(a) A soldier, wheeling a wheelbarrow and balancing a swill-tub on his
head, meets an officer walking out in review dress.
_Correct Procedure_.--The soldier will immediately cant the swill-tub
to an angle of forty-five degrees at a distance of one and a half
inches above his right eyebrow. (In the case of Rifle Regiments the
soldier will balance the swill-tub on his nose.) He will then invite
the officer, by a smart movement of the left ear, to seat himself on
the wheelbarrow.
_Correct Acknowledgment_.--The officer will comply, placing his feet
upon the right and left hubs of the wheel respectively, with the
ball of the toe in each case at a distance of one inch (when serving
abroad, 2-1/2 centimetres) from the centre of gravity of the
wheelbarrow. (In the case of Rifle Regiments the officer will tie his
feet in a knot at the back of his neck.) The soldier will then advance
six paces, after which the officer will dismount and go home and have
a bath.
(b) A soldier, with his arm round a lady's waist in the gloaming,
encounters an officer.
_Correct Procedure_.--The soldier will salute with his disengaged arm.
The lady will administer a sharp tap with the end of her umbrella to
the officer's tunic, at point one inch above the lowest button.
_Correct Acknowledgment_.--The officer will take the end of the
umbrella firmly in his right hand, and will require the soldier to
introduce him to the lady. He will then direct the soldier to double
back to barracks.
(c) A party of soldiers, seated upon the top of a transport waggon,
see an officer passing at the side of the road.
_Correct Procedure_.--The senior N.C.O. (or if no N.C.O. be present,
the oldest soldier) will call the men to attention, and the party,
taking their time from the right, will spit upon the officer's head in
a soldier-like manner.
_Correct Acknowledgment_.--The officer will break into a smart trot.
(d) A soldier, driving an officer's motor-car without the knowledge of
the officer, encounters the officer in a narrow country lane.
_Correct Procedure_.--The soldier will open the throttle to its full
extent and run the officer over.
_Correct Acknowledgment_.--No acknowledgment is required.
NOTE.--_None of the above compliments will be paid upon active
service_.
Unfortunately the Colonel came home from dining out sooner than
was expected, and found this outrageous document still upon the
notice-board. But he was a good Colonel. He merely remarked
approvingly--
"H'm. Quite so! _Non semper arcum tendit Apollo_. It's just as well to
keep smiling these days."
Nevertheless, Mr. Waddell made a point in future, when in need of
information, of seeking the same from a less inspired source than
Captain Wagstaffe.
* * * * *
There was another Law of the Medes and Persians with which our four
friends soon became familiar--that which governs the relations of the
various ranks to one another. Great Britain is essentially the home of
the chaperon. We pride ourselves, as a nation, upon the extreme
care with which we protect our young gentlewomen from contaminating
influences. But the fastidious attention which we bestow upon our
national maidenhood is as nothing in comparison with the protective
commotion with which we surround that shrinking sensitive plant, Mr.
Thomas Atkins.
Take etiquette and deportment. If a soldier wishes to speak to an
officer, an introduction must be effected by a sergeant. Let us
suppose that Private M'Splae, in the course of a route-march, develops
a blister upon his great toe. He begins by intimating the fact to
the nearest lance-corporal. The lance-corporal takes the news to the
platoon sergeant, who informs the platoon commander, who may or may
not decide to take the opinion of his company commander in the matter.
Anyhow, when the hobbling warrior finally obtains permission to fall
out and alleviate his distress, a corporal goes with him, for fear he
should lose himself, or his boot--it is wonderful what Thomas _can_
lose when he sets his mind to it--or, worst crime of all, his rifle.
Again, if two privates are detailed to empty the regimental ashbin,
a junior N.C.O. ranges them in line, calls them to attention, and
marches them off to the scene of their labours, decently and in order.
If a soldier obtains leave to go home on furlough for the week-end, he
is collected into a party, and, after being inspected to see that
his buttons are clean, his hair properly cut, and his nose correctly
blown, is marched off to the station, where a ticket is provided
for him, and he and his fellow-wayfarers are safely tucked into a
third-smoker labelled "Military Party." (No wonder he sometimes gets
lost on arriving at Waterloo!) In short, if there is a job to be done,
the senior soldier present chaperons somebody else while he does it.
This system has been attacked on the ground that it breeds loss of
self-reliance and initiative. As a matter of fact, the result is
almost exactly the opposite. Under its operation a soldier rapidly
acquires the art of placing himself under the command of his nearest
superior in rank; but at the same time he learns with equal rapidity
to take command himself if no superior be present--no bad thing in
times of battle and sudden death, when shrapnel is whistling, and
promotion is taking place with grim and unceasing automaticity.
This principle is extended, too, to the enforcement of law and order.
