"What for is the wee felly gaun' tae show us puctures?"
Second Lieutenant Bobby Little, assisted by a sergeant and two unhandy
privates, is engaged in propping a large and highly-coloured work of
art, mounted on a rough wooden frame and supported on two unsteady
legs, against the wall of the barrack square. A half-platoon of A
Company, seated upon an adjacent bank, chewing grass and enjoying the
mellow autumn sunshine, regard the swaying masterpiece with frank
curiosity. For the last fortnight they have been engaged in imbibing
the science of musketry. They have learned to hold their rifles
correctly, sitting, kneeling, standing, or lying; to bring their
backsights and foresights into an undeviating straight line with the
base of the bull's-eye; and to press the trigger in the manner laid
down in the Musketry Regulations--without wriggling the body or
"pulling-off."
They have also learned to adjust their sights, to perform the loading
motions rapidly and correctly, and to obey such simple commands as--
"_At them two, weemen_"--officers' wives, probably--"_proceeding from
left tae right across the square, at five hundred yairds_"
--they are really about fifteen yards away, covered with
confusion--"_five roonds, fire!_"
But as yet they have discharged no shots from their rifles. It has all
been make-believe, with dummy cartridges, and fictitious ranges, and
snapping triggers. To be quite frank, they are getting just a little
tired of musketry training--forgetting for the moment that a soldier
who cannot use his rifle is merely an expense to his country and a
free gift to the enemy. But the sight of Bobby Little's art gallery
cheers them up. They contemplate the picture with childlike interest.
It resembles nothing so much as one of those pleasing but imaginative
posters by the display of which our Railway Companies seek to attract
the tourist to the less remunerative portions of their systems.
"What for is the wee felly gaun' tae show us puctures?"
Thus Private Mucklewame. A pundit in the rear rank answers him.
"Yon's Gairmany."
"Gairmany ma auntie!" retorts Mucklewame. "There's no chumney-stalks
in Gairmany."
"Maybe no; but there's wundmulls. See the wundmull there--on yon wee
knowe!"
"There a pit-held!" exclaims another voice. This homely spectacle is
received with an affectionate sigh. Until two months ago more than
half the platoon had never been out of sight of at least half a dozen.
"See the kirk, in ablow the brae!" says some one else, in a pleased
voice. "It has a nock in the steeple."
"I hear they Gairmans send signals wi' their kirk-nocks," remarks
Private M'Micking, who, as one of the Battalion signallers--or
"buzzers," as the vernacular has it, in imitation of the buzzing
of the Morse instrument--regards himself as a sort of junior Staff
Officer. "They jist semaphore with the haunds of the nock--"
"I wonder," remarks the dreamy voice of Private M'Leary, the humorist
of the platoon, "did ever a Gairman buzzer pit the ba' through his ain
goal in a fitba' match?"
This irrelevant reference to a regrettable incident of the previous
Saturday afternoon is greeted with so much laughter that Bobby Little,
who has at length fixed his picture in position, whips round.
"Less talking there!" he announces severely, "or I shall have to stand
you all at attention!"
There is immediate silence--there is nothing the matter with Bobby's
discipline--and the outraged M'Micking has to content himself with
a homicidal glare in the direction of M'Leary, who is now hanging
virtuously upon his officer's lips.
"This," proceeds Bobby Little, "is what is known as a landscape
target."
He indicates the picture, which, apparently overcome by so much public
notice, promptly falls flat upon its face. A fatigue party under the
sergeant hurries to its assistance.
"It is intended," resumes Bobby presently, "to teach you--us--to
become familiar with various kinds of country, and to get into the
habit of picking out conspicuous features of the landscape, and
getting them by heart, and--er--so on. I want you all to study this
picture for three minutes. Then I shall face you about and ask you to
describe it to me."
After three minutes of puckered brows and hard breathing the squad is
turned to its rear and the examination proceeds.
"Lance-Corporal Ness, what did you notice in the foreground of the
picture?"
Lance-Corporal Ness gazes fiercely before him. He has noticed a good
deal, but can remember nothing. Moreover, he has no very clear idea
what a foreground may be.
"Private Mucklewame?"
Again silence, while the rotund Mucklewame perspires in the throes of
mental exertion.
"Private Wemyss?"
No answer.
"Private M'Micking!"
The "buzzer" smiles feebly, but says nothing.
"Well,"--desperately--"Sergeant Angus! Tell them what you noticed in
the foreground."
Sergeant Angus _(floruit_ A.D. 1895) springs smartly to attention, and
replies, with the instant obedience of the old soldier--
"The sky, sirr."
"Not in the foreground, as a rule," replies Bobby Little gently.
"About turn again, all of you, and we'll have another try."
In his next attempt Bobby abandons individual catechism.
