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.. meta::
   :PG.Id: 47315
   :PG.Title: Private Spud Tamson
   :PG.Released: 2014-11-08
   :PG.Rights: Public Domain
   :PG.Producer: David Garcia, \D Alexander and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive)
   :DC.Creator: \R. \W. Campbell
   :DC.Title: Private Spud Tamson
   :DC.Language: en
   :DC.Created: 1916
   :coverpage: images/i-cover.jpg

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Private Spud Tamson
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   Private Spud Tamson

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   BY

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   :small-caps:`Captain R. W. CAMPBELL`

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   TWELFTH IMPRESSION

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   William Blackwood and Sons
   Edinburgh and London
   1916

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   *I TAKE THE LIBERTY TO*
   Dedicate this Book
   *TO*
   *MY COMMANDING OFFICER*,
   *MY BROTHER OFFICERS*,
   *AND*
   *THE N.C.O.'S AND MEN*
   *OF*
   *MY GALLANT REGIMENT*.

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*NOTE*.
=======

*The Glesca Mileeshy is no regiment in
particular. The story is simply a composite
study of the types who fill the ranks of our
Militia Regiments, now known as The
Special Reserve. In the near future I hope
to give a pen picture of our Territorials—the
splendid force with which I am at present
connected.*

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.. contents::
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[pg 3]

CHAPTER I. |nl| SPUD TAMSON ENLISTS.
====================================

:small-caps:`The` Glesca Mileeshy was a noble force,
recruited from the Weary Willies and
Never-works of the famous town of
Glasgow. It was also a regiment with
traditions, for in the dim and distant past
it had been founded by 1000 heroic scallywags
from out of the city jails. These
men were dressed in tartan breeks and
red coats, given a gun and kit, shipped
straight to the Peninsula, and on landing
there were told to fight or starve.

"We'll fecht," was their unanimous reply,
and fight they did. Inured to hardships,
they quickly adapted themselves to the
tented field, and early displayed a thirst

[pg 4]
"Ay—I waant tae jine the Mileeshy."

"Which Militia?"

"The Glesca Mileeshy, of coorse."

"Very well, come with me, and I'll get
you a Field-Marshal's baton," said the sergeant
with glee, for this recruiter was feeling
thirsty and much in need of his half-crown
fee. He led Spud into the recruiting office,
and told him to strip.

"When did you have a bath last?"

"Last Glesca Fair," answered Spud, quite
unashamed of his nigger-like skin.

"What! Ten months ago?"

"Ach! that's naething; ma faither hisna
had a waash since he got mairret."

"Well then, what's your age?"

"Age! I dinnae ken!"

"Don't know your age?"

"Naw, but I wis born the year that the
auld chap wis sent tae Peterheid."

"Oh, what was that for?"

"Knockin' lumps aff the auld wife's heid
wi' a poker."

"Very well, we'll say you're nineteen,"
added the sergeant. "Now, what's your
religion?"

"The Salvation Army. Ye see, the auld
[pg 5]
chap kept in wi' them, for they gie him a
bed when he's 'on the bash.'"

"And what's your occupation?"

"Cornet-player. I blaw the trumpet, an'
the auld chap gies oot the balloons and
candy."

"What is your full name and address?"

"Spud Tamson, Murder Close, the Gallowgate,
five up, ticket number 10,005."

"That's a big number!"

"Ay, that's the number o' fleas in the
close."

"Now, my lad, get into that bath and
then you'll pass the doctor."

When Spud emerged from the water he
was a different lad. The grime of years had
gone, leaving his skin pink and fresh. He
looked fit indeed with the exception of his
spurtle legs and somewhat comical face.
However, the old sergeant wanted his half-crown,
so Spud had to pass by hook or by
crook. He made him hop round the doctor's
room like a kangaroo, and when he was just
on the verge of failing in the eyesight test
he whispered the number of dots in his ear.
And so Spud Tamson was passed as a fullblown
private into the Glesca Mileeshy.

[pg 6]
"There's the shilling. Go home and say
good-bye to your friends; but remember, be
at the station to-night at eight."

"A' richt, sergint. I'll be there," replied
Spud, as he marched proudly out of the
door. Soon after, he announced the news
to his now fond and proud parents.

"I'm prood o' ye, son," said Mrs Tamson.
"Here, tak' yer faither's shirt and Sunday
breeks and pawn them. You'll get twa
shillin's on them. And bring back a gill
o' the best, twa bottles o' table beer, an' a
pun' o' ham. We'll hae a feast afore ye
gang tae the Mileeshy," concluded his
mother, as she handed Spud the articles
for pawning. He blithely stepped off, and
on his return was followed by all the thirsty
members of the "Murder Close Brigade."

"Here's tae Private Spud Tamson of the
Glesca Mileeshy," said Mrs Tamson, raising
a glass to her lips, and giving Spud a look
of pride.

"Ay, he'll be a braw sodger," chimed in
an old wife.