If Private M'Sumph is insubordinate or riotous, there is never any
question of informal correction or summary justice. News of the
incident wends its way upward, by a series of properly regulated
channels, to the officer in command. Presently, by the same route, an
order comes back, and in a twinkling the offender finds himself taken
under arrest and marched off to the guard-room by two of his own
immediate associates. (One of them may be his own rear-rank man.) But
no officer or non-commissioned officer ever lays a finger on him. The
penalty for striking a superior officer is so severe that the law
decrees, very wisely, that a soldier must on no account ever be
arrested by any save men of his own rank. If Private M'Sumph, while
being removed in custody, strikes Private Tosh upon the nose and kicks
Private Cosh upon the shin, to the effusion of blood, no great harm is
done--except to the lacerated Cosh and Tosh; but if he had smitten an
intruding officer in the eye, his punishment would have been dire and
grim. So, though we may call military law cumbrous and grandmotherly,
there is sound sense and real mercy at the root of it.
* * * * *
But there is one Law of the Medes and Persians which is sensibly
relaxed these days. We, the newly joined, have always been given to
understand that whatever else you do, you must never, never betray any
interest in your profession--in short, talk shop--at Mess. But in our
Mess no one ever talks anything else. At luncheon, we relate droll
anecdotes concerning our infant platoons; at tea, we explain, to any
one who will listen, exactly how we placed our sentry line in last
night's operations; at dinner, we brag about our Company musketry
returns, and quote untruthful extracts from our butt registers. At
breakfast, every one has a newspaper, which he props before him and
reads, generally aloud. We exchange observations upon the war news. We
criticise von Kluck, and speak kindly of Joffre. We note, daily, that
there is nothing to report on the Allies' right, and wonder regularly
how the Russians are really getting on in the Eastern theatre.
Then, after observing that the only sportsman in the combined forces
of the German Empire is--or was--the captain of the _Emden_, we come
to the casualty lists--and there is silence.
Englishmen are fond of saying, with the satisfied air of men letting
off a really excellent joke, that every one in Scotland knows every
one else. As we study the morning's Roll of Honour, we realise that
never was a more truthful jest uttered. There is not a name in the
list of those who have died for Scotland which is not familiar to us.
If we did not know the man--too often the boy--himself, we knew his
people, or at least where his home was. In England, if you live in
Kent, and you read that the Northumberland Fusiliers have been cut
up or the Duke of Cornwall's Light Infantry badly knocked about, you
merely sigh that so many more good men should have fallen. Their names
are glorious names, but they are only names. But never a Scottish
regiment comes under fire but the whole of Scotland feels it. Scotland
is small enough to know all her sons by heart. You may live in
Berwickshire, and the man who has died may have come from Skye; but
his name is quite familiar to you. Big England's sorrow is national;
little Scotland's is personal.
Then we pass on to our letters. Many of us--particularly the senior
officers--have news direct from the trenches--scribbled scraps torn
out of field-message books. We get constant tidings of the Old
Regiment. They marched thirty-five miles on such a day; they captured
a position after being under continuous shell fire for eight hours on
another; they were personally thanked by the Field-Marshal on another.
Oh, we shall have to work hard to get up to that standard!
"They want more officers," announces the Colonel. "Naturally, after
the time they've been having! But they must go to the Third Battalion
for them: that's the proper place. I will not have them coming here:
I've told them so at Headquarters. The Service Battalions simply
_must_ be led by the officers who have trained them if they are to
have a Chinaman's chance when we go out. I shall threaten to resign if
they try any more of their tricks. That'll frighten 'em! Even dug-outs
like me are rare and valuable objects at present."
The Company Commanders murmur assent--on the whole sympathetically.
Anxious though they are to get upon business terms with the Kaiser,
they are loath to abandon the unkempt but sturdy companies over which
they have toiled so hard, and which now, though destitute of blossom,
are rich in promise of fruit. But the senior subalterns look up
hopefully. Their lot is hard. Some of them have been in the Service
for ten years, yet they have been left behind. They command no
companies. "Here," their faces say, "we are merely marking time while
others learn. Send _us_!"
* * * * *
However, though they have taken no officers yet, signs are not wanting
that they will take some soon. To-day each of us was presented with a
small metal disc.
Bobby Little examined his curiously. Upon the face thereof was
stamped, in ragged, irregular capitals--
[Illustration: LITTLE, R., 2ND LT.,
B. & W. HIGHRS.
C. OF E.]
"What is this for?" he asked.
Captain Wagstaffe answered.
"You wear it round your neck," he said.
Our four friends, once bitten, regarded the humorist suspiciously.
"Are you rotting us?" asked Waddell cautiously.
"No, my son," replied Wagstaffe, "I am not."
"What is it for, then?"
"It's called an Identity Disc. Every soldier on active service wears
one."
"Why should the idiots put one's religion on the thing?" inquired
Master Cockerell, scornfully regarding the letters "C. of E." upon his
disc.
Wagstaffe regarded him curiously.
"Think it over," he suggested.