_Physical Training Sergeant-Instructor._--Forward be--end. Ster--retch.
Be--end. Ster--retch. Feet together--place. 'Ands--down. Stan--zee. Squad
--'shun. Fingers straight, that man. Wotjer say? WOT? I can't 'elp wot the
drill-sergeant tells yer. When I sez "'Shun" I want fingers _straight
down_. On the command "Sitting--_down_" every man sits _down_ tailor-
fashion. Sitting--_down_. [_This is the position in which Swedish drill
squads hear words of wisdom._] Listen. An' look at me over there--not that
I likes the look of yer--'as to put up with that, but when I torks I wants
attention. Let me arsk yer this. Wot sort of men do we want in France? Why,
fit men. 'Ow do yer get fit? _I_ makes yer fit. 'Ow? Why, physical. Wot's
the good of a bloke in the trenches if he's sick parade every bloomin' day?
Arsk any of the serjents who is it wakes blokes up and makes 'em live men?
_Me._ In about six weeks you will be able to run ten miles before brekfast
in full marchin' order, carryin' 120 rounds, gettin' over six-foot walls
and jumpin' eight-foot ditches. Don't look _frightened_, Private West. I
'ave seen weedier and uglier-lookin' blokes than you do it when _I_'ve done
with 'em. One more thing....