MY DEAR CHARLES,--In all the stirring history of the War I don't know
which has been the most moving sight: the War Office trying to get me
to be a soldier, or the War Oflice trying to get me to stop being a
soldier.
Before the late Summer of 1914, England had evinced no burning
interest in its Henry. It had, in fact, left me to make my own way,
contenting itself with cautioning me if I didn't stick to the right
side of the road, or to fining me if I exceeded the speed limit. In
August of that memorable year it got, you will remember, mixed up
in rather a nasty bother. Searching for friends to get it out, it
bethought itself of Henry, along with 499,999 others whose names for
the moment I do not recall. Between us (with subsequent assistance) we
set things to rights, and nothing remained for Old England save to rid
itself gracefully of what remained of its few millions of new-found
friends. There was, however, no shaking off its bosom pal, Henry. I
am one of those loyal characters whose affection, once gained, nothing
can undo. No use saying to me: "Well, old man, it's getting late now;
you must come and see us again some other day." I am one of the sort
who answer: "Don't you worry yourself about that. I'm going to stay
and go on seeing you now."
In the early days of demobilisation there was, I think, a certain
novelty and attraction about my attitude to the problem. In contrast
to the impatient hordes crowding the entrance of the War Office,
ringing the front-door bell violently, tapping on the window-panes
and generally disturbing that serene atmosphere of peace which was the
great feature of the War in Whitehall, it was refreshing to think
of Henry, plugging quietly away elsewhere at his military duties,
undeterred by armistices, peaces and things of that kind. I fancy I
was well thought of in those days at the War House.
"Say what you like about him," I can hear A.G.4 remarking to M.S.19
(decimal 9 recurring) as they met in the corridor on their way to
lunch, "but I find him a patient, well-behaved young fellow."
"Yes," would be the thoughtful answer, "it seems almost a pity we are
going to lose him."
Speaking strictly between ourselves, I have never thought much of the
Military Secretary branch. What made them think they were going to
lose me as easily as all that?
What I said to myself was: "Henry, my lad, thirteen shillings and
elevenpence a day is thirteen shillings and elevenpence a day; now
isn't it? And war isn't war when there is a peace coming on. Why then
throw up a fat income just for the sake of getting into long trousers?
You stay where you are till they come and fetch you."
So I just stayed where I was, and I conducted the operation with such
ability and tact that Whitehall came to forget all about me. My name
went on appearing, with ever-increasing dignity and beauty, in the
Army List; but that made no difference. You see, though lots of people
write the Army List, no one ever reads it; only from time to time
a man will surreptitiously turn up his own name, just to renew his
feeling of self-importance, or in an emergency he will look up the
name of a friend in order to get the right initials after it and not
risk giving that personal offence which may prevent the loan....
But when I say that I stayed where I was I don't mean to suggest that
I didn't go on leave in the usual way. Indeed I often came home, in
full regimentals, too, partly to impress you and partly to travel
first-class at your expense. Fellow-passengers never thought of
turning on me and rending me, as being the cause of
six-shillings-in-the-pound. They would be extremely polite and make
friendly conversation with me, leading up to the point that they had
been soldiers themselves once, but had given it up, owing to having
been told that the War was finished.
I would be just as polite to them, telling them they might count on
me to return to the discomforts and risks of civil life as soon as I
could be spared from the front. They had never the intelligence, or
daring to ask, "The front of what?"
Now the climax has arrived; I am asked if they must throw me out or
will I go quietly? I fancy I have been caught by one of those
card-indexes. I suspect some Departmental General of showing off to a
friend. "This is my IN basket," I can hear him explaining as he shows
his audience his office; "every letter which comes in goes into the
IN. That is my OUT basket, and every letter which goes out goes out of
the OUT.
"And then, Sir, we have the Card Index. A complete record of every
officer in the Army, permanent or temporary."
"Are there still temporary officers in the Army?" asks the audience,
not being able to think of anything better to ask, and clearly being
called upon to ask something.
"Sergeant-Major, turn up 'Officers, army, temporary, the, in,' for
this gentleman."
And thus the shameful truth comes out. One card only--mine.
Exit audience wondering what manner of intrepid man this Henry might
be.
Originally the W.O. had had a great idea; they caused my regiment
softly and silently to vanish away, thinking that I would vanish with
it. But I had been too sharp for them. Learning that they were bent
on "disembodying" me, and not liking the sound of the word, I had very
quietly removed myself from my regiment to the Staff. Thus for a few
happy months we see the W.O. rendered inert.
My final defeat was due to a chance remark of my own, made to one of
the fifty-nine officers under whose direct command I served. Upon
my first arriving on his Staff he had said to me, "Oh, by the way,
P.S.C., of course?" Quite affable, frank and to the point; "P.S.C., of
course?"
Not knowing the language, I could not make an equally affable answer.
I asked him to repeat the question, but to change the code.
"You have Passed Staff College, of course?" he said a little less
affably.
I then had the misfortune to answer: "Why, of course, if you mean that
tall building on the right as I came up here from the station?"
He then made up his mind that I was not only wanting in essential
parts, but was also the sort of person who jested on religious
subjects. He never forgot the matter; indeed, when applied to (under
"Secret and Confidential" cover) to suggest a means of getting rid of
me, he very clearly remembered it. At once every department in the War
House got busy; the interest of the Secretary of State was enlisted,
and the War Cabinet decided that for permanent purposes my post
must necessarily be held by a P.S.C. man. Done in by what was little
better, when you come to think of it, than a mere postscript.
Please understand that there was no talk of discharging me; no talk
of demobilising me; no talk even of disembodying me. Without any
reflection on my conduct and merely upon the grounds that, not being
P.S.C., I could not be regarded as quite right in the head, they
intimated their intention of vacating my appointment by the simple
process of an advertisement in the fashionable columns of _The London
Gazette_.
"What happens next?" I asked.
"You will return to regimental duty," they said.
"But there isn't any regiment," I pointed out triumphantly, "therefore
there won't be any duty."
They didn't seem to mind that, and for some time I wondered why. Then
a thought occurred to me.
"But here, I say, what about my pay?"
"Ah!" said they unhelpfully....
And that, my dear Charles, is why, if you keep your eye on the
journals of (say) the Summer of 1925, you will read in the Stop-press
Column an urgent telegram from the W.O.: "On April 1st, 1920, the
following relinquishes his appointment
(Remaining, however,
Yours always), HENRY."
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