THE AMATEUR ARMY

BY PATRICK MACGILL

BY THE SAME AUTHOR

CHILDREN OF THE DEAD END

THE RAT-PIT

[Illustration: RIFLEMAN PATRICK MACGILL]

HERBERT JENKINS LIMITED ARUNDEL PLACE HAYMARKET LONDON S. W. MCMXV

_Wyman & Sons Ltd. , Printers, London and Reading. _

PREFACE

I am one of the million or more male residents of the United Kingdom, who a year ago had no special yearning towards military life, but whojoined the army after war was declared. At Chelsea I found myself aunit of the 2nd London Irish Battalion, afterwards I was drilled intoshape at the White City and training was concluded at St. Albans, where I was drafted into the 1st Battalion. In my spare time I wroteseveral articles dealing with the life of the soldier from the stageof raw "rooky" to that of finished fighter. These I now publish inbook form, and trust that they may interest men who have joined thecolours or who intend to take up the profession of arms and becomemembers of the great brotherhood of fighters. 

 PATRICK MACGILL. 

 "The London Irish, " British Expeditionary Force, _March 25th_, 1915. 

CONTENTS

 PAGE CHAPTER I

 I ENLIST AND AM BILLETED 13

 CHAPTER II

 RATIONS AND SICK PARADE 23

 CHAPTER III

 PICKETS AND SPECIAL LEAVE 36

 CHAPTER IV

 OFFICERS AND RIFLES 48

 CHAPTER V

 THE COFFEE-SHOP AND WANKIN 60

 CHAPTER VI

 THE NIGHT SIDE OF SOLDIERING 71

 CHAPTER VII

 DIVISIONAL EXERCISE AND MIMIC WARFARE 85

 CHAPTER VIII

 THE GENERAL INSPECTION AND THE EVERLASTING WAITING 99

 CHAPTER IX

 READY TO GO--THE BATTALION MOVES 111

CHAPTER I

I ENLIST AND AM BILLETED

What the psychological processes were that led to my enlisting in"Kitchener's Army" need not be inquired into. Few men could explainwhy they enlisted, and if they attempted they might only prove thatthey had done as a politician said the electorate does, the rightthing from the wrong motive. There is a story told of an incident thatoccurred in Flanders, which shows clearly the view held in certainquarters. The Honourable Artillery Company were relieving someregulars in the trenches when the following dialogue ensued between atypical Tommy Atkins and an H. A. C. Private:

T. A. : "Oo are you?"

H. A. C. : "We're the H. A. C. "

T. A. : "Gentlemen, ain't yer?"

H. A. C. : "Oh well, in a way I suppose--"

T. A. : "'Ow many are there of yer?"

H. A. C. : "About eight hundred. "

T. A. : "An' they say yer volunteered!"

H. A. C. : "Yes, we did. "

T. A. : (With conviction as he gathers together his kit). "Blimey, yermust be mad!"

For curiosity's sake I asked some of my mates to give me their reasonsfor enlisting. One particular friend of mine, a good-humoured Cockney, grinned sheepishly as he replied confidentially, "Well, matey, I doneit to get away from my old gal's jore--now you've got it!" Anotherrecruit, a pale, intelligent youth, who knew Nietzsche by heart, glanced at me coldly as he answered, "I enlisted because I am anEnglishman. " Other replies were equally unilluminating and I desisted, remembering that the Germans despise us because we are devoid ofmilitary enthusiasm. 

The step once taken, however, we all set to work to discover how wemight become soldiers with a minimum of exertion and inconvenience toourselves. During the process I learned many things, among othersthat I was a unit in the most democratic army in history; where Oxfordundergraduate and farm labourer, Cockney and peer's son lost theiridentity and their caste in a vast war machine. I learned that TommyAtkins, no matter from what class he is recruited, is immortal, andthat we British are one of the most military nations in the world. Ihave learned to love my new life, obey my officers, and depend uponmy rifle; for I am Rifleman Patrick MacGill of the Irish Rifles, whererumour has it that the Colonel and I are the only two _real_ Irishmenin the battalion. It should be remembered that a unit of a rifleregiment is known as rifleman, not private; we like the term rifleman, and feel justly indignant when a wrong appellation plays skittles withour rank. 

The earlier stages of our training took place at Chelsea and the WhiteCity, where untiring instructors strove to convince us that we wereabout the most futile lot of "rookies" that it had ever been theirmisfortune to encounter. It was not until we were unceremoniouslydumped amidst the peaceful inhabitants of a city that slumbers in theshadow of an ancient cathedral that I felt I was in reality a soldier. 

Here we were to learn that there is no novelty so great for the newlyenlisted soldier as that of being billeted, in the process of which hefinds himself left upon an unfamiliar door-step like somebody else'swashing. He is the instrument by which the War Office disproves that"an Englishman's home is his castle. " He has the law behind him;but nothing else--save his own capacity for making friends with hisvictims. 

If the equanimity of English householders who are about to havesoldiers billeted upon them is a test of patriotism, there may well besome doubts about the patriotic spirit of the English middle class inthe present crisis. The poor people welcome to their homes soldierswho in most cases belong to the same strata of society as themselves;and, besides, ninepence a night as billet-fee is not to be laughedat. The upper class can easily bear the momentary inconvenience ofTommy's company; the method of procedure of the very rich in regard tobilleting seldom varies--a room, stripped of all its furniture, fittedwith beds and pictures, usually of a religious nature, is given upfor the soldiers' benefit. The lady of the house, gifted with thatfamiliar ease which the very rich can assume towards the poor at apinch--especially a pinch like the present, when "all petty classdifferences are forgotten in the midst of the national crisis"--maycome and talk to her guests now and again, tell them that they arefine fellows, and give them a treat to light up the heavy hours thatfollow a long day's drill in full marching order. But the middleclass, aloof and austere in its own seclusion, limited in means andapartment space, cannot easily afford the time and care needed for thehousing of soldiers. State commands cannot be gainsaid, however, andTommy must be housed and fed in the country which he will shortly goout and defend in the trenches of France or Flanders. 

The number of men assigned to a house depends in a great measure onthe discretion of the householder and the temper of the billetingofficer. A gruff reply or a caustic remark from the former sometimesoffends; often the officer is in a hurry, and at such a timedisproportionate assortment is generally the result. A billetingofficer has told me that fifty per cent. Of the householders whom hehas approached show manifest hostility to the housing of soldiers. Butthe military authorities have a way of dealing with these people. Onone occasion an officer asked a citizen, an elderly man full of paunchand English dignity, how many soldiers could he keep in his house. "Well, it's like this--, " the man began. 

"Have you any room to spare here?" demanded the officer. 

"None, except on the mat, " was the caustic answer. 

"Two on the mat, then, " snapped the officer, and a pair of titteringTommies were left at the door. 

Matronly English dignity suffered on another occasion when a sergeantinquired of a middle-aged woman as to the number of men she couldbillet in her house. 

"None, " she replied. "I have no way of keeping soldiers. "

"What about that apartment there?" asked the N. C. O. Pointing to thedrawing-room. 

"But they'll destroy everything in the room, " stammered the woman. 

"Clear the room then. "

"But they'll have to pass through the hall to get in, and there are somany valuable things on the walls--"

"You've got a large window in the drawing-room, " said the officer;"remove that, and the men will not have to pass through the hall. I'lllet you off lightly, and leave only two. "

"But I cannot keep two. "

"Then I'll leave four, " was the reply, and four were left. 

Sadder than this, even, was the plight of the lady and gentleman atSt. Albans who told the officer that their four children were justrecovering from an attack of whooping cough. The officer, being awise man and anxious about the welfare of those under his care, fledprecipitately. Later he learned that there had been no whooping coughin the house; in fact, the people who caused him to beat such a hastyretreat were childless. He felt annoyed and discomfited; but about aweek following his first visit he called again at the house, this timefollowed by six men. 

"These fellows are just recovering from whooping cough, " he told thehouseholder; "they had it bad. We didn't know what to do with them, but, seeing that you've had whooping cough here, I feel it's the onlyplace where it will be safe to billet them. " And he left them there. 

But happenings like these were more frequent at the commencement ofthe war than now. Civilians, even those of the conventional middleclass, are beginning to understand that single men in billets, toparaphrase Kipling slightly, are remarkably like themselves. 

With us, rations are served out daily at our billets; our landladiesdo the cooking, and mine, an adept at the culinary art, can transforma basin of flour and a lump of raw beef into a dish that would make anepicurean mouth water. Even though food is badly cooked in the billet, it has a superior flavour, which is never given it in the boilerscontrolled by the company cook. Army stew has rather a notoriousreputation, as witness the inspired words of a regimental poet--one ofthe 1st Surrey Rifles--in a pĉan of praise to his colonel:

 "Long may the colonel with us bide, His shadow ne'er grow thinner. (It would, though, if he ever tried Some Army stew for dinner. )"

Billeting has gained for the soldier many friends, and towns that havebecome accustomed to his presence look sadly forward to the day whenhe will leave them for the front, where no kind landlady will be athand to transform raw beef and potatoes into beef pudding or potatopie. The working classes in particular view the future with misgiving. The bond of sympathy between soldier and workers is stronger than thatbetween soldier and any other class of citizen. The houses and mannersof the well-to-do daunt most Tommies. "In their houses we feel outof it somehow, " they say. "There's nothin' we can talk about with theswells, and 'arf the time they be askin' us about things that's noconcern of theirs at all. "

Most toilers who have no friends or relations preparing for warhave kinsmen already in the trenches--or on the roll of honour. Andfeelings stronger than those of friendship now unite thousands ofsoldiers to the young girls of the houses in which they are billeted. For even in the modern age, that now seems to voice the ultimateexpression of man's culture and advance in terrorism and destruction, love and war, vital as the passion of ancient story, go hand in handup to the trenches and the threat of death. 

CHAPTER II

RATIONS AND SICK PARADE

It has been said that an army moves upon its stomach, and, as if inconfirmation of this, the soldier is exhorted in an official pamphlet"Never to start on a march with an empty stomach. " To a hungryrifleman the question of his rations is a matter of vital importance. For the first few weeks our food was cooked up and served out on theparade ground, or in the various gutter-fringed sheds standing inthe vicinity of our headquarters. The men were discontented with therations, and rumour had it that the troops stationed in a neighbouringvillage rioted and hundreds had been placed under arrest. 

Sometimes a haunch of roast beef was doled out almost raw, andpotatoes were generally boiled into pulp; these when served up lookedlike lumps of wet putty. Two potatoes, unwashed and embossed withparticles of gravel, were allowed to each man; all could helpthemselves by sticking their fingers into the doughy substance andlifting out a handful, which they placed along with the raw "roast" onthe lid of their mess-tin. This constituted dinner, but often rationswere doled out so badly that several men only got half the necessaryallowance for their meals. 

Tea was seldom sufficiently sweetened, and the men had to pay formilk. After a time we became accustomed to the Epsom Salts that akindly War Office, solicitous for our well-being, caused to be added, and some of us may go to our graves insisting on Epsom Salts with tea. The feeding ground being in many cases a great distance from the fire, the tea was cold by the time it arrived at the men's quarters. Thosewho could afford it, took their food elsewhere: the restaurants inthe vicinity did a roaring trade, and several new ones were opened. Apetition was written; the men signed it, and decided to send it tothe colonel; but the N. C. O. 's stepped in and destroyed the document. "You'll not do much good at the front, " they told us, "if you aregrumbling already. "

A week followed the destruction of the petition, and then appeared thefollowing in Battalion Orders: "From to-morrow until further orders, rations will be issued at the men's billets. " This announcement causedno little sensation, aroused a great deal of comment, and created aprofound feeling of satisfaction in the battalion. Thenceforth rationswere served out at the billets, and the householders were orderedto do the cooking. My landlady was delighted. "Not half feeding you;that's a game, " she said. "And you going to fight for your country!But wait till you see the dishes I'll make out of the rations whenthey come. "

The rations came. In the early morning a barrow piled with eatableswas dragged through our street, and the "ration fatigue" party, fullof the novelty of a new job, yelled in chorus, "Bring out your dead, ladies; rations are 'ere!"