"If it wisnae for his legs," said Tamson
senior.

"Let's hae a sang," interjected "Hungry
[pg 7]
Bob," another relative who was a professional
militiaman. All were agreed, and
Bob commenced to sing—

   | "Their caps were tattered and battered,
   |   And jackets faded and worn,
   | Their breeches ragged wi' crawling
   |   When boosey and a' forlorn;
   | Yet when dressed in the tartan
   |   They're the pride o' the women's eye,
   | Are the Rusty, Dusty, Deil-may-care,
   |   Plucky Auld G.L.I."

"Hear! hear!" echoed the audience, sipping
up the last of the refreshments, then
rising to follow Spud to the station.

"What's up?" asked the neighbour, Mrs
M'Fatty, as she saw the crowd go marching
out of the close.

"D'ye no' ken—Spud Tamson's jined the
Mileeshy!"

"D'ye tell me! But he's got bachle legs
and bleary een. A braw sodger he'll mak',"
said the other with a snicker.

"Oh, but he'll blaw up weel when he gets
a skinfu' o' skilly and army duff," said Mrs
M'Fatty, shutting her door again.

Meantime Spud was marching to the
station, headed by the melodeon and tinwhistle
band of the "Murder Close Brigade."
[pg 8]
It was the proudest day of his life, and he
stuck out his chest as he marched into the
Central Station.

"In here," said the old sergeant, getting
him by the scruff of the neck and half pitching
him into a railway carriage for Blacktoon.
The whistle blew, and as the train moved
out his friends shouted—

"Keep oot o' the Nick, Tamson."

"Pawn your claes an' send me the ticket."

"I'll come oot tae see ye," said his faither.

"If you're no in Barlinnie," shouted Spud
as a last farewell, then collapsed down on
the seat, to the disgust of a woman next to
him.

"Dinnae smother ma wean," she said.

"I'm sorry, missus. I thocht it wis a
doll."

"Did ye, ye impident keely. If I wis
your mither I wid hae drooned ye."

"I'm ower bonny for that," answered
Spud in a good-humoured way.

"Ha! ha! ha! What a face!"

"What's wrang wi' ma face?"

"It's like a burst German sausage."

"She's got ye that time," said an old
packman in the opposite corner; "but whaur
are ye gaun?"

[pg 9]
"Tae jine the Mileeshy."

"Man, I'm a piper in that 'crush.' You'll
like it—it's great sport. But mind Sergeant-Major
Fireworks. He's a holy terror. He's
got a chist like a horse, and a breist o' tin
medals. When he howls the dogs start
barking, and when he curses he mak's ye
shiver as if ye had the fever. But he'll
mak' a man o' ye."

"What d'ye get tae eat?"

"Hard breid, skilly, bully beef, an' army
duff. You'll smell the beef a mile away.
And mind the blankets."

"What's wrang wi' them?"

"They're like the picture shows—movin'.
But here's Blacktoon, an' there's a sergint
waitin' for ye. I'll see ye at camp, and
mine's a pint. Ta-ta," concluded the old
warrior, as Spud stepped out to meet the
sergeant.

"I'm Private Spud Tamson," said our
hero, saluting the sergeant.

"Alright, but don't salute me—salute the
heid yins, that's the officers. Quick march."
And off went Spud and his escort through
the streets of Blacktoon.

There was a smile as the bold Militiaman
went by, and a little gang of unwashed
[pg 10]
urchins joined the procession,
singing—

   | "Oh, this is Jock M'Craw,
   | A sodger in the raw,
   | But Bully Beef and Duff
   | 'll mak' him fat an' tough,
   |     And then he'll be
   |     Like Bob M'Gee,
   |     A twelve stane three
   |       Mileeshiman! Mileeshiman!"

[pg 11]

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CHAPTER II. |nl| SPUD ARRIVES AT THE DEPOT.
===========================================

:small-caps:`The` Depot in Blacktoon was a somewhat
ancient affair. In its palmiest days the
blood-sucking Hanoverian mercenaries of
King Geordie had been quartered there.
And during the Russian Scare a score of
low jerry-built buildings had been added to
house the braw lads hastily summoned to
defend their kail-pots and their wives. The
Depot was therefore a glorified "Model"—in
fact, some of the "Mileeshy" described
it as a "bug and flea factory." However,
that was not the fault of His Majesty's
Government, but rather the result of collecting
from the highways and byways all
the odds and ends of humanity. Nevertheless,
it was a useful institution from a
social reformer's point of view. In times of
stress and unemployment the Depot became
[pg 12]
a refuge and soup-kitchen for all those who
could muster enough chest measurement
and say "99" while an old horse surgeon
thumped the lungs with his ironlike fists.
And strange to say, it was also viewed by
the magistrates as a sort of reformative
penitentiary. Many a lad summoned before
the bailie for sheep-stealing, burglary, wife-beating,
or "getting a lassie into bother,"
was given the option of "sixty days—or jine
the Mileeshy." Naturally, these rapscallions
preferred the lesser of the evils, and, in this
way, the Secretary of State for War was
enabled to put on paper that "The Militia
was up to the established strength and filled
with men of a hardy and soldier-like kind."
Still, these men could fight. Wellington, as
I have already said, had found the Glesca
Mileeshy able to rise to the noblest heights.
So, you see, there was enough of tradition to
whet the enthusiasm of the warlike Spud,
and as he marched through the barrack
gates he swung out his pigeon chest, tightened
up his shanks, and swaggered across
the parade in the style of a braw "Mileeshiman."
The sergeant marched him straight
to where Sergeant-Major Fireworks was
standing.