"Now," he begins, "what conspicuous objects do we notice on this
target? In the foreground I can see a low knoll. To the left I see a
windmill. In the distance is a tall chimney. Half-right is a church.
How would that church be marked on a map?"
No reply.
"Well," explains Bobby, anxious to parade a piece of knowledge which
he only acquired himself a day or two ago, "churches are denoted in
maps by a cross, mounted on a square or circle, according as the
church has a square tower or a steeple. What has this church got?"
"A nock!" bellow the platoon, with stunning enthusiasm. (All but
Private M'Micking, that is.)
"A clock, sir," translates the sergeant, _sotto voce_.
"A clock? All right: but what I wanted was a steeple. Then, farther
away, we can see a mine, a winding brook, and a house, with a wall in
front of it. Who can see them?"
To judge by the collective expression of the audience, no one does.
Bobby ploughs on.
"Upon the skyline we notice--Squad, '_shun!_"
Captain Wagstaffe has strolled up. He is second in command of A
Company. Bobby explains to him modestly what he has been trying to do.
"Yes, I heard you," says Wagstaffe. "You take a breather, while I
carry on for a bit. Squad, stand easy, and tell me what you can see on
that target. Lance-Corporal Ness, show me a pit-head."
Lance-Corporal Ness steps briskly forward and lays a grubby forefinger
on Bobby's "mine."
"Private Mucklewame, show me a burn."
The brook is at once identified.
"Private M'Leary, shut your eyes and tell me what there is just to the
right of the windmill."
"A wee knowe, sirr," replies M'Leary at once. Bobby recognises his
"low knoll"--also the fact that it is no use endeavouring to instruct
the unlettered until you have learned their language.
"Very good!" says Captain Wagstaffe. "Now we will go on to what is
known as Description and Recognition of Targets. Supposing I had sent
one of you forward into that landscape as a scout.--By the way, what
is a scout?"
Dead silence, as usual.
"Come along! Tell me, somebody! Private Mucklewame?"
"They gang oot in a procession on Setter-day efternoons, sirr, in
short breeks," replies Mucklewame promptly.
"A procession is the very last thing a scout goes out in!" raps
Wagstaffe. (It is plain to Mucklewame that the Captain has never been
in Wishaw, but he does not argue the point.) "Private M'Micking, what
is a scout?"
"A spy, sirr," replies the omniscient one.
"Well, that's better; but there's a big difference between the two.
What is it?"
This is a poser. Several men know the difference, but feel quite
incapable of explaining it. The question runs down the front rank.
Finally it is held up and disposed of by one Mearns (from Aberdeen).
"A spy, sirr, gets mair money than a scout."
"Does he?" asks Captain Wagstaffe, smiling. "Well, I am not in a
position to say. But if he does, he earns it! Why?"
"Because if he gets catched he gets shot," volunteers a rear-rank man.
"Right. Why is he shot?"
This conundrum is too deep for the squad. The Captain has to answer it
himself.
"Because he is not in uniform, and cannot therefore be treated as an
ordinary prisoner of war. So never go scouting in your nightshirt,
Mucklewame!"
The respectable Mucklewame blushes deeply at this outrageous
suggestion, but Wagstaffe proceeds--
"Now, supposing I sent you out scouting, and you discovered that over
there--somewhere in the middle of this field"--he lays a finger on the
field in question--"there was a fold in the ground where a machine-gun
section was concealed: what would you do when you got back?"
"I would tell you, sirr," replied Private M'Micking politely.
"Tell me what?"
"That they was there, sirr."
"Where?"
"In yon place."
"How would you indicate the position of the place?"
"I would pint it oot with ma finger, sirr."
"Invisible objects half a mile away are not easily pointed out with
the finger," Captain Wagstaffe mentions. "Lance-Corporal Ness, how
would you describe it?"
"I would tak' you there, sirr."
"Thanks! But I doubt if either of us would come back! Private Wemyss?"
"I would say, sirr, that the place was west of the mansion-hoose."
"There's a good deal of land west of that mansion-house, you know,"
expostulates the Captain gently; "but we are getting on. Thompson?"
"I would say, sir," replies Thompson, puckering his brow, "that it was
in ablow they trees."
"It would be hard to indicate the exact trees you meant. Trees are too
common. You try, Corporal King."
But Corporal King, who earned his stripes by reason of physical rather
than intellectual attributes, can only contribute a lame reference
to "a bit hedge by yon dyke, where there's a kin' o' hole in the
tairget." Wagstaffe breaks in--
"Now, everybody, take some conspicuous and unmistakable object about
the middle of that landscape--something which no one can mistake. The
mansion-house will do--the near end. Now then--_mansion-house, near
end_! Got that?"
There is a general chorus of assent.
"Very well. I want you to imagine that the base of the mansion-house
is the centre of a great clock-face. Where would twelve o'clock be?"