"What have you got?" asked my landlady, going to the door. "What areyou supposed to leave for the men? Nothing's too good for them that'sgoing to fight for their country. "

"Dead rats, " said the ration-corporal with a grin. 

"Don't be funny. What are my men to get?"

"Each man a pound of fresh meat, one and a half pounds of bread, twotaters, two ounces of sugar, and an ounce of tea and three ounces ofcheese. And, besides this, every feller gets a tin of jam once in fourdays. "

This looks well on paper, but pot and plate make a difference in theproposition. Army cheese runs to rind rapidly, and a pound of beef isoften easily bitten to the bone: sometimes, in fact, it is allbone and gristle, and the ravages of cooking minimise its bulk ina disheartening way. One and a half pound of bread is more than thethird of a big loaf, but minus butter it makes a featureless repast. Breakfast and tea without butter and milk does not always make adainty meal. 

Even the distribution of rations leaves much to be desired; thefatigue party, well-intentioned and sympathetic though it be, oftenfinds itself short of provisions. This may in many cases be due tounequal distribution; an ounce of beef too much to each of sixteen menleaves the seventeenth short of meat. This may easily happen, as theration party has never any means of weighing the food: it is nearlyalways served out by guesswork. But sometimes the landladies help inthe distribution by bringing out scales and weighing the provisions. One lady in our street always weighed the men's rations, and saw thatthose under her care got the exact allowance. Never would she take anymore than her due, and never less. But a few days ago, when weighingsugar and tea, a blast of wind upset the scales, and a secondallowance met with a similar fate. Sugar and tea littered thepavement, and finally the woman supplied her soldiers from thehousehold stores. She now leaves the work of distribution in the handsof the ration party, and takes what is given to her without grumbling. 

The soldiers' last meal is generally served out about five o'clockin the afternoon, sometimes earlier; and a stretch of fourteen hoursintervenes between then and breakfast. About nine o'clock inthe evening those who cannot afford to pay for extras feel theirwaist-belts slacken, and go supperless to bed. And tea is not a verysubstantial meal; the rations served out for the day have decreased inbulk, bread has wasted to microscopic proportions, and the cheese hasdiminished sadly in size. A regimental song, pent with soldierly woes, bitterly bemoans the drawbacks of Tommy's tea:

 "Bread and cheese for breakfast, For dinner Army stew, But when it comes to tea-time There's dough and rind for you, So you and me Won't wait for tea-- We're jolly big fools if we do. "

But those who do not live in billets, and whose worldly wealth failsto exceed a shilling a day, must be content with Army rations, withthe tea tasting of coom, and seldom sweetened, with the pebble-studdedputty potato coated in clay, with the cheese that runs to rind atlast parade, and, above all, with the knowledge that they are merelyinconvenienced at home so that they may endure the better abroad. 

There is another school of theorists that states that an army moves, not upon its stomach, but upon its feet, the care of which is of vitalimportance. This, too, finds confirmation in the official pamphlet, which tells the soldier to "Remember that a dirty foot is an unsoundfoot. See that feet are washed if no other part of the body is, " etc. 

My right foot had troubled me for days; a pain settled in the arch ofthe instep, and caused me intense agony when resuming the march aftera short halt; at night I would suddenly awake from sleep to experiencethe sensation of being stabbed by innumerable pins in ankle and toes. Marching in future, I felt, would be a monstrous futility, and Idecided that my case was one for the medical officer. 

Sick parade is not restricted by any dress order; the sore-footedmay wear slippers; the sore-headed, Balaclava helmets; puttees can bediscarded; mufflers and comforters may be used. "The sick rabble" isthe name given by the men to the crowd that waits outside the door ofthe M. O. 's room at eight in the morning. And every morning brings itsquota of ailing soldiers; some seriously ill, some slightly, and a few(as may be expected out of a thousand men of all sorts and conditions)who have imaginary or feigned diseases that will so often save"slackers" from a hard day's marching. The aim and ambition of theselatter seem to be to do as little hard work as possible; some of themattend sick parade on an average once a week, and generally obtainexemption from a day's work. To obtain this they resort to severalruses; headaches and rheumatic pains are difficult to detect, and thedoctor must depend on the private's word; a quick pulse and heightenedtemperature is engendered by a brisk run, and this is often a meanstowards a favourable medical verdict--that is, when "favourable" meansa suspension of duties. 

At a quarter to eight I stood with ten others in front of the M. O. 'sdoor, on which a white card with the blue-lettered "No Smoking"stood out in bold relief. The morning was bitterly cold, and a sharp, penetrating wind splashed with rain swept round our ears, and chilledour hands and faces. One of the waiting queue had a sharp cough andspat blood; all this was due, he told us, to a day's divisionalfield exercise, when he had to lie for hours on the wet groundfiring "blanks" at a "dummy" enemy. Another sick soldier, a youth ofnineteen, straight as a lance and lithe as a poplar, suffered fromulcer in the throat. "I had the same thing before, " he remarked in athin, hoarse voice, "but I got over it somehow. This time it'll maybethe hospital. I don't know. "

An orderly corporal filled in admission forms and handed them to us;each form containing the sick man's regimental number, name, religion, age, and length of military service, in addition to several otherminor details having no reference at all to the matter in hand. Theseforms were again handed over to another orderly corporal, who stoodsmoking a cigarette under the blue-lettered notice pinned to the door. 

The boy with the sore throat was sitting in a chair in the room when Ientered, the doctor bending over him. "Would you like a holiday?" theM. O. Asked in a kindly voice. 

"Where to, sir?"

"A couple of days in hospital would leave you all right, my man, " theM. O. Continued, "and it would be a splendid rest. "

"I don't want a rest, " answered the youth. "Maybe I'll be better inthe morning, sir. "

The doctor thought for a moment, then:

"All right, report to-morrow again, " he said. "You're a brave boy. Some, who are not the least ill, whine till one is sick--what's thematter with you?"

"Sore foot, sir, " I said, seeing the M. O. 's eyes fixed on me. 

"Off with your boot, then. "

I took off my boot, placed my foot on a chair, and had it inspected. 

"What's wrong with it?"

"I don't know, sir. It pains me when marching, and sometimes--"

"Have you ever heard that Napoleon said an army marches on itsstomach?"

"Yes, sir, when the feet of the army is all right, " I answered. 

"Quite true, " he replied. "No doubt you've sprained one of yours;just wash it well in warm water, rub it well, and have a day or tworesting. That will leave you all right. Your boots are good?"

"Yes, sir. "

"They don't pinch or--what's wrong with you?" He was speaking to thenext man. 

"I don't know, sir. "

"Don't know? You don't know why you're here. What brought you here?"

"Rheumatic pains, I think, sir, " was the answer. "Last night I 'ad anorful night. Couldn't sleep. I think it was the wet as done it. Lyin'out on the grass last field day--"

"How many times have you been here before?"

"Well, sir, the last time was when--"

"How many times?"

"I don't know, sir. "

"Was it rheumatic pains last time?"

"No sir, it was jaw-ache--toothache, I mean. "

"I'll put you on light duties for the day, " said the M. O. And therheumatic one and I went out together. 

"That's wot they do to a man that's sick, " said the rheumatic one whenwe got outside. "Me that couldn't sleep last night, and now it's lightduties. I know what light duties are. You are to go into the orderlyroom and wash all the dishes: then you go and run messages, then you'old the orficer's horse and then maybe when you're worryin' your ownbit of grub they come and bundle you out to sweep up the orficers'mess, or run an errand for the 'ead cook and bottle-washer. Lightduties ain't arf a job. I'm blowed if marchin' in full kit ain't tentimes better, and I'm going to grease to the battalion parade. "

Fifteen minutes later I met him leaving his billet, his haversackon the wrong side, his cartridge pouches open, the bolt of his gununfastened; his whole general appearance was a discredit to hisbattalion and a disgrace to the Army. I helped to make him presentableas he bellowed his woes into my ear. "No bloomin' grub this mornin', "he said. "Left my breakfast till I'd come back, and 'aven't no timefor it now. Anyway I'm going out on the march; no light duties for me. I know what they are. " He was still protesting against the hardshipsof things as he swung out of sight round the corner of the street. Afterwards I heard that he got three days C. B. For disobeying theorders of the M. O. 

Save for minor ailments and accident, my battalion is practicallyimmune from sickness; colds come and go as a matter of course, sprainsand cuts claim momentary attention, but otherwise the health of thebattalion is perfect. "We're too healthy to be out of the trenches, "a company humorist has remarked, and the company and battalion agreeswith him. 

CHAPTER III

PICKETS AND SPECIAL LEAVE

One of the first things we had to learn was that our ancient cathedraltown has its bounds and limits for the legions of the lads in khaki. Beyond a certain line, the two-mile boundary, we dare not venturealone without written permission, and we can only pass the limit in abody when led by a commissioned officer. 

The whole world, with the exception of the space enclosed by thisnarrow circle, is closed to the footsteps of Tommy; he cannot nowvisit his sweetheart, his sweetheart must come and visit him. Thehousemaid from Hammersmith and the typist from Tottenham have to cometo their beaux in billets, and as most of the men in our town aresingle, and nearly all have sweethearts, it is estimated that fiveor six thousand maidens blush to hear the old, old story within thetwo-mile limit every week-end. 

Once only every month is a soldier allowed week-end leave, and thenhe has permission to be absent from his billet between the hours of3 p. M. On Saturday and 10 p. M. On Sunday. His pass states that duringthis time he is not liable to be arrested for desertion. Some men useone pass for quite a long period, and alter the dates to suit everyoccasion. 

One Sunday, when returning from week-end leave, I travelled fromLondon by train. My compartment was crowded with men of my division, and only one-half of these had true passes; one, who was an adeptcalligraphist, wrote his own pass, and made a counterfeit signatureof the superior who should have signed the form of leave. Another hadaltered the dates of an early pass so cleverly that it was difficultto detect the erasure, and a number of men had no passes whatsoever. These boasted of having travelled to London every week-end, and theyhad never been caught napping. 

Passes were generally inspected at the station preceding the one towhich we were bound. My travelling companions were well aware of this, and made preparations to combat the difficulty in front; two crawledunder the seats, and two more went up on the racks, where they layquiet as mice, stretched out at full length and covered over withseveral khaki overcoats. One man, a brisk Cockney, who would not deignto roost or crawl, took up his position as far away as possible fromthe platform window. 

"Grease the paper along as quick as you know 'ow and keep the picketjorin' till I'm safe, " he remarked as the train stopped and a figurein khaki fumbled with the door handle. 

"Would you mind me lookin' at passes, mateys?" demanded the picket, entering the compartment. The man by the door produced his pass, theone he had written and signed himself; and when it passed inspectionhe slyly slipped it behind the back of the man next him, and in thespace of three seconds the brisk Cockney had the forged permit ofleave to show to the inspector. The men under the seat and on theracks were not detected. 

Every station in our town and its vicinity has a cordon of pickets, the Sunday farewell kisses of sweethearts are never witnessed by theplatform porter, as the lovers in khaki are never allowed to seetheir loves off by train, and week-end adieux always take place atthe station entrance. Some time ago the pickets allowed the men tosee their sweethearts off, but as many youths abused the privilege andtook train to London when they got on the platform, these kind actionshave now become merely a pleasing memory. 

Pickets seem to crop up everywhere; on one bus ride to London, ajourney of twenty miles, I have been asked to show my pass threetimes, and on a return journey by train I have had to produce thewritten permit on five occasions. But some units of our divisions soarabove these petty inconveniences, as do two brothers who motor homeevery Sunday when church parade comes to an end. 