[pg 13]
"Halt!" the sergeant commanded.

Then addressing the sergeant-major, said,
"Private Spud Tamson from Glasgow, sir."

"Umph! You're a beauty. What are
you—a burglar or wife-beater, eh?"

"Naw, I'm Spud Tamson, rag merchant,
frae Glesca."

"Say 'sir' when you speak to me. And
keep your legs to attention. You're a soldier
now! Don't scowl at me; I'll have no dumb
insolence from you, understand! And remember,
you belong to the Glesca Mileeshy,
the right of the line and the terror of the
whole world."

"I ken a' aboot that. Ma uncle wis in it."

"What was his name?"

"Rab M'Ginty."

"M'Ginty! Why, that was the d——
rascal who sneaked my trousers and stole
a barrel of beer."

"Ay, that's him. He's got an' awfu' thirst.
I think he's got a sponge in his thrapple."

"Very well. You'll go to 'A' Company.
March him off, sergeant." And away went
Spud to join the leading company of his
regiment.

He was introduced to a barrack-room
where twenty men lived under the rule of a
[pg 14]
red-nosed corporal nicknamed "Beery Bob."
The walls of this room were whitewashed
and decorated here and there with photos of
boxers and ballet girls in tights. Along
each side of the room were the little iron
beds with rolled-up mattresses and blankets
neatly folded. A single shelf contained each
man's belongings, while at the end of the
room there was a cupboard to hold the rough
bread, greasy margarine, and chipped iron
bowls and plates. To the sensitive eye the
place just looked like a prison, but the
average Militiaman regarded it as a palace,
for he hailed from a brute creation who
only know squalor and misery. Indeed, it
was frequently argued that to house these
men in a more artistic sphere would be
stupid, for the simple reason that they would
wipe their feet with the tablecloths and use
the saucers for the boot blacking. In any
case, it was life under the crudest conditions.
On a pay-day it was simply Hell.

Dinner was being served as Spud entered.
This consisted of a greasy-looking stew,
coupled with queer-looking potatoes. The
old soldiers, of course, made sure of receiving
the biggest share. This was an unwritten
law, handed down from the Army of the
[pg 15]
Romans, and it was *infra dig*. for the recruit
to object. Imagine the surprise of the
hungry Spud Tamson on sitting down to a
bone and a couple of potatoes. It was too
much for his fiery nature, and, on observing
the plate of an old Die-hard next to him,
which was loaded up with the choicest titbits,
he remarked to him, "You're like Rab
Haw—you've eyes bigger than your belly."

"Nane o' yer lip, or I'll knock your
pimpled face intae mincemeat."

"Wid ye! D'ye think I'm saft?"

"Shut up, I tell ye."

"Tha'll no' frichten me, auld cock—I'm
gem."

"Tak' that," said his opponent, wiping his
hand across his face. Spud promptly hit back,
with the result that the table went up with a
bang and all the dinners crashed to the floor.

"Mak' a ring! Mak' a ring!" shouted the
others, for Militiamen dearly love a scrap. In
a few seconds this was done. Spud and his
enemy off with their jackets, and soon the
thud, thud, of blows, and an occasional grunt
told of a deadly combat. If Spud was lean,
he was wiry, and he had been reared in the
school of self-help. He hopped round the
old Die-hard like a bantam, and now and
[pg 16]
then slipped in a terrific blow on the elderly
man's corporation.

"Go on the wee yin!"

"Two to one bar one!"

"Slip it across him!"

"Whack his beer barrel!" were some of
the rude but encouraging remarks. But all
the pluck of Spud was useless against the
great hulking form of "Dirty Dick," as his
opponent was called. After a ten-minutes'
bout Dick gave out a terrible snipe which
sent the brave Spud to the floor and caused
the blood to spurt from his nose in a regular
stream.

That was the end of the combat. Willing
hands tended the unconscious Spud, and on
his recovery they hailed him as a fit and
proper person for the Glesca Mileeshy.
Dick, in a true sportsmanlike manner, shook
hands and marched the whole crowd to the
canteen. There the health of the gallant
recruit was pledged with Highland honours,
followed by the "Regimental" Anthem of
the Glesca Mileeshy—

   | "Beer, beer, glorious beer,
   | Fill yourself right up to here;
   | Don't make a fool of it,
   | But down with a pail of it,
   |   Glorious, glorious beer."

