My dear _Mr. Punch_,--I think I see now the reason for the wholesale
transference of our Battalion to clerical duties as described in my
last letter. We are being "trained for the Front in the shortest
possible time." That much is certain, because it is in the official
documents. Clearly, then, we are to form a new arm. Each man will
be posted in a tree with a typewriter before him. The enemy,
approaching, will hear from all sides a continuous tap-tapping and will
fly in disorder, imagining that he is being assailed by a new kind of
machine-gun.
Did I tell you that we are living in a tent? Four of us occupy one
tent; that is to say, we occupy that portion of it which is not
required by some five hundred millions of ants. I arrived at this
figure in the same way that other scientists count microbes--by
multiplying the number on a square inch by the superficial area in
inches of the tent. Ants are voracious brutes. In five minutes they
can eat a loaf of bread, two pounds of treacle, a tin of oatmeal
(unopened), eight bananas, a shaving brush and a magazine. So at least
we were assured by our colleagues in the office, some of whom have been
in India for many years and therefore ought to know.
When we leave the tent to step across into the office some of the more
friendly of the ants accompany us and indulge in playful little pranks.
Only this morning one of them, while my back was turned, upset a bottle
of ink over a document I had just completed.
We keep alive our military ardour in our spare time by waging war upon
this enemy. Their strategy resembles that of the Germans. They rely
upon masses, and every day their losses are appalling. But, unlike the
Germans, they seem to have unlimited reserves to draw upon. I foresee
the day when we shall be driven out and they will be left masters of
the field.
But enough of ants, which are becoming a bore. I have verified the
theory that human nature is the same all the world over. When I was at
home for that last forty-eight hours' leave before we sailed for India,
five of us returned to the camp on Salisbury Plain by motor, and on
our way we stopped at a country inn. Doubtless our big khaki overcoats
and sunburnt faces gave us a more soldierly appearance than the length
of our military training warranted, and an elderly countryman seated
on a bench inside, regarding us with interest, asked me if we were off
to the front. "Well," I said, "we're going to India first, and after a
few months we are to return to the Front." Plainly our friend was in a
difficulty. He was a patriot. One could see that he longed intensely,
ardently, to express his appreciation of our action in volunteering,
but he could not find the appropriate words. There was a long pause.
Then a light of inspiration shone on his countenance. He had found it.
His hand dived into his pocket. "Here," he said, "have some nuts."
So in India. We have another patriot here in our "boy" Mahadoo, who for
two rupees a week acts as our valet, footman, housemaid, kitchenmaid,
chambermaid, boots, errand boy and washerwoman. "And the _sahib_
will fight the Germans?" he asked me the other day. "I hope so," I
replied; "in a few months." One could see that he too experienced the
difficulty of adequate expression. Then his hand went to his turban
and he produced a small slab of English chocolate. "For you, _rajah_,"
he said, and, standing to attention, he saluted like a soldier. And I
believe there was a lump in his honest dusky throat.
Life can be very difficult when you have only one uniform, and that
an Indian summer one. I realised the other day that the dreaded hour
had arrived when mine _must_ be purified. Accordingly I gave Mahadoo
instructions to wash it, and went into the office in pyjamas. So far
so good. An hour later came an order from the D.A.Q.M.G. that I was
to go into the town to cash a cheque. My uniform lay on the grass
outside the tent, clean but wet. I was a soldier. I must obey orders
unquestioningly. What was to be done?
Well, I pondered; it is a soldier's business unflinchingly to brave
danger and hardship. I must go into the town in pyjamas and run
stolidly the gauntlet of curious glances and invidious remarks. The
bank lay in the centre of the European quarter. Very well, I must do my
duty nevertheless. I was a soldier.
So I wrung out my uniform, changed into it and caught a severe cold.
I suppose they don't give V.C.'s till you have actually figured on the
battlefield.
Yours ever,
ONE OF THE _PUNCH_ BRIGADE.
* * * * *
[Illustration: CONVERSATIONS OF THE MOMENT.
"WHY IS EVERYBODY MAKING SUCH A FUSS WITH THAT RATHER
ORDINARY-LOOKING LITTLE PERSON?"
"_MY DEAR!_ SHE HAS A CELLAR."]
* * * * *
Another Impending Apology.
"NEW BANKING DEPARTURE.