When these two leave church after divine service, a car waits them atthe nearest street corner, and they slip into it, don trilby hats andcivilian overcoats, and sweep outside the restricted area at a hastethat causes the slow-witted country policeman to puzzle over the speedof the car and forget its number while groping for his pocket-book. 

It has always been a pleasure to me to follow for hours the windingcountry roads looking out for fresh scenes and new adventures. Thelife of the roadside dwellers, the folk who live in little stonehouses and show two flower-pots and a birdcage in their windows, hasa strange fascination for me. When I took up my abode here and got myfirst free Sunday afternoon, I shook military discipline aside for amoment and set out on one of my rambles. 

There comes a moment on a journey when something sweet, somethingirresistible and charming as wine raised to thirsty lips, wells up inthe traveller's being. I have never striven to analyse this feeling orstudy the moment when it comes, and that feeling has been often mine. Now I know the moment it floods the soul of the traveller. It is atthe end of the second mile, when the limbs warm to their work and thelungs fill with the fresh country air. At such a moment, when a mannaturally forgets restraint to which he has only been accustomed fora short while, I met the picket for the first time. He told me toturn--and I went back. But it was not in my heart to like that picket, and I shall never like him while he stands there, sentry of thetwo-mile limit; an ogre denying me entrance into the wide world thatlies beyond. 

There is one thing, however, before which the picket is impotent--apass. It is like a free pardon to a convict; it opens to him the wholeworld--that is for the period it covers. The two most difficult thingsin military life are to obtain permit of absence from billets, and thestruggle against the natural impulse to overstay the limit of leave. There are times when soldiers experience an intense longing to seetheir own homes, firesides, and friends, and in moments like these ittakes a stiff fight to overcome the desire to go away, if only for alittle while, to their native haunts. Only once in five weeks may aman obtain a week-end pass--if he is lucky. To the soldier, luck ismerely another word for skill. 

With us, the rifleman who scores six successive "bulls" at six hundredyards on the open range has been lucky; if he speaks nicely to thequartermaster and obtains the best pair of boots in the stores, he hasbeen lucky; if by mistake he is given double rations by the fatigueparty he is lucky; but if the same man, sweating over his rifle ina carnival of "wash-outs, " or, weary of blistered feet and emptystomach, asks for sympathy because his rifle was sighted too low orbecause he lost his dinner while waiting on boot-parade, we explainthat his woes are due to a caper of chance--that he has been unlucky. To obtain a pass at any time a man must be lucky; obtaining one whenhe desires it most is a thing heard of now and again, and getting apass and not being able to use it is of common occurrence. Now, when Iapplied for special leave I was more than a little lucky. 

It was necessary that I should attend to business in London, and I setabout making application for a permit of leave. I intended to applyfor a pass dating from 6 p. M. Of a Friday evening to 10 p. M. Of thefollowing Sunday. On Wednesday morning I spoke to a corporal of mycompany. 

"If you want leave, see the platoon sergeant, " he told me. The platoonsergeant, who was in a bad temper, spoke harshly when I approachedhim. "No business of mine!" he said; "the company clerk will look intothe matter. "

But I had no success with the company clerk; the leave which I desiredwas a special one, and that did not come under his jurisdiction. "Theorderly sergeant knows more about this business than I do. Go to himabout it, " he said. 

By Wednesday evening I spoke to the orderly sergeant, who lookedpuzzled for a moment. "Come with me to the lieutenant, " he said. "He'll know more about this matter than I do, and he'll see into it. But it will be difficult to get special leave, you know; they don'tlike to give it. "

"Why?" I asked. 

"Why?" he repeated; "what the devil does it matter to you? You're paidhere to do what you're told, not to ask questions. "

The lieutenant was courteous and civil. "I can't do anything in thematter, " he said. "The orderly sergeant will take you to the companyofficer, Captain ----, and he'll maybe do something for you. "

"If you're lucky, " said the sergeant in a low whisper. About eighto'clock in the evening I paraded in the long, dimly-lighted passagethat leads to our company orderly-room, and there I had to wait twohours while the captain was conducting affairs of some kind or anotherinside. When the door was opened I was ordered inside. 

"Quick march! Left turn! Halt!" ordered the sergeant as I crossed thethreshold, and presently I found myself face to face with our companycommander, who was sitting by a desk with a pile of papers before him. 

"What is it?" he asked, fixing a pair of stern eyes on me, and Iexplained my business with all possible despatch. 

"Of course you understand that everything is now subservient to yourmilitary duties; they take premier place in your new life, " said theofficer. "But I'll see what I can do. By myself I am of little help. However, you can write out a pass telling the length of time yourequire off duty, and I'll lay it before the proper authorities. "

I wrote out the "special pass, " which ran as follows:

"Rifleman ---- has permission to be absent from his quarters from6 p. M. (date) to 10 p. M. (date), for the purpose of proceeding toLondon. "

I came in from a long march on Thursday evening to find the passsigned, stamped, and ready. On the following night I could go toLondon, and I spent the evening 'phoning, wiring, and writing to town, arranging matters for the day ahead. Also, I asked some friends tohave dinner with me at seven o'clock on Friday night. 

Next day we had divisional exercise, which is usually a lengthyaffair. In the morning I approached the officer and asked if I mightbe allowed off parade, seeing I had to set out for London at sixo'clock in the evening. 

"Oh! we shall be back early, " I was told, "back about three orthereabouts. "

The day was very interesting; the whole division, thousands of men, numberless horses, a regiment of artillery, and all baggage andmunition for military use took up position in battle formation. Infront lay an imaginary army, and we had to cross a river to comeinto contact with it. Engineers, under cover of the artillery, built pontoon bridges for our crossing; on the whole an intenselyinteresting and novel experience. So interesting indeed that I lostall count of time, and only came to consciousness of the clock andremembrance of friends making ready for dinner when some one remarkedthat the hour of four had passed, and that we were still five milesfrom home. 

I got to my billet at six; there I flung off my pack, threw down myrifle, and in frenzied haste consulted a railway timetable. A slowtrain was due to leave our town at five minutes to seven. I arrangedmy papers, made a brief review of matters which would come before melater, and with muddy boots and heavy heart I arrived at the stationat seven minutes to seven and took the slow train for London. 

When I told the story of my adventures at dinner a soldier friendremarked: "You've been more than a little lucky in getting away atall. I was very unlucky when I applied--"

But his story was a long one, and I have forgotten it. 

CHAPTER IV

OFFICERS AND RIFLES

As I have said, I have learned among other things to obey my officersand depend upon my rifle. At first the junior officers appeared to meonly as immaculate young men in tailor-made tunics and well-creasedtrousers, wearing swords and wrist-watches, and full of a healthybelief in their own importance. My mates are apt to consider themas being somewhat vain, and no Tommy dares fail to salute the youngcommissioned officers when he meets them out with their young ladieson the public streets. For myself, I have a great respect for them andtheir work; day and night they are at their toil; when parade comes toan end, and the battalion is dismissed for the day, the officers, whohave done ten or twelve hours' of field exercise, turn to their desksand company accounts, and time and again the Last Post sees them busyover ledgers, pamphlets, and plans. 

Accurate and precise in every detail, they know the outs and ins ofplatoon and company drill, and can handle scores and hundreds of menwith the ease and despatch of artists born to their work. Wherehave these officers, fresh youngsters with budding moustaches andwhite, delicate hands, learned all about frontage, file, flank, and formation, alignment, echelon, incline, and interval? Words ofdirection and command come so readily from their lips that I wasalmost tempted to believe that they had learned as easily as theytaught, that their skill in giving orders could only be equalled bythe ease with which I supposed they had mastered the details of theirwork. Later I came to know of the difficulty that confronts the youngmen, raw from the Officers' Training Corps, when they take up theirpreliminary duties as commanders of trained soldiers. No "rooky" freshto the ranks is the butt of so many jokes and such biting sarcasm asthe young officer is subjected to when he takes his place as a leaderof men. 

Soon after my arrival in our town a score of young lieutenants cameto our parade ground, accompanied by two commanders, a keen-eyedadjutant, brisk as a bell, and a white-haired colonel with very thinlegs, and putties which seemed to have been glued on to his shins. Theyoung gentlemen were destined for various regiments, and most of themwere fresh and spotless in their new uniforms. Some wore Glengarrybonnets, kilts, and sporrans, some the black ribbons of Wales; one, whose hat-badge proclaimed the Dublin Fusilier, was conspicuous by theeyeglass he wore, and others were still arrayed in civilian garb, theuniform of city and office life. Several units of my battalion weretaken off to drill in company with the strange officers. I was one ofthe chosen. 

The young men took us in hand, acting in turn as corporals, platoonsergeants, and company commanders. The gentleman with the eyeglass hadcharge of my platoon, and from the start he cast surreptitious glancesat a little red brochure which he held in his hand, and mumbled wordsas if trying to commit something to memory. 

"Get to your places, " the adjutant yelled to the officers. "Hurry up!Don't stand there gaping as if you're going to snap at flies. We'vegot to do some work. There's no hay for those who don't work. Come on, Weary, and drill your men; you with the eyeglass, I mean! I want youto put the company through some close column movements. "

The man with the eyeglass took up his position, and issued some order, but his voice was so low that the men nearest him could not hear thecommand. 

"Shout!" yelled the adjutant. "Don't mumble like a flapper who hasjust got her first kiss. It's not allowed on parade. "

The order was repeated, and the voice raised a little. 

"Louder, louder!" yelled the adjutant. Then with fine irony: "Thesemen are very interested in what you've got to tell them. .. . I don'tthink. "

Eyeglass essayed another attempt, but stopped in the midst of hiswords, frozen into mute helplessness by the look of the adjutant. 

"For heaven's sake, try and speak up, " the adjutant said. "If youdon't talk like a man, these fellows won't salute you when they meetyou in the street with your young lady. On second thoughts, you hadbetter go back and take up the job of platoon sergeant. Come on, Glengarry, and try and trumpet an order. "

Glengarry, so-called from his bonnet, a sturdy youth with slopingshoulders, took up his post nervously. 

"A close column forming column of fours, " he cried in a shrill treble, quoting the cautionary part of his command. "Advance in fours from theright; form fours--right!"

"Form fours--where?" roared the adjutant. 

"Left, " came the answer. 

"Left, your grandmother! You were right at first. Did you not knowthat you were right?. .. Where's Eyeglass, the platoon sergeant, now?Who's pinched him?"

This unfortunate officer had dropped his eyeglass, and was now gropingfor it on the muddy ground, one of my mates helping him in the search. 

Other officers took up the job of company commander in turn, and allsuffered. One, who was a dapper little fellow, speedily earned thenickname of "Tailor's Dummy;" another, when giving a platoon thewrong direction in dressing, was told to be careful, and not shove theregiment over. A third, a Welshman, with the black ribbons, got angrywith a section for some slight mistake made by two of its number, andwas told to be careful and not annoy the men. He had only got them onappro'. 

Spick and span in their new uniforms, they came to drill daily on ourparade ground. Slowly the change took place. They were "rookies" nolonger, and the adjutant's sarcasm was a thing of the past. Commandswere pronounced distinctly and firmly; the officers were trained men, ready to lead a company of soldiers anywhere and to do anything. 

No man who has trained with the new armies can be lacking in respectfor the indefatigable N. C. O. , upon whom the brunt of the work hasfallen. With picturesque scorn and sarcasm he has formed huge armiesout of the rawest of raw material, and all in a space of less thanhalf a year. His methods are sometimes strange and his temper short;yet he achieves his end in the shortest time possible. He is for evercorrecting the same mistakes and rebuking the same stupidity, and thewonder is, not that he loses his temper, but that he should ever beable to preserve it. He understands men, and approaches them in anidiom that is likely to produce the best results. 

