SCENE.--_The canteen of the Rutlandshire Regiment, at Downboro', an
airy, plastered hall with high windows. A bar at one end is backed
by a rampart of beer barrels. A double line of barrack tables and
benches runs down the room. The hour is 5 p.m. At one of the tables
sits Mr. W. Wilson, late Private in the regiment, in all his glory
of a new check suit with an aggressive pattern, a crimson tie, a
horseshoe pin, an aluminium watch-chain, a grey "bowler" and a
buttonhole of violets. Privates W. and G. Smith, P. Brady, E. Dudd
and other men of H. company are at the table, or standing near it._
_Mr. Wilson (passing round a great tin measure containing beer, after
taking a preliminary pull himself)._ Of course I do 'ear more, being in
the smoke, than you 'ear down in this provincial 'ole; and there's
generals and statesmen and such-like comes and stays at our place, and
when they gets tied up in a knot over any military question, as often as
not they says, "Let's ask Wilson, the under-gardener. 'E's a
hex-military man; 'e's a 'ighly intellergent feller"; and I generally
gets them out of their difficulty.
_Pte. W. Smith._ D'ye know anything about this army reform?
_Mr. Wilson (with lofty scorn)._ Do I know anything about it?
_Pte. G. Smith._ D'ye think they're going to make a good job of it?
_Mr. Wilson._ Naaw. And why? Becos they're goin' the wrong wai to work.
They're arskin the opinion of perfeshernal hexperts and other sich
ignoramuses, and ain't goin' to the fountain 'ead. Oo's the backbone of
the English service?
_Pte. P. Brady._ The Oirish private.
_Mr. Wilson._ Right you are, my 'Ibernian--always subsitooting British
for Hirish--and the British compiny is the finest horganisation in the
world. Give the private a free 'and and a rise of pay, and make the
compiny the model of the army, and then yer can put all the hexperts
and all the Ryle Commissions and their reports to bed.
_Pte. Dudd._ As how?
_Mr. Wilson._ As 'ow, yer old thick head? It's as plain as a pike-staff.
Taike this question of responsibility. When some one comes a bloomer,
and the paipers all rise 'ell, the civilian toff, 'oos a sort of a
commander-in-chief in a Sunday coat and a chimney-pot 'at, 'e says, "It
ain't me. Arsk the real commander-in-chief," and the feeld-marshal 'e
says, "Arsk the hadjutant-general," and the hadjutant-general, 'e says,
"Arsk the hordnance bloke." Now in the compiny there ain't none of that.
If the colonel goin' round at kit inspection finds the beds badly made
up, or jags and sight-protectors deficient, or 'oles in the men's socks,
'e goes fierce for the captin' and threatens to stop 'is leave; and the
captin' don't say, "Oh, it's the hadjutant, or the quarter-master, or
the chaplain what's to blame," no, 'e gives the subalterns and the
coloured-sergeant beans, and they slip it in to the sergeants and
corprils in charge of squads, and the beds is set up straight, and the
men put down for jags and sight-protectors, and the 'oles in the socks
is mended.
_Pte. W. Smith._ That's so, old pal. What else would you recermend?
_Mr. Wilson_ (_reaching out for the measure)._ Thank yer. This 'ere
army-reforming's a dry job. Now as to the metherd of attack. When the
regiment goes out field-firing the henemy's a line of hearthenware pots,
touched up on the sly by the markers with a dash of white; the captains
count the telergraph posts up the range and give the exact distance; and
the men goes 'opping along in line like crows on a ploughed field, the
sergeantes a-naggin' 'em about the 'Ithe position and the coprils
calling them back to pick up empty cartridge cases. Is that the wai,
that you, George Smith, and you, Bill, and you, Pat, used ter creep up
to the rabbit warrens when we used ter go out in the herly morning to
assist the farmers to keep down the ground gime--poaching the colonel
called it? No, we hexecuted wide turning movements and never showed no
more than the tip of a nose. Let drill of attack alone, I say, and
develop the sporting hinstinct of the private.
_Omnes._ 'Ear, 'ear.
_Mr. Wilson._ And this matter of mobility. Why, if you or me or any of
us was on furlough at 'Ampstead or Margit, we was never off a 'orse's or
a moke's back as long as the dibs lasted. Give us the brass, and we'll
find the mobility.
_Pte. W. Smith._ Why don't yer write to the Prime Minister, and give him
your ideas?
_Mr. Wilson._ I shall. A few hintelligent ex-privates in the Cabinet, a
rise of pay for privates and two days' rabitting, and a trip to Margit
every week would sive the British Army.
* * * * *