[pg 17]
This episode was duly reported to Tamson
senior. That worthy rag-vender was well
pleased—so pleased, in fact, that he got fu'
on the strength of it, and received a hammering
from Mrs Tamson, who cracked the
frying-pan over his head. In the Gallowgate,
the Murder Close Brigade also hailed
the news with pride. Spud was "one of the
boys," and they determined to give him a
public reception in a fried-fish shop when he
returned.

Meantime Spud was being initiated into the
arts of the soldier. From the stores he had
received a pair of wide, ill-fitting tartan breeks,
resembling concertinas, a red jacket, which
hung like a sack, a white belt, and a leatherbound
Glengarry cap. A penny swagger
cane and the inevitable "fag" completed the
picture of Spud as a warrior bold. He also
received a rifle and equipment. The rifle
was an ancient affair, officially known as a
"D.P." (Drill Purposes). A certain number
of good rifles were allowed to each company
for firing purposes. This arrangement,
perhaps, saved the lives of many in the
Depot of Blacktoon, for the Glesca Mileeshy
at large resembled the Dervishes of the
Khalifa.

[pg 18]
Before dealing with the drilling of Spud
on the barrack square I must not forget to
record his first ragging affair. This, as in
the case of every recruit, occurred on the
first night in the barrack-room. It is known
as "setting the bed." As each bed is a
collapsible affair, kept together by movable
bolts and stays, it is quite an easy matter to
abstract a few, leaving sufficient to allow the
practical jokers to carry out their scheme.
On the night in question Spud, of course,
was quite unconscious of any trouble to
come. When "Lights out" sounded he
hopped into bed and soon was fast asleep.
His snoring was the signal for the mischievous
rascals to crawl out of their beds.
Dirty Dick was one. He fastened long
strings to the legs of the sleeping man's
bed. To the ends of his blankets strings
were also attached. During these operations
a "ghost" was getting ready by draping a
white sheet over his body and tipping his
fingers and eyes with phosphorus. A
sergeant's sword was also given a touch of
gleaming phosphorus. This completed, all
scuttled back to their beds and waited for
the signal.

"Go," shouted the leader. The strings
[pg 19]
were tugged, away went the legs, off went
the blankets, and with a horrible crash
Spud's bed collapsed like a pack of cards on
to the floor. His dreams were rudely
shattered, and he found himself standing
in his shirt-tail 'midst the wreckage, muttering
some unparliamentary thoughts. The
stillness and darkness of the barrack-room
made the affair uncanny. He had just commenced
to wonder whether his brain was
sound when he was again startled to see a
ghost advancing down the room, loudly
exclaiming, "Spud Tamson, I am the Ghost
of Jack the Ripper. I have come to slit
thy gizzard with a sword, so prepare to pass
into the land where the angels sell ice-cream
and all drinks are free." This eerie person
also waved his blazing-sword and hands in
such a terrifying way that poor Spud
shivered with a strange and awful fear.
He thought he was in something like
Dante's Inferno. Nearer, nearer came the
"Ghost," waving his awful sword. Was he
to die? Would he never see his dearly
beloved Gallowgate again? And oh, what
of his Mary Ann, that romantic Glasgow
creature who held his heart in the hollow
of her hand? Something had to be done.

[pg 20]
Just then he caught the suppressed
laughter of his fellows. His fears vanished
with the wind. He knew he was being
ragged. Again he would show his pluck.
Picking up an iron leg of his bed, he waited
for the "Ghost" to come quite near.

"Spud Tamson, bare thy black and unwashed
neck—I have come to slit it like a
butcher cutting a pig——"

Bang! went Spud's iron stanchion. It
struck the sword, then Spud gave the
"Ghost" a terrific blow below the belt. He
howled, then flew at his aggressor like a
tiger. In a second the still barrack-room
was turned into a boxing-booth. The unseemly
noise was so bad that it roused
the corporal, "Beery Bob," out of his usual
heavy sleep. Well used to these affairs, the
corporal, seizing a big stick, jumped out
of his bed. Crack went the stick over the
nether region of the "Ghost," who at once
galloped to bed. Crack went the stick
again over Spud's poor meatless form.
There was a yell, and Tamson exclaimed,
"It wisna me, corporal! It wisna me!"

"Naw, but that wis me. Get tae bed
and nae mair o' yer yelpin'," he said, turning
[pg 21]
in, while the remainder of the Militiamen
were laughing underneath the blankets.
Poor Spud, realising that he was amongst
the Philistines, immediately camped for the
night midst the wreckage of his dreams.