"Every man of you has friends of some sort, " said the musketryinstructor, as we formed up in front of him on the parade ground, gripping with nervous eagerness the rifles which had just been servedout from the quartermaster's stores. We were recruits, raw "rookies, "green to the grind, and chafing under discipline. "And some sort offriends it would be as well as if you never met them, " the instructorcontinued. "They'd play you false the minute they'd get your backturned. But you've a friend now that will always stand by you and playyou fair. Just give him a chance, and he'll maybe see you out of manya tight corner. Now, who is this friend I'm talking about?" he asked, turning to a youth who was leaning on his rifle. "Come, Weary, andtell me. "

"The rifle, " was the answer. 

"The crutch?"

"No, the rifle. "

"I see that, boy, I see that! But, damn it, don't make a crutch of it. You're a soldier now, my man, and not a crippled one yet. "

Thus was the rifle introduced to us. We had long waited for itscoming, and dreamt of cross-guns, the insignia of a crack shot'sproficiency, while we waited. And with the rifle came romance, and theelement of responsibility. We were henceforward fighting men, numbered units, it was true, with numbered weapons, but for all that, fighters--men trained to the trade and licensed to the profession. 

Our new friend was rather a troublesome individual to begin with. Inrising to the slope he had the trick of breaking free and falling onthe muddy barrack square. A muddy rifle gets rusty, and brings itsowner into trouble, and a severe penalty is considered meet for theman who comes on parade with a rusty rifle. Bringing the friend fromthe slope to the order was a difficult process for us recruits at thestart the back-sight tore at the fingers, and bleeding hands oftentestified to the unnatural instinct of the rebellious weapon. But theunkindest kick of all was given when the slack novice fired the firstshot, and the heel of the butt slipped upwards and struck the jaw. Then was learnt the first real lesson. The rifle kicks with the heeland aims for the jaw. Control your friend, humour him; keep him wellin hand and beware his fling. 

I was unlucky in my first rifle practice on the miniature range, and out of my first five shots I did not hit the target once. Theinstructor lay by my side on the waterproof ground-sheet (the day wasa wet one, and the range was muddy) and lectured me between misses onthe peculiarities of my weapon and the cultivation of a steady eye. 

"Keep the beggar under control, " he said. "You've got to coax him, andnot use force. Pull the trigger easily, as though you loved it, andhold the butt affectionate-like against the shoulder. It's an easymatter to shoot as you're shooting now. There's shooting and shooting, and you've got to shoot straight. If you don't you're no dashed good!Give me the rifle, you're not aiming at the bull, man, you're aimingat the locality where the bull is grazing. "

He took my rifle, slid a cartridge into the breech, and coaxed thetrigger lovingly towards him. Three times he fired, then we wenttogether to look at the target. Not a bullet fired by him had struckit. The instructor glared down the barrel of the gun, made somenasty remarks about deflection, and went back to yell at an orderlycorporal. 

"What the dickens did you take this here for?" he cried. "It's ablooming wash-out, [1] and was never any good. Old as an unpaid billand worn bell-mouth it is, and nobody can fire with it. "

[Footnote 1: "Wash-out" is a term used by the men when their firing isso wide of the mark that it fails to hit any spot on the card. The menapply it indiscriminately to anything in the nature of a failure. ]

On a new rifle being obtained I passed the preliminary test, and arather repentant instructor remarked that it might be possible to makea soldier of me some day. 

Since then my fellow-soldiers and I have had almost unlimited riflepractice, on miniature and open ranges, at bull and disappearingtargets, in field firing at distances from 100 to 600 yards. On afield exceeding 600 yards it is almost impossible to hit a pointthe size of an ordinary bull; fire then must be directed towards aposition. Field or volley firing is very interesting. Once my companytook train to Dunstable and advanced on an imaginary enemy thatoccupied the wastes of the Chiltern Hills. Practice commenced byfiring at little squares of iron standing upright in a row about 200yards off in front of our line. These represented heads and shouldersof men rising over the trenches to take aim at us as we advanced. Inextended order we came to our position, 200 yards distant from thefront trenches. At the sound of the officer's whistle, we sank tothe ground, facing our front, fixed our sights, and loaded. A secondwhistle was blown; we fired "three rounds rapid" at the foe. Theaiming was very accurate; little spurts of earth danced up and aroundthe targets, and every iron disc fell. The "searching ground, " thelocality struck by bullets, scarcely measured a dozen paces from frontto rear, thus showing that there was very little erratic firing. 

"That's some shooting!" my Jersey friend remarked. "If the discs wereGermans!"

"They might shoot back, " someone said, "and then we mightn't take ascool an aim. "

We are trained to the rifle; it is always with us, on parade, on march, on bivouac, and recently, when going through a dentalexamination, we carried our weapons of war into the medical officer'sroom. As befits units of a rifle regiment, we have got accustomedto our gun, and now, as fully trained men, we have established thenecessary unity between hand and eye, and can load and unload ourweapon with butt-plate stiff to shoulder and eye steady on targetwhile the operation is in progress. In fact, our rifle comes to handas easy as a walking-stick. We shall be sorry to lose it when the waris over, and no doubt we shall feel lonely without it. 

CHAPTER V

THE COFFEE-SHOP AND WANKIN

What the pump is to the villager, so the coffee-shop is to the soldierof the New Army. Here the men crowd nightly and live over again theincidents of the day. Our particular coffee-shop is situated in ourcorner of the town; our men patronise it; there are three assistants, plump, merry girls, and three of our men have fallen in love withthem; in short, it is our very own restaurant, opened when we camehere, and adapted to our needs; the waitresses wear our hat-badges, sing our songs, and make us welcome when we cross the door to take upour usual chairs and yarn over the cosy tables. The Jersey youthwith the blue eyes, the Oxford man, who speaks of things that humblewaitresses do not understand, the company drummer, the platoonsergeants, and the Cockney who vows that water is spoilt in makingevery cup of coffee he drinks, all come here, and all love the place. 

I have come to like the place and do most of my writing there, catching snatches of conversation and reminiscence as they floatacross to me. 

"I wasn't meanin' to 'urt ole Ginger Nobby nohow, but the muck Ithrowed took 'im dead on the jor. 'Wot's yer gime?' 'e 'ollers at me. 'Wot's my gime?' I says back to 'im. 'Nuffin', if ye want ter know!' Isays. 'I was just shyin' at squidges. '"

Thus spoke the bright-eyed Cockney at the table next me, gazingregretfully at his empty coffee-cup and cutting away a fringe ofrag-nails from his finger with a clasp-knife. The time was eighto'clock of the evening, and the youth was recounting an adventurewhich he had had in the morning when throwing mud at sparrows on theparade ground. A lump of clay had struck a red-haired non-commissionedofficer on the jaw, and the officer became angry. The above was theCockney version of the story. One of my friends, an army unit with theOxford drawl, was voluble on another subject. 

"Russian writers have had a great effect on our literature, " he said, deep in a favourite topic. "They have stripped bare the soul of manwith a realism that shrivels up our civilisation and proves--Twocoffees, please. "

A tall, well-set waitress, with several rings on her fingers, took theorder as gravely as if she were performing some religious function;then she turned to the Cockney. 

"Cup of cawfee, birdie!" he cried, leaning over the table and tryingto grip her hand. "Not like the last, mind; it was good water spoilt. I'll never come in 'ere again. "

"So you say!" said the girl, moving out of his way and laughingloudly. 

"Strike me balmy if I do!"

"Where'll yer go then?"

"Round the corner, of course, " was the answer. "There's another birdthere--and cawfee! It's some stuff too, not like 'ere. "

"All right; don't come in again if yer don't want ter. "

The Cockney got his second cup of coffee and pronounced it inferior tothe first; then looked at an evening paper which Oxford handed to him, and studied a photograph of a battleship on the front page. 

"Can't stand these 'ere papers, " he said, after a moment, as he gotto his feet and lit a cigarette. "Nuffink but war in them always; I'msick readin' about war! I saw your bit in one a couple of nights ago, "he said, turning to me. 

"What did you think of it?" I asked, anxious to hear his opinion on anarticle dealing with the life of his own regiment. 

"Nuffink much, " he answered, honestly and frankly. "Everything you sayis about things we all know; who wants to 'ear about them? D'ye getpaid for writin' that?"

One of his mates, a youth named Bill, who came in at that moment, overheard the remark. 

"Paid! Of course 'e gets paid, " said the newcomer. "Bet you he gets'arf a crown for every time 'e writes for the paper. "

All sorts and conditions of soldiers drift into the place and discussvarious matters over coffee and mince pies; they are men of allclasses, who had been as far apart as the poles in civil life, and arenow knit together in the common brotherhood of war. Caste and estateseem to have been forgotten; all are engaged in a common business, full of similar risks, and rewarded by a similar wage. 

In one corner of the room a game of cards was in progress, somesoldiers were reading, and a few writing letters. Now and again a songwas heard, and a score of voices joined in the chorus. The scene wasone of indescribable gaiety; the temperament of the assembly was likea hearty laugh, infectious and healthy. Now and then a discussion tookplace, and towards the close of the evening hot words were exchangedbetween Bill and his friend, the bright-eyed Cockney. 

"I'll give old Ginger Nobby what for one day!" said the latter. 

"Will you? I don't think!"

"Bet yer a bob I will!"

"You'd lose it. "

"Would I?"

"Straight you would!"

"Strike me pink if I would!"

"You know nothin' of what you're sayin'. "

"Don't I?"

"Git!"

"Shut!"

In the coffee-shop Wankin is invariably the centre of an interestedgroup. As the company scapegrace and black sheep of the battalion heoccupies in his mates' eyes a position of considerable importance. Hisrepartees are famous, and none knows better than he how to score offan unpopular officer or N. C. O. He has the distinction also of havingspent more days in the guard-room than any other man in the battalion. 

On the occasion when identity discs were being served out to the menand a momentary stir pervaded the battalion, it was Wankin who firstbecame involved in trouble. 

He employed the disc string to fasten the water-bottle of the manon his left to the haversack of the man on his right, and thecolour-sergeant, livid with rage, vowed to chasten him by confininghim eternally to barracks. But the undaunted company scapegrace wasnot to be beaten. Fastening the identity disc on his left eye he fixeda stern look on the sergeant. 

"My deah fellah, " he drawled out, imitating the voice of the companylieutenant who wears an eyeglass, "your remarks are uncalled for, really. By Jove! one would think that a scrap of string was a goldbracelet or a diamond necklace. I could buy the disc and the stringfor a bloomin' 'apenny. "

"You'll pay dearly for it this time, " said the colour with fine irony. "Three days C. B. [2] your muckin' about'll cost you. " And before Wankincould reply the sergeant was reporting the matter to the captain. 

[Footnote 2: Confinement to Barracks. ]

Wankin is eternally in trouble, although his agility in dodgingpickets and his skill in making a week's C. B. A veritable holiday arethe talk of the regiment. All the officers know him, and many of themwho have been victims of his smart repartee fear him more thanthey care to acknowledge. The subaltern with the eyeglass is a badroute-marcher, and Wankin once remarked in an audible whisper thatthe officer had learned his company drill with a drove of halteredpack-horses, and the officer bears the name of "Pack-horse" eversince. 

On another occasion the major suffered when a battalion kit inspectiontook place early one December morning. Wankin had sold his spare pairof boots, the pair that is always kept on top of the kit-bag; but whenthe major inspected Wankin's kit the boots were there, newly polishedand freed from the most microscopic speck of dust. Someone titteredduring the inspection, then another, and the major smelt a rat. Helifted Wankin's kit-bag in his hand and found Wankin's feet tuckedunder it--Wankin's feet in stockinged soles. The major was justlyindignant. "One step to the front, left turn, " he roared. "March infront of every rank in the battalion and see what you think of it!"

