Peter Carmichael was one of the first to enlist in the regiment. There
was another Carmichael in the same company, so Peter at roll-call
was usually addressed by the sergeant as "Twenty-seven fufty-fower
Carmichael," 2754 being his regimental number. The army does not
encourage Christian names. When his attestation paper was filled up,
he gave his age as nineteen; his address, vaguely, as Renfrewshire;
and his trade, not without an air, as a "holder-on." To the mystified
Bobby Little he entered upon a lengthy explanation of the term in a
language composed almost entirely of vowels, from which that
officer gathered, dimly, that holding-on had something to do with
shipbuilding.
Upon the barrack square his platoon commander's attention was again
drawn to Peter, owing to the passionate enthusiasm with which he
performed the simplest evolutions, such as forming fours and sloping
arms--military exercises which do not intrigue the average private to
any great extent. Unfortunately, desire frequently outran performance.
Peter was undersized, unmuscular, and extraordinarily clumsy. For a
long time Bobby Little thought that Peter, like one or two of
his comrades, was left-handed, so made allowances. Ultimately he
discovered that his indulgence was misplaced: Peter was equally
incompetent with either hand. He took longer in learning to fix
bayonets or present arms than any other man in the platoon. To be
fair, Nature had done little to help him. He was thirty-three inches
round the chest, five feet four in height, and weighed possibly nine
stone. His complexion was pasty, and, as Captain Wagstaffe remarked,
you could hang your hat on any bone in his body. His eyesight was not
all that the Regulations require, and on the musketry-range he
was "put back," to his deep distress, "for further instruction."
Altogether, if you had not known the doctor who passed him, you would
have said it was a mystery how he passed the doctor.
But he possessed the one essential attribute of the soldier. He had a
big heart. He was keen. He allowed nothing to come between him and
his beloved duties. ("He was aye daft for to go sogerin'," his father
explained to Captain Blaikie; "but his mother would never let him
away. He was ower wee, and ower young.") His rifle, buttons, and boots
were always without blemish. Further, he was of the opinion that a
merry heart goes all the way. He never sulked when the platoon were
kept on parade five minutes after the breakfast bugle had sounded.
He made no bones about obeying orders and saluting officers--acts
of abasement which grated sorely at times upon his colleagues, who
reverenced no one except themselves and their Union. He appeared to
revel in muddy route-marches, and invariably provoked and led the
choruses. The men called him "Wee Pe'er," and ultimately adopted him
as a sort of company mascot. Whereat Pe'er's heart glowed; for when
your associates attach a diminutive to your Christian name, you
possess something which millionaires would gladly give half their
fortune to purchase.
And certainly he required all the social success he could win, for
professionally Peter found life a rigorous affair. Sometimes, as he
staggered into barracks after a long day, carrying a rifle made of
lead and wearing a pair of boots weighing a hundredweight apiece, he
dropped dead asleep on his bedding before he could eat his dinner. But
he always hotly denied the imputation that he was "sick."
Time passed. The regiment was shaking down. Seven of Peter's
particular cronies were raised to the rank of lance-corporal--but not
Peter. He was "off the square" now--that is to say, he was done
with recruit drill for ever. He possessed a sound knowledge of
advance-guard and outpost work; his conduct-sheet was a blank page.
But he was not promoted. He was "ower wee for a stripe," he told
himself. For the present he must expect to be passed over. His chance
would come later, when he had filled out a little and got rid of his
cough.
The winter dragged on: the weather was appalling: the grousers gave
tongue with no uncertain voice, each streaming field-day. But Wee
Pe'er enjoyed it all. He did not care if it snowed ink. He was a
"sojer."
One day, to his great delight, he was "warned for guard"--a
particularly unpopular branch of a soldier's duties, for it means
sitting in the guard-room for twenty-four hours at a stretch, fully
dressed and accoutred, with intervals of sentry-go, usually in heavy
rain, by way of exercise. When Peter's turn for sentry-go came on he
splashed up and down his muddy beat--the battalion was in billets now,
and the usual sentry's verandah was lacking--as proud as a peacock,
saluting officers according to their rank, challenging stray civilians
with great severity, and turning out the guard on the slightest
provocation. He was at his post, soaked right through his greatcoat,
when the orderly officer made his night round. Peter summoned his
colleagues; the usual inspection of the guard took place; and the
sleepy men were then dismissed to their fireside. Peter remained;
the officer hesitated. He was supposed to examine the sentry in his
knowledge of his duties. It was a profitless task as a rule. The
tongue-tied youth merely gaped like a stranded fish, until the
sergeant mercifully intervened, in some such words as these--
"This man, sirr, is liable to get over-excited when addressed by an
officer."