[pg 22]

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CHAPTER III. |nl| ESPRIT-DE-CORPS.
==================================

:small-caps:`Sergeant` Cursem could drill anything from
an elephant to a baboon. His figure was a
walking advertisement for Lipton's, while
his voice resembled the rasping fog-horns
on the Clyde. He had the eye of an eagle,
the moustache of a Kaiser, and the finest
vocabulary of curse-words in the Army—hence
his name of Cursem. Of course he
was a Regular, one specially selected to
thump duty, drill, and discipline into the
motley array annually enlisted to defend
his Majesty, his heirs and successors. His
was a tough job, but he managed it. His
brute personality and muscular strength were
sufficient to repel the insolence and insubordination
of the average Glesca keely.
Naturally, he was famous. Round the hot
plates of the "Models," in the ticketed dens
[pg 23]
of the Gallowgate, and in the stone yards of
Barlinnie, there were ancient heroes who
recited his deeds and mimicked his adjectives.
And Cursem's nicknames were
legion. "Blowhard," "Hardneck," "Swankpot,"
and "Grease lightning," were just a
few. Still he was popular, for underneath
his rough exterior was a heart of gold. Old
swaddies delighted to tell of his gallantry,
too, for once on the Frontier of India he
had slaughtered ten bloodthirsty Pathans in
the space of an hour. Spud and his pals, in
consequence, always paraded in fear and
awe. When Cursem bellowed "Fall in"
they trembled, while his thunderous "'Shun"
made them shiver and pale.

Cursem had a stock address for recruits
on their first parade. "The first duty of a
soldier is obedience," he would say. "If
you're told to cut the whiskers off a German,
or stick your stomach in front of a pom-pom—do
it, and no back answers. You're not
paid 'to think,' you're paid to die. And
when you die—die like a soldier and a man.
It doesn't matter whether you've been a
tinker, burglar, or wife-beater, once you're a
soldier—you're a gentleman. If you want
to get drunk, there's the canteen. Don't
[pg 24]
go into the beer-shops in town and fill yourself
up to the neck, then get arrested for
assault and battery. Next—wash yourselves.
Some of you chaps haven't had a bath since
you were born. Take a pride in yourselves.
Cleanliness is next to godliness—you've a
chance of getting to heaven if you wash the
black collars off your necks. There's enough
germs below your finger-nails to kill the
Army with itch and fever. And when
you're marching—march like guardsmen.
Don't waddle like ducks and bulldogs. Stick
out your chest. If you haven't got a chest
shove some cotton-wool in your tunic.
Swing your arms out and straighten up
your legs. Step out as if you owned the
whole Empire. And keep your eyes off
the ground. There's no fag-ends or half-crowns
there. Now, answer your regimental
names—"

   | "Tamson,"—"Here."
   | "M'Fatty,"—"Here."
   | "Muldoon,"—"Here."
   | "M'Haggis,"—"Here."
   | "M'Shortbread,"—"Here."
   | "Whiskers,"—"Here."
   | "M'Sloppy,"—"Here."
   | "M'Ginty,"—"Here."

[pg 25]
"Very good—now, we'll do some drill.
Squad—'Shun. As you were—put some life
in it. 'Shun—by the right—quick march.
Step out—hold up your heads—swing out
your arms. Left—left—left—right—left.
Come along, M'Ginty, you walk like a beer-barrel.
Step out, M'Haggis,—you're not at
a funeral. Left—right—left—about turn.
I said right-about, Tamson, not left-about.
Don't sulk and scowl at me. No dumb
insolence here, my lad, or I'll clap you in
the guard-room. Squad—right turn—lead
on. Stop that talking in the ranks. Tamson,—hold
your head up."

"Haud your ain—— heid up," muttered
Tamson.

"Squad—halt. What do you mean, you
tin-chested, bandy-legged rag merchant.
Didn't I tell you not to talk in the ranks?"

"It wisnae me—it wis M'Ginty."

"You're a liar, Tamson," answered
M'Ginty.

"Silence, you red-haired, spud-bred Irishman.
I'll do all the talking here," roared
Cursem, his whiskers sticking out like
needles and his eyes blazing with anger.
"Now, no more nonsense. By the right—quick
march. I'll sweat you to death, and
[pg 26]
make your shirts stick to your back like
glue. About turn—keep your eyes off the
colonel's cook—she's married and got a
family. Right form—come round now—steady—forward—by
the right. That's
better. Squad—right turn—leave the
canteen clock alone—it's not twelve yet,
and there's no free beer. Come along,
Muldoon,—step out—you get a loaf of
bread and a pound of beef to do it on.
Halt! Now you can talk about your Mary
Ann's," concluded Cursem, after the first
spasm. But the rookies had no wind left
to talk. They were content to gasp and
study in silence the mountainous personality
of Sergeant Cursem.

It was also during the minutes at ease
that the sergeant discovered the callings
and antecedents of his men.

"What do you outside?" he inquired of
the pimple-nosed M'Ginty.

"Everybody, sarjint," replied this sharp
imp of the streets.

"I *thought* you were a burglar. And,
Muldoon, what's your calling?"

"Gravel crusher, sergint?"

"Umph! What's that?"