With stockinged feet, cold, but still wearing an inscrutable smile ofimpudence, Wankin paraded in front of a thousand grinning faces and indue course got back to his kit and beside the sarcastic major. 

"What do you think of it?" asked the latter. 

"I don't think much of it, sir, " Wankin replied. "It's the dirtiestregiment I ever inspected. "

Wankin was sometimes unlucky; fortune refused to favour him when hetook up the work of picket on the road between St. Albans and London. No unit of his regiment is supposed to go more than two milesbeyond St. Albans without a written permit, and guards are placed atdifferent points of the two-mile radius to intercept the regimentalrakes whose feet are inclined to roving. Wankin learned that theLondon road was not to be guarded on a certain Sunday. The regimentwas to parade for a long route-march, and all units were to be inattendance. Wankin pondered over things for a moment, girt on his beltand sword and took up his position on the London road within a hundredyards of a wayside public-house. At this tavern a traveller from St. Albans may obtain a drink on a Sabbath day. 

Soldiers, like most mortals, are sometimes dry and like to drink;Wankin was often dry and Wankin had seldom much money to spend. Thefirst soldier who came out from the town wanted to get to the tavern. 

"Can't pass here!" the mock-picket told him. 

"But I'm dry and I've a cold that catches me awful in the throat. "

"Them colds are dangerous, " Wankin remarked in a contemplative voice, tinged with compassion. "Used to have them bad myself an' I feel onecoming on. I think gin, same as they have in the trenches, is thestuff to put a cold away. But I'm on the rocks. "

"If you'll let me through I'll stand on my hands. "

"It's risky, " said Wankin, then in a brave burst of bravado he said, "Damn it all! I'll let you go by. It's hard to stew dry so near thebar!" An hour later the young man set off towards home, and on his wayhe met two of his comrades-in-arms on the road. 

"Going to ---- pub?" he inquired. 

"Going to see that no one does go near it, " was the answer. "Picketduty for the rest of the day, we are. "

"But Wankin--"

"What?"

The young man explained, and shortly afterwards Wankin went toheadquarters under an armed escort. Three days later I saw his headsticking out through the guard-room window, and at that time I had notheard of the London road escapade. 

"Here on account of drink?" I asked him. 

"You fool, " he roared at me. "Do you think I mistook this damned placefor the canteen?"

I like Wankin and most of his mates like him. We feel that whendetention, barrack confinement and English taverns will be thingsof yesterday, Wankin will make a good and trustworthy friend in thetrenches. 

CHAPTER VI

THE NIGHT SIDE OF SOLDIERING

There are three things in military life which make a great appeal tome; the rifle's reply to the pull of the trigger-finger, the gossip ofsoldiers in the crowded canteen, and the onward movement of a thousandmen in full marching order with arms at the trail. And at no time isthis so impressive as at night when with rifles held in a horizontalposition by the side, the arm hanging easily from the shoulder, wemarch at attention in complete silence. Not a word is spoken by anyonesave officers, little is heard but the dull crunch of boots on thegravel and the rustle of trenching-tool handles as they rub againsttrousers or haversack. Seen from a flank at the rear, the movingbattalion, bending round the curve or straining to a hill, lookslike the plesiosaur of the picture shown in the act of dragging itscumbrous length along. The silence is full of mystery, the giganticmass, of which you form so minute a unit, is entirely voiceless, adumb thing without a tongue, brooding, as it were, over some eternalsorrow or ancient wrong to which it cannot give expression. Marchingthus at night, a battalion is doubly impressive. The silent monster isfull of restrained power; resolute in its onward sweep, impervious todanger, it looks a menacing engine of destruction, steady to its goal, and certain of its mission. 

A march like this fell to our lot once every fortnight. At seven inthe evening, loaded with full pack, bayonet, haversack, ground-sheet, water-bottle, overcoat, and rifle, we would take our way from the townout into the open country. The night varied in temper--sometimes itrained; again, it froze and chilled the ears and finger-tips; andonce we marched with the full moon over us, lighting up the wholecounty--the fields, the woods, the lighted villages, the snugfarmhouses, and the grey roads by which the long line of khaki-cladsoldiers went on their way. That night was one to be remembered. 

We went off from the parade ground, a thousand strong, along thesloping road that sweeps down the hill on which our town is built. Giggling girls watched us depart--they are ever there when thesoldiers are on the move--old gentlemen and ladies wished us luck aswe passed, but never a head of a thousand heads turned to the leftor right, never a tongue replied to the cheery greetings; we weremarching at attention, with arms at the trail. 

The sky stood high, splashed with stars, and the moon, pinched andanĉmic, hung above like a whitish speck of smoke that had curled intoa ball. Marching at the rear, I could see the long brown linecurving round a corner ahead, the butt-plates of the rifles sparklingbrightly, the white trenching-tool handles shaking backward andforward at every move of the men. 

"March easy!"

Half an hour had passed, and we were now in the open country. Atthe word of command rifles were slung over the shoulders, and thebattalion found voice, first in brisk conversation and exchangeof witticisms, then in shouting and song. We have escaped from thetyranny of "Tipperary, " none of us sing it now, but that doggerel isreplaced by other music-hall abominations which are at present in thefull glory of their rocket-reign. A parody of a hymn, "Toiling on, " isalso popular, and my Jersey mate gave it full vent on the left. 

 "Lager beer! lager beer! There's a lager beer saloon across the way. Lager bee-ee-eer! Is there any lager beer to give away. "

Although the goddess of music forgot me in the making, I found myselfroaring out the chorus for all I was worth along with my Jerseyfriend. 

"You're singing some!" he remarked, sarcastically, when the choruscame to an end. "But, no wonder! This night would make a brass monkeysing. It's grand to be alive!"

Every battalion has its marching songs. One of the favourites with uswas written by a certain rifleman in "C" Company, sung to the air of"Off to Philadelphia in the Morning. " It runs:

 "It is said by our commanders that in trenches out by Flanders There is work to do both trying and exciting, And the men who man the trenches, they are England's men and French's Where the legions of the khaki-clad are fighting. Though bearing up so gaily they are waiting for us daily, For the fury of the foemen makes them nervous, But the foe may look for trouble when we charge them at the double, We, the London Irish out on active service. 

_Chorus. _

 "With our rifles on our shoulder, sure there's no one could be bolder, And we'll double out to France when we get warnin' And we'll not stop long for trifles, we're the London Irish Rifles, When we go to fight the Germans in the mornin'. 

 "An' the girls: oh it will grieve them when we take the train and leave them, Oh! what tears the dears will weep when we are moving, But it's just the old, old story, on the path that leads to Glory, Sure we cannot halt for long to do our loving. They'll see us with emotion all departing o'er the ocean, And every maid a-weepin' for her lover; 'Good-bye' we'll hear them callin', while so many tears are fallin' That they'd almost swamp the boat that takes us over. 

_Chorus. _

 "With our rifles, " etc. 

Our colonel sang this song at a concert, thus showing the democraticnature of the New Army, where a colonel sings the songs written in theranks of his own battalion. 

At the ten minutes' halt which succeeded the first hour's march, my Jersey friend spoke to me again. "Aren't there stars!" he said, turning his face to the heavens and gripping his rifle tightly as iffor support. His wide open eyes seemed to have grown in size, and werefull of an expression I had never seen in them before. "I like thestars, " he remarked, "they're so wonderful. And to think that men arekilling each other now, this very minute!" He clanked the butt of hisgun on the ground and toyed with the handle of his sword. 

Hour after hour passed by; under the light of the moon the countrylooked beautiful; every pond showed a brilliant face to the heavens, light mists seemed to hover over every farmhouse and cottage; lightwinds swept through the telegraph wires; only the woods looked dark, and there the trees seemed to be hugging the darkness around them. 

On our way back a sharp shower, charged with a penetrating cold, fell. The waterproof ground-sheets were unrolled, and we tied them over ourshoulders. When the rain passed, the water falling in drops from ourequipment glittered so brightly that it put the polished swords andbrilliant rifle butt-plates to shame. 

We stole into the town at midnight, when nearly all the inhabitantswere abed. With arms at the trail, we marched along, throwing offcompany after company, at the streets where they billeted. Thebattalion dwindled down slowly; my party came to a halt, and the order"Dismiss!" was given, and we went to our billets. The Jersey youthcame with me to my doorstep. 

"'Twas a grand march!" he remarked. 

"Fine, " I replied. 

"I can't help looking at the stars!" he said as he moved off. "Thereare a lot to-night. And to think--" He hesitated, with the wordstrembling on his tongue, realising that he was going to repeathimself. "Anyway, there's some stars, " he said in a low voice. "Goodnight!"

There is a peculiar glamour about all night work. The importance ofnight manoeuvring was emphasised in the South African War, and we hadample opportunities of becoming accustomed to the darkness. On oneoccasion at about nine o'clock we swung out from the town with ourregimental pipe-band playing to pursue some night operations. So farthe men did not know what task had been assigned to them. 

"We've got to do to-night's work as quiet as a growing mushroom, "someone whispered to me, as we took our way off the road and lined upin the field that, stretching out in front and flanks, lost itself informless mistiness under the loom of the encircling hedgerows. Hereand there in the distance trees stand up gaunt and bare, holdingout their leafless branches as if in supplication to the grey sky; aslight whisper of wind moaned along the ground and died away in thedarkness. 

Our officer, speaking in a low voice, gave instructions. "The enemy isadvancing to attack us in great force, " he explained, "and our scoutshave located him some six miles away from here. We have now found thatit is inadvisable to march on any farther, as our reinforcementsare not very strong and have been delayed to rear. Therefore we havedecided to take up our present position as a suitable ground foroperations and entrenching ourselves in--ready to give battle. Everything now must be done very quickly. Our lives will, perhaps, depend at some early date on the quickness with which we can hideourselves from the foe. So; dig your trench as quickly as possible, asquickly, in fact, as if your life depended on it. Work must be donein absolute silence; no smoking is allowed, no lighting of matches, notalk. 

"A word about orders. Commands are not to be shouted, but will bepassed along from man to man, and none must speak above his breath. The passing of messages along in this manner is very difficult; wordsget lost, and unnecessary words are added in transit. But I hopeyou'll make a success of the job. Now we'll see how quickly we can gethidden!"

A "screen" of scouts (one man to every fifty yards of frontage) tookup its place in line a furlong ahead. A hundred paces to rear of the"screen" the officers marked out the position of the trenches, placingsoldiers as markers on the imaginary alignment. In front lay a clearfield of fire, a deadly area for an enemy advancing to the attack. 

We took off our equipment, hafted the entrenching tools which wealways carry, and bent to our work in the wet clay. The night wasclose and foggy, the smell of the damp earth and the awakening springverdure filled our nostrils. In the distance was heard the rumbling oftrains, the jolting of wagons along the country road, the barking ofdogs, and clear and musical through all these sounds came the song ofa mavis or merle from the near hedgerows. 

In the course of ten minutes we were sweating at our work, and severalunits of the party took off their tunics. One hapless individual gotinto trouble immediately. His shirt was not regulation colour, it wasspotlessly white and visible at a hundred yards. A whispered orderfrom the officer on the left faltered along the line of diggers. 

"Man with white shirt, put on his tunic!"

The order was obeyed in haste, the white disappeared rapidly as thearms of the culprit slid into sleeves, and the covering tunic hid hiswrong from the eyes of man. 

The night wore on. Now and again a clock in the town struck out thetime with a dull, weary clang that died away in the darkness. On bothsides I could see stretching out, like some gigantic and knottedrope, the row of bent workers, the voiceless toilers, busy with theirlabours. Picks rose into the air, remained poised a moment, then sankto tear the sluggish earth and pull it apart. The clay was thrown outto front and rear, and scattered evenly, so that the natural contourof the ground might show no signs of man's interference. And even aswe worked the section commanders stole up and down behind us, urgingthe men to make as little sound as possible--our safety depended onour silence. But pick and shovel, like the rifle, will sing at theirtoil, and insistent and continuous, as if in threat, they rasped outthe almost incoherent song of labour. 

