"I suppose," he said almost timidly, "that those were members of a
_Reserve_ Regiment of the Guards?"
Cockerell, who had never outgrown certain characteristics which most
of us shed upon emerging from the Lower Fourth, laughed long and loud.
"That crowd? They belong to one of the Labour Battalions. They make
roads, and dig support trenches, and sling mud about generally.
Wonderful old sportsmen! Pleased as Punch when a shell falls within
half a mile of them. Something to write home about. What? I say, I
pulled your leg that time! Here we are at Headquarters. Come and
report to the C.O. Grenadier Guards! My aunt!"
* * * * *
Angus, although his Celtic enthusiasm sometimes led him into traps,
was no fool. He soon settled down in his new surroundings, and found
favour with Colonel Kemp, which was no light achievement.
"You won't find that the War, in its present stage, calls for any
display of genius," the Colonel explained to Angus at their first
interview. "I don't expect my officers to exhibit any quality but the
avoidance of _sloppiness_. If I detail you to be at a certain spot,
at a certain hour, with a certain number of men--a ration-party, or a
working-party, or a burial-party, or anything you like,--all I ask is
that you will be _there_, at the appointed hour, with the whole
of your following. That may not sound a very difficult feat, but
experience has taught me that if a man can achieve it, and can be
_relied_ upon to achieve it, say, nine times out of ten--well, he is
a pearl of price; and there is not a C.O. in the British Army who
wouldn't scramble to get him! That's all, M'Lachlan. Good morning!"
By punctilious attention to this sound advice Angus soon began to
build up a reputation. He treated war-worn veterans like Bobby
Little with immense respect, and this, too, was counted to him for
righteousness. He exercised his platoon with appalling vigour. Upon
Company route-marches he had to be embedded in some safe place in the
middle of the column; in fact, his enormous stride and pedestrian
enthusiasm would have reduced his followers to pulp. At Mess he was
mute: like a wise man, he was feeling for his feet.
But being, like Moses, slow of tongue, he provided himself with an
Aaron. Quite inadvertently, be it said. Bidden to obtain a servant for
his personal needs, he selected the only man in the Battalion whose
name he knew--Private Bogle, the _ci-devant_ painter of houses. That
friendly creature obeyed the call with alacrity. If his house-painting
was no better than his valeting, then his prospects of a "contrack"
after the War were poor indeed; but as a Mess waiter he was a joy for
ever. Despite the blood-curdling whispers of the Mess Corporal, his
natural urbanity of disposition could not be stemmed. Of the comfort
of others he was solicitous to the point of oppressiveness. A Mess
waiter's idea of efficiency as a rule is to stand woodenly at
attention in an obscure corner of the room. When called upon, he
starts forward with a jerk, and usually trips over something--probably
his own feet. Not so Private Bogle.
"Wull you try another cup o' tea, Major?" he would suggest at
breakfast to Major Wagstaffe, leaning affectionately over the back of
his chair.
"No, thank you, Bogle," Major Wagstaffe would reply gravely.
"Weel, it's cauld onyway," Bogle would rejoin, anxious to endorse his
superior's decision.