_Thanda lohā garam lohe ko marta hai_ (Cold iron will cut hot
iron).
AT the next halt I fell into Scotland—blocks and blocks of it—a world of
precise-spoken, thin-lipped men, with keen eyes. They gave me directions
which led by friendly stages to the heart of another work of creation
and a huge drill-shed where the miniature rifles were busy. Few things
are duller than Morris-tube practice in the shed, unless it be judging
triangles of error against blank-walls. I thought of the military
policeman with the sore toe; for these ‘innocents’ were visibly enjoying
both games. They sighted over the sand-bags with the gravity of
surveyors, while the instructors hurled knowledge at them like
sling-stones.
‘Man, d’ye see your error? Step here, man, and I’ll show ye.’ Teacher
and taught glared at each other like theologians in full debate; for
this is the Scot’s way of giving and getting knowledge.
At the miniature targets squad after squad rose from beside their
deadly-earnest instructors, gathered up their target-cards, and
whisperingly compared them, five heads together under a window.
‘Aye, that was where I loosed too soon.’ ‘I misdoubt I took too much o’
the foresight.’ Not a word of hope and comfort in their achievements.
Nothing but calvinistic self-criticism.
These men ran a little smaller than the North-country folk down the
road, but in depth of chest, girth of fore-arm, biceps, and
neck-measurement they were beautifully level and well up; and the squads
at bayonet-practice had their balance, drive, and recover already. As
the light failed one noticed the whites of their eyes turning towards
their instructors. It reminded one that there is always a touch of the
cateran in the most docile Scot, even as the wolf persists in every dog.
‘And what about crime?’ I demanded.
There was none. They had not joined to play the fool. Occasionally a few
unstable souls who have mistaken their vocation try to return to civil
life by way of dishonourable discharge, and think it ‘funny’ to pile up
offences. The New Army has no use for those people either, and attends
to them on what may be called ‘democratic lines,’ which is all the same
as the old barrack-room court-martial. Nor does it suffer fools gladly.
There is no time to instruct them. They go to other spheres.
There was, or rather is, a man who intends to join a certain battalion.
He joined it once, scraped past the local doctor, and was drafted into
the corps, only to be hove out for varicose veins. He went back to his
accommodating doctor, repeated the process, and was again rejected. They
are waiting for him now in his third incarnation; both sides are equally
determined. And there was another Scot who joined, served awhile, and
left, as he might have left a pit or a factory. Somehow it occurred to
him that explanations were required, so he wrote to his commanding
officer from his home address and asked him what he recommended him to
do. The C.O., to his infinite credit, wrote back: ‘Suppose you rejoin,’
which the man did, and no more said. His punishment, of course, will
come to him when he realises what he has done. If he does not then
perish in his self-contempt (he has a good conceit of himself) he will
make one first-rate non-commissioned officer.