A man beside me suddenly laid down his shovel and battled with a coughthat strove to break free and riot in the darkness. I could see hisface go purple, his eyes stare out as if endeavouring to burst fromtheir sockets. Presently he was victor, and as he bent to his shovelagain I heard him whisper huskily, "'Twas a stiff go, that; it almostfloored me. "

Thrown from tongue to tongue as a ball is thrown in play, a messagefrom the captain on the flank hurried along the living line. "Close inon the left, " was the order, and we hastened to obey. Trenching toolswere unhafted and returned to their carriers, equipments were donnedagain, belts tightened, and shoulder-straps buttoned. Singly, inpairs, and in files we hurried back to the point of assembly, to finda very angry captain awaiting us. 

"I am very disappointed with to-night's work, " he said. "I sentfive messages out; two of them died on the way; a third reached itsdestination, but in such a muddled condition that it was impossible torecognise it as the one sent off. The order to cease work was the onlyone that seemed to hurry along. Out at the front, where all ordersare passed along the trenches in this manner, it is of the utmostimportance that every word is repeated distinctly, and that noorder miscarries. Even out there, it is found very difficult to sendmessages along. "

The captain paused for a moment; then told a story. "It is said thatan officer at the front gave out the following message to the men inthe trenches: 'In the wood on the right a party of German cavalry, 'and when the message travelled half a mile it had changed to: 'GermanNavy defeated in the North Sea. ' We don't know how much truth thereis in the story, but I hope we will not make a mistake like that outthere. "

Lagging men were still stealing in as we took up our places in columnsof fours. A clock struck out the hour of twelve, and the bird inthe hedgerow was still singing as we marched out to the roadway, andfollowed our merry pipers home to town. 

CHAPTER VII

DIVISIONAL EXERCISE AND MIMIC WARFARE

Divisional exercise is a great game of make-believe. All sorts ofliberties are taken, the clock is put forward or back at the commandof the general, a great enemy army is created in the twinkling of aneye, day is turned into night and a regular game of topsy-turvydomindulged in. On the occasion of which I write the whole divisionwas out. The time was nine o'clock in the forenoon, and an imaginaryforced march was nearly completed, and an imaginary day was at an end. We were being hurried up as reinforcements to the main army, which wasin touch with the enemy ahead and an engagement was developing. Ourbattalion came to a halt on the roadway, closing in to the left inorder to give full play to the field telephone service in process ofbeing laid. 

Our officers went out in front to seek a position for a bivouac; thedoctor accompanied them to examine the place chosen, see to thewater supply, the drainage, and sanitation. In addition to this, ourcommanders had to find the battalion a resting-ground easy to defendand of merit as a tactical position. 

At ten o'clock we lay down, battalion after battalion, just as wehalted: equipment on, our packs unloosened but shoved up under ourheads, and our rifles by our sides, muzzles towards the enemy. Oneword of command would bring twenty thousand men from their beds, readyin an instant, rifles loaded, bayonets at hips, quick to the route andready for battle. We would rise, as we slept, in full marching order, and the space of a moment would find us hurrying, fully armed, intobattle, with the sleep of night still heavy in our eyes. 

For miles around the soldiers lay down, each in his place and everyplace occupied. Hardly a word was spoken; commands were whispered, andour officers crept round explaining the work ahead. Two miles in frontthe enemy was assembled in great strength on a river, and by dawn, ifall went well, we would enter the firing line. At present we had tolie still; no man was to move about, and sentries with fixed bayonetswere stationed at front, flank, and rear, ready to give the alarm atthe first sign of danger. 

Behind us were the kitchen, horse-lines, and latrines. The position ofthese varies as the wind changes, and it is imperative that unhealthyodours are not blown across the bivouac. The battalion lay in twoparallel squares, with a gangway, blocked up with baggage and variousnecessaries, between. On these squares no refuse was to be throwndown; the ground had to be kept clean; papers, scraps of meat, andpieces of bread, if not eaten, had to be buried. 

Even as we lay, and while the officers were explaining the work inhand, the artillery took up its stand on several wooded knolls thatrose behind us. What a splendid sight, the artillery going intoaction! Heavy guns, an endless line of them, swept over the greenswardand rattled into place. Six horses strained at each gun, which wasaccompanied by two ammunition wagons with six horses to each wagon. How many horses! How many guns! Out of nowhere in particular theycame, and disappeared as if behind a curtain barely four hundredyards away. Thirty minutes afterwards I fancied as I looked in theirdirection that I could see black, ominous muzzles peering throughthe undergrowth. Probably I was mistaken. Anyhow, they were there, guarding us while we slept, our silent watchers!

About eleven o'clock an orderly stole in and spoke to the colonel, ahurried consultation in which all the officers took part was held, and the messenger departed. Again followed an interval of silence, only broken by the officers creeping round and giving us furtherinformation. The enemy was repulsed, they told us, and was now inretreat, but before moving off he had blown up all the bridges onthe river. The artillery of our main army in front was shelling thefleeing foe, and our engineers had just set off to build three pontoonbridges, so that the now sleeping division could cross at dawn andfollow the army in retreat. 

Our dawn came at one o'clock in the afternoon; a whistle was blownsomewhere near at hand, and the battalion sprang to life; every unit, with pack on back, cartridge pouches full, rifle at the order, wasafoot and ready. Only two hours before had the engineers set out tobuild the bridges which the whole division, with its regiment afterregiment, with its artillery, its guns, ammunition wagons and horses, its transport section, and vehicles of all descriptions, was now tocross. The landscape had changed utterly, the country was alive, andhad found voice; the horse-lines were broken, and all the animals, from the colonel's charger to the humble pack horse, were on the move. The little squares, dotted brown, had taken on new shape, and weretransformed into companies of moving men in khaki. We were out on theheels of the retreating foe. 

Two hours' forced marching brought us to the river, a real one, withthree pontoon bridges, newly built and held firm on flat-bottomedboats moored in mid-stream. We took our way across, and bent to thehill on the other side. Half-way up, in a narrow lane, a wagon gotstuck in the front of our battalion, and we were forced to come to ahalt for a moment. Looking back, I could see immediately behind threelines of men straining to the hill; farther back the same lines werecrossing the bridges and, away in the far distance, pencilled brown onthe ploughed fields, the three lines of khaki crawled along like longthreads endlessly unwinding from some invisible ball. Now and againI could see the artillery coming into sight, only to disappear againover a wooded knoll or into an almost invisible hollow. 

Thus the division, the apparently limitless lines of men, horses, andguns crawled on the track of the fleeing enemy. As we stood there, held in check by the wagon, and as I looked back at the thousands ofsoldiers in the rear, I felt indeed that I was a minute mite amongstthe many. And then a second thought struck me. The whole mass of menaround me was a small thing in relation to the numbers engaged inthe great war. Even I, Rifleman Something or Another, No. So-and-so, bulked larger in the division as one of its units than the divisiondid in the war as a unit of the Allied Forces. 

Even more interesting than divisional exercises is the mimicwarfare that is heralded by a notice in battalion orders such as thefollowing: "The battalion will take part in brigade exercise to-day. Ten rounds of blank ammunition and haversack rations will be carried. "

At eight o'clock in the morning whistles were blown at the bottom ofthe street in which my company is billeted, and the soldiers, rubbingthe sleep from their eyes or munching the last mouthful of a hastybreakfast, came trooping out from the snug middle-class housesin which they are quartered. The morning was bitterly cold, andthe falling rain splashed soberly on the pavement, every dropcoming slowly to ground as if selecting a spot to rest on. Thecolour-sergeant, standing at the end of the street, whistle in hand, was in a nasty temper. 

"Hurry up, you heavy-footed beggars, " he yelled to the men. "Theparade takes place to-day, not to-morrow! And you, what's wrong withyour understandings?" he called to a man who came along wearing carpetslippers. 

"My boots are bad, colour, " is the answer. "I cannot march in them. "

"And are you goin' to march in them drorin'-room abominations?" roaredthe sergeant. "Get your boots mended and grease out of it. "

At roll-call three of the company were found to be absent; two weresick, and one who had been found guilty of using bad language to aN. C. O. Was confined to the guard-room. Those who answered their nameswere served out with packets of blank ammunition, one packet per man, and each containing ten cartridges wrapped in brown paper and tiedwith a blue string. 

The captain read the following instructions: "The enemy is reportedto be in strong force on X hill, and Battalions A and B are orderedto dislodge him from that position. A will form first line of attack, B will send up reserves and supports as needed. " The rifles wereexamined by our young lieutenant, after which inspection the companyjoined the battalion, and presently a thousand men with rifles onshoulder, bayonets and haversacks on left hip, and ammunition inpouches, were marching through the rain along the muddy streets, outinto the open country. 

The day promised to be an interesting one from my point of view; I hadnever taken part in a mimic battle before, and the day's work was tobe in many ways similar to operations on the real field of battle. "Only nobody gets killed, of course, " my mate told me. He had takenpart in this kind of work before, and was wise in his superiorknowledge. 

"One-half of the brigade, two thousand men, is our enemy, " heexplained; "and we're going to fight them. The battalion that'shelping us is on in front, and it will soon be fighting. When it'shard pressed we'll go up to help, for we're the supports. It won't belong till we hear the firing. "

An hour's brisk march was followed by a halt, when we were orderedto draw well into the left of the road to let the company guns go by. Dark-nosed and cold, they wheeled past, the horses sweating as theystrained at the carriage shafts; the drivers, by deft handling, pulling the steeds clear of the ruts; out in front they swung, and thebattalion closed up and resumed its march behind. 

The rain ceased and a cold sun shot feeble rays over the sullenDecember landscape. Again a halt was called; the brigadier-general, followed by two officers and several orderlies, galloped up, and ahurried consultation with our colonel took place. In a moment thebattalion moved ahead only to come to a dead stop again after tenminutes' slow marching, and find a company detailed off to guard therear. The other companies, led by their officers, turned off the roadand moved in sections across the newly furrowed and soggy fields. Alevel sweep of December England broken only by leafless hedgerows andwire fencing stretched out in front towards a wooded hillock, thatstood up black against the sky-line two miles away. The enemy heldthis wood; we could hear his guns booming and now considered ourselvesunder shell fire. Each squad of sixteen men marched in the rear or onthe flank of its neighbour; this method of progression minimises thedangers of bursting shrapnel, for a shell falling in the midst of onebody of men and causing considerable damage will do no harm to theadjacent party. 

Somewhere near us our gunners were answering the enemy's fire; but sowell hidden were the guns that I could not locate them. We stillcrept slowly forward; section after section crawled across the black, ploughed fields, now rising up like giant caterpillars to the crestof a mound, and again dropping out of sight in the hollow land likecorks on a comber. On our heels the ambulance corps followed with itsstretchers, and in front the enemy was firing vigorously; over thebelt of trees that lined the summit of the hillock little wisps ofsmoke could be seen rising and fading in the air. 

Suddenly we came into line with our guns hidden in a deep narrowcart-track, their dark muzzles trained on the enemy, and the gunners, knee-deep in the mire of the lane, sweating at their work. "We'reunder covering fire now, " our young lieutenant explained, as wetrudged forward, lifting enormous masses of clay on our boots at everystep. "One battalion is engaged already; hear the shots. "

The rifles were barking on the left front; in a moment the reportsfrom that quarter died away, and the right found voice. The men ofthe first line were in the trenches dug by us a fortnight earlier, andthere they would remain, we knew, until their supports came to theiraid. Already we passed several of them, who were detailed off on theanticipated casualty list in the morning. These wore white labels intheir buttonholes, telling of the nature of their wounds. One labelbore the words: "Shot in right shoulder; wound not dangerous. " Anotherread: "Leg blown off, " and a third ran: "Flesh wounds in arm and leg. "These men would be taken into the care of the ambulance party when itarrived. 

