So much for the rank and file. Of the officers we need only say that
the old hands have been a godsend to our young regiment; while the
juniors, to quote their own Colonel, have learned as much in six
months as the average subaltern learns in three years; and whereas
in the old days a young officer could always depend on his platoon
sergeant to give him the right word of command or instruct him in
company routine, the positions are now in many cases reversed. But
that by the way. The outstanding feature of the relationship
between officers and men during all this long, laborious, sometimes
heart-breaking winter has been this--that, despite the rawness of
our material and the novelty of our surroundings, in the face of
difficulties which are now happily growing dim in our memory, the
various ranks have never quite given up trying, never altogether
lost faith, never entirely forgotten the Cause which has brought us
together. And the result--the joint result--of it all is a real live
regiment, with a _morale_ and soul of its own.
But so far everything has been purely suppositious. We have no
knowledge as to what our real strength or weakness may be. We have run
our trial trips over a landlocked stretch of smooth water. To-morrow,
when we steam out to face the tempest which is shaking the foundations
of the world, we shall see what we shall see. Some of us, who at
present are exalted for our smartness and efficiency, will indubitably
be found wanting--wanting in stamina of body or soul--while others,
hitherto undistinguished, will come to their own. Only War itself can
discover the qualities which count in War. But we silently pray, in
our dour and inarticulate hearts, that the supreme British virtue--the
virtue of holding on, and holding on, and holding on, until our end is
accomplished--may not be found wanting in a single one of us.
To take a last survey of the regiment which we have created--one
little drop in the incredible wave which has rolled with gathering
strength from, end to end of this island of ours during the past
six months, and now hangs ready to crash upon the gates of our
enemies--what manner of man has it produced? What is he like, this
impromptu Thomas Atkins?
Well, when he joined, his outstanding feature was a sort of surly
independence, the surliness being largely based upon the fear of losing
the independence. He has got over that now. He is no longer morbidly
sensitive about his rights as a free and independent citizen and the
backbone of the British electorate. He has bigger things to think of. He
no longer regards sergeants as upstart slave-drivers--frequently he is a
sergeant himself--nor officers as grinding capitalists. He is undergoing
the experience of the rivets in Mr. Kipling's story of "The Ship that
Found Herself." He is adjusting his perspectives. He is beginning to
merge himself in the Regiment.
He no longer gets drunk from habit. When he does so now, it is because
there were no potatoes at dinner, or because there has been a leak
in the roof of his hut for a week and no one is attending to it, or
because his wife is not receiving her separation allowance. Being an
inarticulate person, he finds getting drunk the simplest and most
effective expedient for acquainting the powers that be with the fact
that he has a grievance. Formerly, the morning list of "drunks" merely
reflected the nearness or remoteness of payday. Now, it is a most
reliable and invaluable barometer of the regimental atmosphere.
He has developed--quite spontaneously, for he has had few
opportunities for imitation--many of the characteristics of the
regular soldier. He is quick to discover himself aggrieved, but is
readily appeased if he feels that his officer is really doing his best
for him, and that both of them are the victims of a higher power. On
the other hand, he is often amazingly cheerful under uncomfortable and
depressing surroundings. He is growing quite fastidious, too, about
his personal appearance when off duty. (You should see our quiffs
on Saturdays!) He is quite incapable of keeping possession of his
clothing, his boots, his rifle, his health, or anything that is
his, without constant supervision and nurse-maiding. And that he is
developing a strong bent towards the sentimental is evinced by the
choruses that he sings in the gloaming and his taste in picture
post-cards.
So far he may follow the professional model, but in other respects he
is quite _sui generis_. No sergeant in a Highland regiment of the line
would ever refer to a Cockney private, with all humility, as "a young
English gentleman"; neither would an ordinary soldier salute an
officer quite correctly with one hand while employing the other to
light his pipe. In "K(1)" we do these things and many others, which,
give us a _cachet_ of our own of which we are very rightly and
properly proud.
So we pin our faith to the man who has been at once our despair and
our joy since the month of August. He has character; he has grit;
and now that he is getting discipline as well, he is going to be an
everlasting credit to the cause which roused his manhood and the land
which gave him birth.
* * * * *
That is the tale of The First Hundred Thousand--Part One. Whether Part
Two will be forthcoming, and how much of it there will be, depends
upon two things--the course of history, and the present historian's
eye for cover.