"A magnificent body of men, Colonel. I congratulate you."
A minute later M'Slattery was aroused from his trance by the sound of
the Colonel's ringing voice--
"Highlanders, three cheers for His Majesty the King!"
M'Slattery led the whole Battalion, his glengarry high in the air.
Suddenly his eye fell upon Private Mucklewame, blindly and woodenly
yelling himself hoarse.
In three strides M'Slattery was standing face to face with the
unconscious criminal.
"Yous low, lousy puddock," he roared--"tak' off your bonnet!" He saved
Mucklewame the trouble of complying, and strode back to his place in
the ranks.
"Yin mair, chaps," he shouted--"for the young leddy!"
And yet there are people who tell us that the formula, O.H.M.S., is a
mere relic of antiquity.
V
"CRIME"
"Bring in Private Dunshie, Sergeant-Major," says the Company
Commander.
The Sergeant-Major throws open the door, and barks--"Private Dunshie's
escort!"
The order is repeated _fortissimo_ by some one outside. There is a
clatter of ammunition boots getting into step, and a solemn procession
of four files into the room. The leader thereof is a stumpy but
enormously important-looking private. He is the escort. Number two is
the prisoner. Numbers three and four are the accuser--counsel for the
Crown, as it were--and a witness. The procession reaches the table at
which the Captain is sitting. Beside him is a young officer, one Bobby
Little, who is present for "instructional" purposes.
"Mark time!" commands the Sergeant-Major. "Halt! Right turn!"
This evolution brings the accused face to face with his judge. He
has been deprived of his cap, and of everything else "which may be
employed as, or contain, a missile." (They think of everything in the
King's Regulations.)
"What is this man's crime, Sergeant-Major?" inquires the Captain.
"On this sheet, sir," replies the Sergeant-Major....
By a "crime" the ordinary civilian means something worth recording in
a special edition of the evening papers--something with a meat-chopper
in it. Others, more catholic in their views, will tell you that it
is a crime to inflict corporal punishment on any human being; or to
permit performing animals to appear upon the stage; or to subsist upon
any food but nuts. Others, of still finer clay, will classify such
things as Futurism, The Tango, Dickeys, and the Albert Memorial as
crimes. The point to note is, that in the eyes of all these persons
each of these things is a sin of the worst possible degree. That being
so, they designate it a "crime." It is the strongest term they can
employ.
But in the Army, "crime" is capable of infinite shades of intensity.
It simply means "misdemeanour," and may range from being unshaven on
parade, or making a frivolous complaint about the potatoes at dinner,
to irrevocably perforating your rival in love with a bayonet. So let
party politicians, when they discourse vaguely to their constituents
about "the prevalence of crime in the Army under the present effete
and undemocratic system," walk warily.
Every private in the Army possesses what is called a conduct-sheet,
and upon this his crimes are recorded. To be precise, he has two such
sheets. One is called his Company sheet, and the other his Regimental
sheet. His Company sheet contains a record of every misdeed for which
he has been brought before his Company Commander. His Regimental sheet
is a more select document, and contains only the more noteworthy
of his achievements--crimes so interesting that they have to be
communicated to the Commanding Officer.
However, this morning we are concerned only with Company
conduct-sheets. It is 7.30 A.M., and the Company Commander is sitting
in judgment, with a little pile of yellow Army forms before him. He
picks up the first of these, and reads--
"_Private Dunshie. While on active service, refusing to obey an
order_. Lance-Corporal Ness!"
The figure upon the prisoner's right suddenly becomes animated.
Lance-Corporal Ness, taking a deep breath, and fixing his eyes
resolutely on the whitewashed wall above the Captain's head, recites--
"Sirr, at four P.M. on the fufth unst. I was in charge of a party told
off for tae scrub the floor of Room Nummer Seeventeen. I ordered the
prisoner tae scrub. He refused. I warned him. He again refused."
Click! Lance-Corporal Ness has run down. He has just managed the
sentence in a breath.
"Corporal Mackay!"
The figure upon Lance-Corporal Ness's right stiffens, and inflates
itself.
"Sirr, on the fufth unst. I was Orderly Sergeant. At aboot
four-thirrty P.M., Lance-Corporal Ness reported this man tae me for
refusing for tae obey an order. I confined him."
The Captain turns to the prisoner.
"What have you to say, Private Dunshie?"
Private Dunshie, it appears, has a good deal to say.
"I jined the Airmy for tae fight they Germans, and no for tae be
learned tae scrub floors--"
"Sirr!" suggests the Sergeant-Major in his ear.
"Sirr," amends Private Dunshie reluctantly. "I was no in the habit of
scrubbin' the floor mysel' where I stay in Glesca'; and ma wife would
be affronted--"
But the Captain looks up. He has heard enough.
"Look here, Dunshie," he says. "Glad to hear you want to fight the
Germans. So do I. So do we all. All the same, we've got a lot of dull
jobs to do first." (Captain Blaikie has the reputation of being the
most monosyllabic man in the British Army.) "Coals, and floors, and
fatigues like that: they are your job. I have mine too. Kept me up
till two this morning. But the point is this. You have refused to obey
an order. Very serious, that. Most serious crime a soldier can commit.
If you start arguing now about small things, where will you be when
the big orders come along--eh? Must learn to obey. Soldier now,
whatever you were a month ago. So obey all orders like a shot. Watch
me next time I get one. No disgrace, you know! Ought to be a soldier's
pride, and all that. See?"
"Yes--sirr," replies Private Dunshie, with less truculence.
The Captain glances down at the paper before him.
"First time you have come before me. Admonished!"
"Right turn! Quick march!" thunders the Sergeant-Major.
The procession clumps out of the room. The Captain turns to his
disciple.
"That's my homely and paternal tap," he observes. "For first offenders
only. That chap's all right. Soon find out it's no good fussing
about your rights as a true-born British elector in the Army.
Sergeant-Major!"
"Sirr?"
"Private McNulty!"
After the usual formalities, enter Private McNulty and escort. Private
McNulty is a small scared-looking man with a dirty face.
"Private McNulty, sirr!" announces the Sergeant-Major to the Company
Commander, with the air of a popular lecturer on entomology placing a
fresh insect under the microscope.