"Road merchant and milestone counter."

[pg 27]
"You're a tinker, eh?"

"Ay. Hae ye ony tin cans or umbrellas
tae mend—I'll dae them for a pint?"

"No. Now, M'Haggis, what are you?"

"A coal merchant."

"Where?"

"Doon below."

"In the pits—I thought that, by your
neck. And where did you get the name
of Whiskers?" he next inquired of a queer-looking
mortal from Cowcaddens.

"Frae ma faither. The hair used tae
grow oot o' his nose an' ears. He wis a
Hielanman frae Tobermory."

"Umph—I can see the heather sticking
out of your toes as well," interjected Cursem.
Then turning to Tamson, he asked his
pedigree.

"Rags and balloons, sergint."

"I suppose you push the barrow?"

"Na—I blaw the balloons, mak' the
candy, and soond the trumpet for the auld
chap."

"Where did you get that broken nose?"

"In a fish shop."

"A fight?"

"Ay—an Italian hit me wi' a bottle for
pinchin' a plate."

[pg 28]
"Well—you're a lot of beauties," said
Cursem, addressing the crowd. "You could
steal the hair off a billiard ball and burgle the
Bank of England in broad daylight. But
never mind, lads," he continued, in a more
intimate and kindly way, "you're doing
your little bit for your country. That's
more than some of the vulgar rich *can* do.
And you can all stop a bullet, or plank a
bayonet in a German's stomach. Hooligans
can be heroes just as well as aristocrats.
This old Militia was first raised in a prison
and died like heroes in the Peninsula. And
I've seen men like you slicing the heads off
big fat niggers out in India. And, mind
you, I would sooner lead a company of the
Glesca Mileeshy than a company of Oxford
grads."

"Why, sergint?" ventured one of the
squad.

"These gents think too much—you don't.
A good soldier never thinks. If he does,
he's a nuisance. A soldier's a man who
doesn't ask why he's got to die. He does
it, and that's the end of it. And I want
to talk to you now about Esprit-de-Corps."

"What's that, sergint?"

[pg 29]
"Esprit-de-Corps means that you've got
to feel and believe that you're equal to a
hundred niggers, ten Frenchmen, five Germans,
and a couple of Yanks."

"Is that no' swank?" asked Tamson.

"Well—yes. What you call swank won
Waterloo, the Crimea, and the Mutiny.
See! But just to make it clear, gather
round here and I'll tell you of a fight I
was once in."

The recruits came closer, for when Cursem
opened up his heart they loved him. And
then all liked to hear the yarns of the tented
field. And Cursem was a clever enough
soldier to know that this was the best
way to let these simple-hearted youngsters
understand that tradition and duty are the
mainsprings of an army.

"You see, this affair happened out on
the Frontier. That's where the sun peels
your nose like a banana, and gives you a
thirst that gallons can't kill. Well, we had
been marching, skirmishing, and killing for
nearly six months. We had lost half of the
regiment with bullets, fever, and sunstroke
when we arrived at a place called Fugee.
There the old colonel told us that there
were three thousand oily-skinned Dacoits
[pg 30]
waiting to kill us out by a night attack.
Mark you, we were only five hundred strong,
and half-starved at that. The nearest
garrison was 100 miles away, and we had
only rations for three days. Pretty tight,
I tell you. So the officers and sergeants
had a pow-wow. The colonel put it
straight to us when he said, 'It's fight
and get out, or stand still and get butchered
to death.' We voted to fight. 'Very
well—we'll burn our camp baggage, spare
rifles, and everything we can't carry on our
backs. Then we shall sally out at night.
'A' Company will make a feint at the
enemy, while the remaining companies slip
round their rear. 'A' must fight its way
through or perish, while the remainder
must also take pot-luck. Do you agree?'
We all said 'Yes,' and went back to get
ready.

"Everything was burned. And as I was
in 'A' I got my boys ready for their job.
The old colonel shook hands with every
man of 'A,' and wished us luck. He
never expected to see us again. Then out
we crawled to the foot of the hills. It was
as dark as the devil's waistcoat. And now
and then we fell into dongas and holes.
[pg 31]
No one spoke, and all tried to keep behind
the captain, who had an illuminated compass.
For over an hour we stumbled along,
when the captain whispered 'Halt!'

"'Sergeant,' said he, 'I can smell niggers.
Come with me for a minute.' We went forward.
'Steady!' says he; 'there's one
asleep.' And before I could say Jack
Robinson his sword was in the nigger's
stomach. The beggar roared like a donkey,
and that started the bother. In a minute
the hills were ablaze with bullet flashes.
The captain was shot dead; so was the
subaltern. My helmet was riddled, and I
got pinned in the leg. Just then the dawn
broke, and I saw one chance for us all—through
a little valley. ''A' Company,
fix bayonets—charge,' I roared. And didn't
the boys come on. All Glasgow lads—and
plucky ones. We shot, bayoneted, kicked,
battered, and cursed through a thousand
dirty-smelling Dacoits. They made mincemeat
of twenty of us in five minutes. I was
bleeding like a pig, for they were cutting
me up for sandwiches. But on I went with
the remainder of the company. The shots,
the whistling knives, the wild yells and
curses made it just like hell. Yes; that's
[pg 32]
the word. Once I looked back and saw
the enemy disembowelling some of our boys.
Just then our silly bugler, who got in a funk,
sounded the 'Retire.'"