When within fifteen hundred yards of the enemy, the command forextended order advance was given, and the section spread out in onelong line, fronting the knoll, with five pace intervals between themen. We were now under rifle-fire, and all further movements forwardwere made in short sharp rushes, punctuated by halts, during whichwe lay flat on the ground, our bodies deep in the soft earth, and therain, which again commenced to fall, wetting us to the skin. 

Six hundred yards from the enemy's front we tumbled into the trenchesalready in possession of Battalion B, and I found myself ankle-deep inmire, beside a unit of another regiment who was enjoying a cigaretteand blowing rings of smoke into the air. Although no enemy was visiblewe got the order to fire, and I discharged three rounds in rapidsuccession. 

"Don't fire, you fool!" said the man who was blowing the smoke rings. "Them blanks dirty 'orrible, and when you've clean't the clay fromyour clothes t'night you'll not want to muck about with your rifle. There's a price for copper, and I always sell my cartridge cases. Thefirst time I came out I fired, but never since. "

Several rushes forward followed, and the penultimate hundred yardswere covered with fixed bayonets. In this manner we were prepared forany surprise. The enemy replied fitfully to our fire, and we could nowsee several khaki-clad figures with white hat-bands--the differentialsymbols--moving backwards and forwards amidst the trees. Presentlythey disappeared as we worked nearer to their lines. We were nowrushing forward, lying down to fire, rising and running only to dropdown again and discharge another round. Within fifty yards of thecoppice the order to charge was given. A yell, almost fiendish in itsintensity, issued from a thousand throats; anticipation of the realwork which is to be done some day, lent spirit to our rush. In aninstant we were in the wood, smashing the branches with our bayonets, thrusting at imaginary enemies, roaring at the top of our voices, andcapping a novel fight with a triumphant final. 

And our enemies? Having finished their day's work they were nowfifteen minutes' march ahead of us on the way back to their rest andrations. 

CHAPTER VIII

THE GENERAL INSPECTION AND THE EVERLASTING WAITING

One of our greatest trials is the general inspection, which takesplace every month, and once Lord Kitchener inspected the battalion, incompany with the division quartered in our town. But that was beforeI joined. It involves much labour in the way of preparation. On oneoccasion, midnight the night before, a Friday, found us still busywith our work. My cot-mate was in difficulties with his rifle--thecloth of the pull-through stuck in the barrel, and he could not moveit, although he broke a bamboo cane and bent a poker in the attempt. "It's a case for the armoury, " he remarked gloomily. "What a nuisancethat ramrods are done away with! We've been at it since eight o'clock, and getting along A1. Now that beastly pull-through!"

What an evening's work! On the day following the brigadier-generalwas to inspect us, and we had to appear on parade spick and span, withrifles spotless, and every article of our equipment in good order. Packs were washed and hung over the rim of the table by our billetfire, web-belts were cleaned, and every speck of mud and greaseremoved. Our packs, when dry, were loaded with overcoat, mess-tin, housewife, razor, towel, etc. , and packed tightly and squarely, showing no crease at side or bulge at corner. Ground-sheets wereneatly rolled and fastened on top of pack, no overlapping was allowed;rifles were oiled and polished from muzzle to butt-plate, and swordsrubbed with emery paper until not a single speck of rust remained. 

Saturday morning found us trim and tidy on the parade ground. Anoutsider would hardly dream that we were the men who had ploughedthrough the muddy countryside and sunk to the knees in the furrowedfields daily since the wet week began. Where was the clay that hadcaked brown on our khaki, the rust that spoilt the lustre of ourswords, and the fringes that the wire fences tore on our tunics? Allgone; soap and water, a brush, needle and thread, and a scrap of emerypaper had worked the miracle. We stood easy awaiting the arrivalof the general; platoons sized from flanks to centres (namely, thetallest men stood at the flanks, and the khaki lines dwindled instature towards the small men in the middle), and company officers atfront and rear. The officers saw that everything was correct, that nolace-ends showed from under the puttees, that no lace-eye lay idle, and that laces were not crossed over the boots. Each man had shavedand got his hair cut, his hat set straight on his head, and theregimental badge in proper position over the idle chin-strap. Pocket-flaps and tunics were buttoned, water-bottles and haversackshung straight, the tops of the latter in line with the bayonet rings, and entrenching tool handles were scrubbed clean--my mate and I hadspent much soap on ours the night before. 

One of our officers gave us instructions as to how we had to behaveduring the inspection, more especially when we were under the directgaze of the general. 

"Not a movement, " he told us. "Every eyelash must be still. If thegeneral asks me your name and I make a mistake and say you are Smithinstead of Brown, your real name, you're not to say a word. You areBrown for the time being. If he speaks to you, you're to answer:'Sir, ' and 'Sir' only to every question. If you're asked what was yourage last birthday, 'Sir' is to be the only answer. Is that clear toevery man?"

It was, indeed, clear, surprisingly clear; but we wondered at thecommand, which was new to us. To answer in this fashion appearedstrange to us; we thought (the right to think is not denied to asoldier) it a funny method of satisfying a general's curiosity. 

He came, a tall, well-set man, with stern eyebrows and a heavymoustache, curled upwards after the manner of an Emperor whom weheartily dislike, attended by a slim brigade major, who wore a ratherlarge eyeglass, and made several entries in his notebook, as hefollowed on the heels of the superior inspecting the battalion. 

We stood, every unit of us, sphinx-like, immovable, facing our frontand resigned to our position. To an onlooker it might seem as if wewere frozen there--our fingers glued on to our rifles and our feetfirm to the earth at an angle of forty-five degrees. I stood near therear, and could see the still platoons in front, not a hat moved, nota boot shifted. The general broke the spell when he was passing me. 

"Another button. There were forty-seven the last time, " he said, andthe man with the eyeglass made an entry in the notebook. Through anoversight, I had helped to lower the prestige of the battalion: apocket flap of my tunic was unbuttoned. 

Kit inspection was a business apart; the general picked out severalsoldiers haphazard and ordered their packs to be opened for anexamination of the contents--spoons, shirts, socks, and the variousnecessaries which dismounted men in full marching order must carry ontheir persons were inspected carefully. A full pack is judged best byits contents, and nearly all packs passed muster. One man was unlucky:his mate was chosen for kit inspection, but this hapless individualcame out minus a toothbrush and comb, and the friend in need took hisplace in the freshly-formed ranks. Here, the helper found that his ownkit was inefficient, he had forgotten to put in a pair of socks. Thatafternoon he had to do two hours' extra drill. 

Perhaps an even greater trial than Divisional Inspection was that ofwaiting orders when we were the victims of camp rumours. But this wasas nothing to the false alarms. There is some doggerel known to themen which runs:

 "We're off to the front, " said the colonel, as he placed us in the train, "And we went at dawn from the station, and at night came back again. "

For months we had drilled and drilled, all earnest in our labours andfilled with enthusiasm for our new profession, and daily we await theorder to leave for foreign parts. Where are we going to when we leaveEngland? France, Egypt, or India? Rumour had it yesterday that wewould go to Egypt; to-day my mate, the blue-eyed Jersey youth, heardfrom a friend, who heard it from a colour-sergeant, that we are goingout to India, where we will be kept as guardians of the King's Empirefor a matter of four years. Ever since I joined the Army it has beenthe same: reports name a new destination for my battalion daily. 

Afterwards we had to go and help the remarkable Russians who passedthrough England on the way to France; but when the Russians faded fromthe ken of vision and the Press Bureau denied their very existence, it was immediately reported that we had been drilled into shape inorder to demolish De Wet and all his South African rebels. De Wet wascaptured and is now under military control, and still we waited ordersto move from the comfortable billets and crowded streets of our town. Dry eyes would see us depart, mocking children would bid us sarcasticfarewells, the kindly landladies and their fair daughters would laughwhen we bade adieu and moved away to some destination unknown. We hadalready taken our farewell three times, and on each occasion we havecome back again to our billets before the day that saw our departurecame to an end. 

The heart of every man thrilled with excitement when the announcementwas made for the first time, one weary evening when we had justcompleted a ten-hour divisional field exercise. Our officer read itfrom a typewritten sheet, and the announcement was as follows:

 "All men in the battalion must stand under arms until further orders. No soldier is to leave his billet; boots are not to be taken off, and best marching pairs are to be worn. Every unit of the company who lacks any part of the necessary equipment must immediately report at quartermaster's stores, where all wants will be supplied. Identity discs to be worn, swords must be cleaned and polished, and twenty-four hours' haversack rations are to be carried. The battalion has to entrain for some unknown destination when called upon. "

The news spread through the town: the division was going to move! Onthe morrow we would be sailing for France, in a fortnight we would bein Berlin! Our landladies met us at the doors as we came in, looks ofentreaty on their faces and tears in their eyes. The hour had come; wewere going to leave them. And the landladies' daughters? One, a buxomwench of eighteen, kissed the Jersey youth in sight of the wholebattalion, but nobody took any notice of the unusual incident. Allwere busy with their own thoughts, and eager for the new adventuresbefore them. 

I did not go to sleep that night; booted and dressed I lay on thehearthrug in front of the fire, and waited for the call. About fouro'clock in the morning a whistle was blown outside on the street;I got to my feet, put on my equipment, fastened the buckles of myhaversack, bade adieu to my friends of the billet who had risen frombed to see me off, and joined my company. 

Five or six regiments were already on the move; transport wagons, driven by khaki-clad drivers with rifles slung over their shoulders, lumbered through the dimly-lighted thoroughfares; ammunition vansstood at every street corner; guns rattled along drawn by straininghorses, the sweat steaming from the animals' flanks and withers;an ambulance party sped through the greyness of the foggy morning, accompanied by a Red Cross lorry piled high with chests and stretcherpoles, and soldiers in files and fours, in companies and columns, werein movement everywhere--their legions seemed countless and endless. 

Ammunition was given out from the powder magazine; each man was handed150 rounds of ball cartridge--a goodly weight to carry on a long day'smarch! With our ammunition we were now properly equipped and ready forany emergency. Each individual carried on his person in addition torifle, bayonet (sword is the military name for the latter weapon)and ball cartridge, a blanket and waterproof sheet, an overcoat, awater-bottle, an entrenching tool and handle, as well as several otherlighter necessaries, such as shirts, socks, a knife, fork, and spoon, razor, soap, and towel. 

At eight o'clock, when the wintry dawn was breaking and the foglifting, we entered the station. Hundreds of the inhabitants of thetown came to see us off and cheer us on the long way to Tipperary: andTipperary meant Berlin. One of the inhabitants, a kindly woman who isloved by the soldiers of my company, to whom she is very good, cameto the station as we were leaving, and presented a pair of mittens toeach of fifty men. 

The train started on its journey, puffed a feeble cloud of smokeinto the air, and suddenly came to a dead stop. Heads appeared atthe windows, and voices inquired if the engine-driver had taken thewrong turning on the road to Berlin. The train shunted back into thestation, and we all went back to our billets again, but not beforeour officers informed us that we had done the work of entraining verysmartly, and when the real call did come we would lose no time on thejourney to an unknown destination. 

Later we had two further lessons in entraining, and we came to fearthat when the summons did come dry eyes would watch us depart andsarcastic jibes make heavy our leave-taking. Indeed, some of theinhabitants of our town hinted that we should never leave the placeuntil the local undertakers make a profit on our exit. So much fortheir gentle sarcasm! But well they knew that one day in the nearfuture it would suddenly occur to our commanders to take us with themin the train to Berlin. 

