One's first days as a newly-joined subaltern are very like one's
first days at school. The feeling is just the same. There is the same
natural shyness, the same reverence for people who afterwards turn out
to be of no consequence whatsoever, and the same fear of transgressing
the Laws of the Medes and Persians--regimental traditions and
conventions--which alter not.
Dress, for instance. "Does one wear a sword on parade?" asks the tyro
of himself his first morning. "I'll put it on, and chance it." He
invests himself in a monstrous claymore and steps on to the barrack
square. Not an officer in sight is carrying anything more lethal than
a light cane. There is just time to scuttle back to quarters and
disarm.
Again, where should one sit at meal-times? We had supposed that the
C.O. would be enthroned at the head of the table, with a major sitting
on his right and left, like Cherubim and Seraphim; while the rest
disposed themselves in a descending scale of greatness until it came
down to persons like ourselves at the very foot. But the C.O. has a
disconcerting habit of sitting absolutely anywhere. He appears to be
just as happy between two Second Lieutenants as between Cherubim and
Seraphim. Again, we note that at breakfast each officer upon entering
sits down and shouts loudly, to a being concealed behind a screen, for
food, which is speedily forthcoming. Are we entitled to clamour in
this peremptory fashion too? Or should we creep round behind the
screen and take what we can get? Or should we sit still, and wait till
we are served? We try the last expedient first, and get nothing. Then
we try the second, and are speedily convinced, by the demeanour of the
gentleman behind the screen, that we have committed the worst error of
which we have yet been guilty.
There are other problems--saluting, for instance. On the parade ground
this is a simple matter enough; for there the golden rule appears
to be--When in doubt, salute! The Colonel calls up his four Company
Commanders. They salute. He instructs them to carry on this morning
with coal fatigues and floor-scrubbing. The Company Commanders salute,
and retire to their Companies, and call up their subalterns, who
salute. They instruct these to carry on this morning with coal
fatigues and floor-scrubbing. The sixteen subalterns salute, and
retire to their platoons. Here they call up their Platoon Sergeants,
who salute. They instruct these to carry on this morning with coal
fatigues and floor-scrubbing. The Platoon Sergeants salute, and
issue commands to the rank and file. The rank and file, having no
instructions to salute sergeants, are compelled, as a last resort, to
carry on with the coal fatigues and floor-scrubbing themselves. You
see, on parade saluting is simplicity itself.
But we are not always on parade; and then more subtle problems arise.
Some of those were discussed one day by four junior officers, who sat
upon a damp and slippery bank by a muddy roadside during a "fall-out"
in a route-march. The four ("reading from left to right," as they say
in high journalistic society) were Second Lieutenant Little, Second
Lieutenant Waddell, Second Lieutenant Cockerell, and Lieutenant
Struthers, surnamed "Highbrow." Bobby we know. Waddell was a
slow-moving but pertinacious student of the science of war from the
kingdom of Fife. Cockerell came straight from a crack public-school
corps, where he had been a cadet officer; so nothing in the heaven
above or the earth beneath was hid from him. Struthers owed his
superior rank to the fact that in the far back ages, before the days
of the O.T.C., he had held a commission in a University Corps. He was
a scholar of his College, and was an expert in the art of accumulating
masses of knowledge in quick time for examination purposes. He knew
all the little red manuals by heart, was an infallible authority on
buttons and badges, and would dip into the King's Regulations or the
Field Service Pocket-book as another man might dip into the "Sporting
Times." Strange to say, he was not very good at drilling a platoon. We
all know him.
"What do you do when you are leading a party along a road and meet a
Staff Officer?" asked Bobby Little.
"Make a point," replied Cockerell patronisingly, "of saluting all
persons wearing red bands round their hats. They may not be entitled
to it, but it tickles their ribs and gets you the reputation, of being
an intelligent young officer."
"But I say," announced Waddell plaintively, "_I_ saluted a man with a
red hat the other day, and he turned out to be a Military Policeman!"
"As a matter of fact," announced the pundit Struthers, after the
laughter had subsided, "you need not salute anybody. No compliments
are paid on active service, and we are on active service now."
"Yes, but suppose some one salutes _you_?" objected the conscientious
Bobby Little. "You must salute back again, and sometimes you don't
know how to do it. The other day I was bringing the company back
from the ranges and we met a company from another battalion--the Mid
Mudshires, I think. Before I knew where I was the fellow in charge
called them to attention and then gave 'Eyes right!'"
"What did you do?" asked Struthers anxiously.
"I hadn't time to do anything except grin, and say, 'Good morning!'"
confessed Bobby Little.
"You were perfectly right," announced Struthers, and Cockerell
murmured assent.
"Are you sure?" persisted Bobby Little. "As I passed the tail of their
company one of their subs turned to another and said quite loud, 'My
God, what swine!'"
"Showed his rotten ignorance," commented Cockerell.
At this moment Mr. Waddell, whose thoughts were never disturbed by
conversation around him, broke in with a question.
"What does a Tommy do," he inquired, "if he meets an officer wheeling
a wheelbarrow?"
"Who is wheeling the barrow," inquired the meticulous Struthers--"the
officer or the Tommy?"
"The Tommy, of course!" replied Waddell in quite a shocked voice.
"What is he to do? If he tries to salute he will upset the barrow, you
know."
"He turns his head sharply towards the officer for six paces,"
explained the ever-ready Struthers. "When a soldier is not in a
position to salute in the ordinary way--"
"I say," inquired Bobby Little rather shyly, "do you ever look the
other way when you meet a Tommy?"
"How do you mean?" asked everybody.
"Well, the other day I met one walking out with his girl along the
road, and I felt so blooming _de trop_ that--"
Here the "fall-in" sounded, and this delicate problem was left
unsolved. But Mr. Waddell, who liked to get to the bottom of things,
continued to ponder these matters as he marched. He mistrusted the
omniscience of Struthers and the superficial infallibility of the
self-satisfied Cockerell. Accordingly, after consultation with that
eager searcher after knowledge, Second Lieutenant Little, he took the
laudable but fatal step of carrying his difficulties to one Captain
Wagstaffe, the humorist of the Battalion.
Wagstaffe listened with an appearance of absorbed interest. Finally he
said--
"These are very important questions, Mr. Waddell, and you acted quite
rightly in laying them before me. I will consult the Deputy Assistant
Instructor in Military Etiquette, and will obtain a written answer to
your inquiries."
"Oh, thanks awfully, sir!" exclaimed Waddell.
The result of Captain Wagstaffe's application to the mysterious
official just designated was forthcoming next day in the form of a
neatly typed document. It was posted in the Ante-room (the C.O. being
out at dinner), and ran as follows:--