"And did you, sergint?" asked Tamson.

"No—I shot him dead. The battlefield's
no place for fools. Well, we cut, cursed,
and blundered through till we got on to a
hill. There were only ten of us left. You
see, we had tackled the main body, so that
I knew the regiment had got safely through.
It was hopeless for us to follow. We were
cut off. It was to be a last stand for us
all. The enemy had shied clear for a while.
They knew they could get us any old time.
So I got the boys to build a sangar, and
we lay down. There was no water, and we
had only a few biscuits to last us out. Our
throats were parched, our tongues hanging
out, and nearly every man had some kind
of wound. We tied them up with rags.
But oh, my God, the sun! It burnt the
sinews of our legs, and sent one fellow
raving mad. He rushed down the hill like
a mad priest, and in five minutes he was
shot dead and disembowelled by the outposts
of the enemy. All through the night the
Dacoits chanted their death songs, for they
[pg 33]
were biding their time. For three days we
lived like that. Four more died. And on
the fourth day the enemy drew near for
the final murder of us all. We were weak,
but frenzy made us strong. I fired as if
I was at Bisley, and potted ten of them
dead. All the others did the same. That
stopped their rush. But only for an hour.
Then they crept on again. Nearer they
came. I could smell them—their dirty, evil
eyes were mocking us. But every head that
popped up from behind a stone got bashed
with a bullet. Then our ammunition went
done. I had one round left. I heard them
come on. I felt it was domino for us all.
My brain was going; blood was trickling
down my shoulder; but just as my memory
snapped I heard the echo of a bugle and
cheer. The relief column had got through.
When I came to I was in hospital. I was
a lunatic for six months, and the only one
left out of a hundred men. That's what we
call Esprit-de-Corps. Do you understand
what I mean now?" he asked in a quiet
voice.

"Ay, sergint," was the humble response
from all.

"Squad—Dismiss," and off they trooped
[pg 34]
to the barrack-room with the spirit of duty
and honour in their souls. That's how Sergeant
Cursem drilled the Glesca Mileeshy.
And that is how he earned his Victoria
Cross.

[pg 35]

.. clearpage::

CHAPTER IV. |nl| DISCUSSING THE OFFICERS.
=========================================

":small-caps:`Ginger`!"

"Ay, Spud."

"Whut's a colonel?"

"Oh, he's the heid bummer o' the Mileeshy.
The man that curses everybody on
parade."

"Yon fat man wi' the red nose an' the
medals?"

"Ay."

"Whut did he get his medals for?"

"Slicing beef-steaks aff the niggers in
Egypt. D'ye ken his nickname?"

"Na."

"It's 'Corkleg.' He's only got wan leg.
A nigger chowed it aff in the Soudan."

"Whut dis he work at when the Mileeshy's
no 'up'?"

"He shoots phaisants an' kills rabbits."

[pg 36]
"Ay, an' whut's yon gless in his ee fur?"

"Tae see if yer buttons are clean, an'
they're nae fleas on yer bonnet."

"An', Ginger, wha's yon wee man wi' the
rid hair an' pinted neb?"

"That's the 'Dandy Major.' He can
scoff a bottle tae his brekfist. He's awfu'
fond o' actresses. They ca' him 'Dandy
Dick.' He wis in the Regulars, but he got
chucked oot for hittin' the colonel on the
nose."

"Whut aboot?"

"A wumin, of coorse,—weemin an' wine
is whut they chaps live for."

"Then there's Captain Hardup—wha's
he?"

"He's a professional Mileeshiman, wan o'
thae chaps that mak's a leevin' oot o' the
Mileeshy. He's a ranker. Rankers ken
owre much. There's naethin' like a real
toff for an officer. They've got the bluid,
an' the men ay follow them in action. Hae
ye seen oor captain yet, Spud?"

"Na."

"Weel, he's the real Mackay. His auld
man's a Duke. He wears corsets, an' pits
pooder on his face, and speaks in a hawhaw
wey, but he's a guid yin. He's ay got
[pg 37]
a hauf-quid to gie the lads a drink. D'ye
ken——"

"Whut?"

"He knocked a man oot last camp.
Dirty Bob, a daft piper, wis a bit fu', and
said he wid lay the captain oot.

"'How dare you?' ses the captain.

"'Ay, I wid dare,' says Dirty Bob.