CHAPTER IX

READY TO GO--THE BATTALION MOVES

Rumour had been busy for days; the whole division was about to move, so every one stated, except our officers, and official information wasnot forthcoming. 

"You are going between midnight and five o'clock to-morrow morning, "announced my landlord positively. He is a coal-merchant by trade. 

"How do you know?" I inquired. 

"Because I can't get any coal to-morrow--line's bunged up for thetroops. "

"No, he'll be going on Tuesday, " said his wife, whose kindliness andsplendid cooking I should miss greatly. 

"Is that so?" I asked, feigning an interest which I did not feel. Asore toe eclipsed all other matters for the time being. 

"The ration men have served out enough for two days, and it doesn'tstand to reason that they're going to waste anything, " the little ladycontinued with sarcastic emphasis on the last two words. 

Parades went on as usual; the usual rations were doled out to billetsand the usual grumbling went on in the ranks. We were weary of falsealarms, waiting orders, and eternal parades. Some of us had beentraining for fully six months, others had joined the Army when warbroke out, and we were still secure in England. "Why have we joined?"the men asked. "Is it to line the streets when the troops come home?We are a balmy regiment. "

One evening, Thursday to be exact, the battalion orders wereinteresting. One item ran as follows: "All fees due to billets will bepaid up to Friday night. If any other billet expenses are incurredby battalion the same will be paid on application to the War Office. "Friday evening found more explicit expression of our future movementsin orders. The following items appeared: "Mess tin covers will beissued to-morrow. No white handkerchiefs are to be taken by thebattalion overseas. All deficiencies in kit must be reported to-morrowmorning. Bayonets will be sharpened. Any soldiers who have not yetreceived a copy of the New Testament can have same on application atthe Town Hall 6 p. M. On Saturday. 

"Where are we going?" we asked one another. Some answered saying thatwe were to help in the sack of Constantinople, others suggested Egypt, but all felt that we were going off to France at no very distant date. Was not this feeling plausible when we took into account a boot paradeof the day before and how we were ordered to wear two pairs of sockswhen trying on the boots? Two pairs of socks suggested the trenchesand cold, certainly not the sun-dried gutters of Constantinople, orthe burning sands of Egypt. 

Saturday saw an excited battalion mustered in front of thequartermaster's stores drawing out boots, mess-tin covers, blankets, ground-sheets, entrenching tools, identity discs, new belts, water-bottles, pack-straps, trousers, tunics and the hundred and oneother things required by the soldier on active service. In additionto the usual requisites, every unit received a cholera belt (they aremore particular over this article of attire than over any other), two pairs of pants, a singlet and a cake of soap. The latter lookedtallowy and nobody took it further than the billet; the pants werewoollen, very warm and made in Canada. This reminds me of an amusingepisode which took place last general inspection. While standing easy, before the brigadier-general made his appearance, the men comparedrazors and found that eighty per cent. Of them had been made inGermany. But these were bought by the soldiers before war started. Atleast all affirmed that this was so. 

Saturday was a long parade; some soldiers were drawing necessariesat midnight, and no ten-o'-clock-to-billets order was enforced thatnight. I drew my boots at eleven o'clock, and then the streets werecrowded with our men, and merry and sad with sightseers and friends. Wives and sweethearts had come to take a last farewell of husbands andlovers, and were making the most of the last lingering moments in goodwishes and tears. 

Sunday. --No church parade; and all men stood under arms in thestreets. The officers had taken off all the trumpery of war, theswords which they never learned to use, the sparkling hat-badges andthe dainty wrist-watches. They now appeared in web equipment, similarto that worn by the men, and carried rifles. Dressed thus an officerwill not make a special target for the sniper and is not conspicuousby his uniform. 

Our captain made the announcement in a quiet voice, the announcementwhich had been waited for so long. "To-morrow we proceed overseas, " hesaid. "On behalf of the colonel I've to thank you all for the way inwhich you have done your work up to the present, and I am certainthat when we get out yonder, " he raised his arm and his gesture mightindicate any point of the compass, "you'll all do your work with thespirit and determination which you have shown up till now. "

This was the announcement. The men received it gleefully and a hubbubof conversation broke out in the ranks. "We're going at last"; "Ithought when I joined that I'd be off next morning"; "What price afree journey to Berlin!"; "It'll be some great sport!" Such were theremarks that were bandied to and fro. But some were silent, feeling, no doubt, that the serious work ahead was not the subject for idlechatter. 

A little leaflet entitled "Rules for the Preservation of Health onField Service, " was given to each man, and I am at liberty to give afew quotations. 

"Remember that disease attacks you from outside; it is your duty tokeep it outside. "

"Don't drink unboiled water if you can get boiled water. "

"Never start on a march with an empty stomach. "

"Remember that a dirty foot is an unsound foot. See that feet arewashed if no other part of the body is. Socks should be taken off atthe end of the march, be flattened out and well shaken. Put on a cleanpair if possible, if not, put the left sock on the right foot, andvice versa. "

"Remember, on arrival in camp, _food before fatigues_. "

"Always rig up some kind of shelter at night for the head, if for noother part of the body. "

At twelve noon on Monday the whistles blew at the bottom of the streetand we all turned out in full marching order with packs, haversacks, rifles and swords. I heard the transport wagons clattering on thepavement, the merry laughter of the drivers, the noise of men fallinginto place and above all the voice of the sergeant-major issuingorders. 

Yet this, like other days, was a "wash-out. " All day we waited fororders to move, twice we paraded in full marching kit, eager for thecommand to entrain; but it was not forthcoming. Another day had tobe spent in billets under strict instructions not to move from ourquarters. The orders were posted up as usual at all street corners, a plan which is adopted for the convenience of units billeted a greatdistance from headquarters, and the typewritten orders had an air ofmomentous finality:

The battalion moves to-morrow. 

Parade will be at 4. 30 a. M. 

Entraining and detraining and embarking must be done in absolutesilence. 

I rose from bed at three and set about to prepare breakfast, while mycot-mate busied himself with our equipment, putting everything intoshape, buckling belts and flaps, burnishing bayonets and oiling thebolts of the rifles. Twenty-four hours' rations were stored away inour haversacks all ready, the good landlady had been at work stewingand frying meat and cooking dainty scones up to twelve o'clock thenight before. 

When breakfast, a good hearty meal of tea, buttered toast, fried baconand tomatoes, was over, we went out to our places. The morning waschilly, a cold wind splashed with hail swept along the streets andwhirled round the corners, causing the tails of our great coats tobeat sharply against our legs. It was still very dark, only a fewstreet-lamps were lighted and these glimmered doubtfully as if ashamedof being noticed. Men in full marching order stamped out from everybillet, took their way to the main street, where the transport wagons, wheels against kerbstones, horses in shafts, and drivers at reins, stood in mathematical order, and from there on to the parade groundwhere sergeants, with book in one hand and electric torch in theother, were preparing to call the roll. 

Ammunition was served out, one hundred and twenty rounds to each man, and this was placed in the cartridge pouches, rifles were inspectedand identity discs examined by torch-light. This finished, we wereallowed to stand easy and use ground-sheets for a shelter from thebiting hail. Our blankets were already gone. The transport wagons haddisappeared and with them our field-bags. I suppose they will awaitus in ---- but I anticipate, and at present all we know is that ourregiment is bound for some destination unknown where, when we arrive, we shall have to wear two pairs of socks at our work. 

We stood by till eight o'clock. The day had cleared and the sun wasshining brightly when we marched off to the station, through streetslined with people, thoughtful men who seemed to be very sad, women whowept and children who chattered and sang "Tipperary. "

Three trains stood in the sidings by the station. Places were allottedto the men, eight occupied each compartment, non-commissioned officersoccupied a special carriage, the officers travelled first-class. 

Soon we were hurrying through England to a place unknown. Most of mycomrades were merry and a little sentimental; they sang music-hallsongs that told of home. There were seven with me in my compartment, the Jersey youth, whom I saw kissing a weeping sweetheart in the coldhours of the early day; Mervin, my cot-mate, who always cleaned therifles while I cooked breakfast in the morning; Bill, the Cockneyyouth who never is so happy as when getting the best of an argumentin the coffee-shop of which I have already spoken, and the Oxford man. The other three were almost complete strangers to me, they have justbeen drafted into our regiment; one was very fat and reminded me of aDickens character in _Pickwick Papers_; another who soon fell asleep, his head warm in a Balaclava helmet, was a tall, strapping youth withlarge muscular hands, which betoken manual labour, and the last was aslightly-built boy with a budding moustache which seemed to have beenwaxed at one end. We noticed this, and the fat soldier said that thewax had melted from the few lonely hairs on the other side of the lip. 

Stations whirled by, Mervin leant out of the window to read theirnames, but was never successful. Cigarettes were smoked, the carriagewas full of tobacco fumes and the floor littered with "fag-ends. "Rifles were lying on the racks, four in each side, and caps, papersand equipment piled on top of them. The Jersey youth made a remark:

"Where are we going to?" he asked. "France I suppose, isn't it?"

"Maybe Egypt, " someone answered. 

"With two pairs of socks to one boot!" Mervin muttered in sarcastictones; and almost immediately fell asleep. He had been a greattraveller and knows many countries. His age is about forty, but heowns to twenty-seven, and in his youth he was educated for the church. "But the job was not one for me, " he says, "and I threw it up. " Helooks forward to the life of a soldier in the field. 

Our train journey neared the end. Bill was at the window and said thatwe were in sight of our destination. All were up and fumbling withtheir equipment; and one, the University man, hoped that the nightwould be a good one for sailing to France. 

If we are bound for France we shall be there to-morrow. 

THE END. 

 * * * * *

JUST PUBLISHED

THE RAT-PIT

BY PATRICK MACGILL, AUTHOR OF "CHILDREN OF THE DEAD END. " CROWN 8VO. PRICE 6/-. INLAND POSTAGE 5D. EXTRA. 

"Children of the Dead End" came upon the literary world as somethingof a surprise; it dealt with a phase of life about which nothingwas known. It was compared with the work of Borrow and Kipling. Incidentally three editions, aggregating 10, 000 copies, were calledfor within fifteen days. In his new book Mr. MacGill still deals withthe underworld he knows so well. He tells of a life woven of darkestthreads, full of pity and pathos, lighted up by that rare and quainthumour that made his first book so attractive. "The Rat-Pit" tells thestory of an Irish peasant girl brought up in an atmosphere of poverty, where the purity of the poor and the innocence of maidenhood standout in simple relief against a grim and sombre background. Norah Ryanleaves her home at an early age, and is plunged into a new world wheredissolute and heedless men drag her down to their own miry level. Mr. MacGill's lot has been cast in strange places, and every incident ofhis book is pregnant with a vivid realism that carries the convictionthat it is a literal transcript from life, as in fact it is. Onlylast summer, just before he enlisted, Mr. MacGill spent some time inGlasgow reviving old memories of its underworld. His characters aremostly real persons, and their sufferings, the sufferings of womenburdened and oppressed with wrongs which women alone bear, are astrong indictment against a dubious civilisation. 

HERBERT JENKINS LD. , 12 ARUNDEL PLACE, LONDON, S. W. 

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10, 000 COPIES CALLED FOR IN 10 DAYS. 

CHILDREN OF THE DEAD END

The Autobiography of a Navvy. By PATRICK MACGILL. Crown 8vo. Price6/-. Inland Postage 5d. Extra. 

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HERBERT JENKINS, LD. 12 ARUNDEL PLACE, LONDON, S. W. 

 * * * * *

_BY THE SAME AUTHOR_

SONGS OF THE DEAD END

POEMS BY PATRICK MACGILL

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HERBERT JENKINS LD. , 12 ARUNDEL PLACE, LONDON, S. W. 

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QUICK TRAINING FOR WAR

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HERBERT JENKINS LD. , 12 ARUNDEL PLACE, LONDON, S. W.