?"
"Yes, sir," roared a thousand voices.
"Parade--dismiss." As each company went by they gave old Corkleg a smart
salute, and sang, "For he's a jolly good fellow."
Bludgeon got a bottle of Scotch, a box of cigars, and a new blackthorn
cudgel, "for services rendered," as the colonel tersely put it, when
handing over the gifts.
"Thank you, sir," said Bludgeon.
"Welcome! Welcome! And when we all meet down below, Bludgeon, I'll have
you appointed provost-sergeant to Old Nick."