I had the luck to meet a Sergeant-Major, who was the Sergeant-Major of
one’s dreams. He had just had sure information that the kilts for his
battalion were coming in a few days, so, after three months’ hard work,
life smiled upon him. From kilts one naturally went on to the pipes. The
battalion had its pipes—a very good set. How did it get them? Well,
there was, of course, the Duke. They began with him. And there was a
Scots lord concerned with the regiment. And there was a leddy of a
certain clan connected with the battalion. Hence the pipes. Could
anything be simpler or more logical? And when the kilts came the men
would be different creatures. Were they good men, I asked. ‘Yes. Verra
good. Wha’s to mislead ‘em?’ said he.
‘Old soldiers,’ I suggested, meanly enough. ‘Rejoined privates of long
ago.’
‘Ay, there might have been a few such in the beginning, but they’d be
more useful in the Special Reserve Battalions. Our boys are good boys,
but, ye’ll understand, they’ve to be handled—just handled a little.’
Then a subaltern came in, loaded with regimental forms, and visibly
leaning on the Sergeant-Major, who explained, clarified, and referred
them on the proper quarters.
‘Does the work come back to you?’ I asked, for he had been long in
pleasant civil employ.
‘Ay. It does that. It just does that.’ And he addressed the fluttering
papers, lists, and notes, with the certainty of an old golfer on a
well-known green.
Squads were at bayonet practice in the square. (They like bayonet
practice, especially after looking at pictures in the illustrated
dailies.) A new draft was being introduced to its rifles. The rest were
getting ready for evening parade. They were all in khaki, so one could
see how they had come on in the last ten weeks. It was a result the
meekest might have been proud of, but the New Army does not cultivate
useless emotions. Their officers and their instructors worked over them
patiently and coldly and repeatedly, with their souls in the job: and
with their soul, mind, and body in the same job the men took—soaked
up—the instruction. And that seems to be the note of the New Army.