"'Take that, you beastly fellow,' ses the
captain, stretchin' him oot like a deid yin.
An' that's no' the end o't. Next mornin'
he sent for Bob. Ses he, 'There's a half-sovereign
to you—see and behave yourself
in future.' Bob's the best sodger in the
company noo. Thae toffs ken hoo tae
haun'le men."

"Whut wey are these officers no' in the
Regulars, Ginger?"

"They're like us—they hinna got muckle
brains. The Mileeshy's for orphans, unemployed,
an' daft folk. But it's the back
door tae the Army. If ye can get yer brains
an' chest measurement up in the Mileeshy,
they'll tak' ye intae the Regulars."

"An' whut are the Non-Commeesioned
Officers for?" inquired Spud, still anxious
to learn.

"Tae dae a' the dirty work. Ye see,
[pg 38]
we're a' supposed to be like cuddies—broad
backs an' saft heids. The Non-Coms. are
peyed tae whup us on—see?"

"Then hoo d'ye get stripes?"

"Some chaps get made lance-corporal
for bein' smert; ithers get it for giein' the
colour-sergint ten bob. An' some get the
stripe for makin' up tae the officer."

"But that's no richt, Ginger?"

"Naethin's richt in the sodgers. Ye're
no' supposed tae think. If ye think owre
much they'll pit ye in the nick for insubordination.
That's whut they ca' Disceeplin.
If ye waant tae get on in the Mileeshy, kid
ye're daft, an' gie the salaam tae everybody.
That's hoo tae get a staff job."

[pg 39]

.. clearpage::

CHAPTER V. |nl| CANTEEN YARNS.
==============================

:small-caps:`The` unwritten laws of the Glesca Mileeshy
were as rigid as the etiquette of the Brigade
of Guards. The most important was that
which compelled recruits to "stand their
hand," or, in plain English, give free drinks
all round. This to the cultured instinct may
seem a somewhat coarse enactment, but to
an old Militia hand, possessed of an Indian
thirst, it was all-important and always demanded.
The recruit's first pay-day was
usually selected for this purpose. Pay-day
in the Militia, I may say, is just a sort of
Dante's Inferno in miniature. And in the
times of Spud Tamson the weekly pay
amounted to one shilling per day. This
would not keep a millionaire in matches,
but it was sufficient to lure to the barracks'
gate the official and unofficial wives of this
[pg 40]
regiment, as well as to rouse in the breasts
of their noble lovers dreams of foaming ale
and nights of song and story.

Just as German students have their beer
clubs and drinking bouts, so did this regiment
possess its boosing schools and captains.
This was a weird system. Each
company had a school, and on pay-day every
man paid so much to the captain. The
captain divided this money over the days
of the week, and thus ensured that all had
liquid refreshment till the next pay-day came
round. The captain, of course, had other
duties. He chaired all meetings in the canteen,
maintained law and order, and, more
important, he secured patrons possessed of
unlimited cash and willing hearts. The
recruit, of course, was the most important.
A youngster deemed it an honour to sup
with those veterans of "Models" and wars,
and for the privilege was content to disgorge.
Spud was therefore inveigled into one of
these schools, and in true Tamson style
called for "pints o' the best." For this act
he was made the guest of the evening, and
so long as his pay lasted the old guard were
content to listen to his blethers with all the
deference born of thirst and cunning.

[pg 41]
The canteen was, of course, under discipline
and regulations. A corporal stood
at the door to officially measure the pints of
ale that trickled down the Militiamen's necks.
As soon as a man's head wobbled, and his
eyes rolled in a stupid and vacant style, he
was seized by the scruff of the neck and
given the order of the boot. If he objected,
he was marched to the "clink" under escort.
This was religiously adhered to in the Glesca
Mileeshy for the first hour, but as the clock
went round, the very thirsty corporals of
this regiment sent duty and regulations to
Hong-Kong, and sat down to partake of
the feast given free because of their superior
rank.

Picture the scene, then,—a long, low room,
packed with boozing schools, and badly lit
with evil-smelling oil-lamps. Round the
tables were seated some of the biggest
rogues and many of the biggest-hearted
souls in creation. In one corner, the corporal
sat blind to all the world; while in
the opposite part of the canteen Spud
Tamson was seated amidst his new-found
friends listening to the tales of woe and
war.

"Speakin' aboot funny things," said Rab
[pg 42]
M'Ginty, "I mind when we were oot at the
War on ootpost duty. It wis a rotten job—naethin'
but hard chuck an' bully beef.
An' every nicht the enemy used tae open
fire. We got fed up wi' this, an' thocht oot
a scheme tae save us bother. D'ye ken
what we did?'

"Na," said the others.

"Weel, we got a' the auld tin cans an'
auld dugs we could get oor haunds on. We
tied the tin cans tae the barbed wire and
every ten yerds we fixed a dug up on a
chain."

"Whut fur?" asked Tamson.

"Tae rattle an' bark when the enemy wis
comin'. Man, it wis a great thing! And
when on duty we could get tae sleep; for
the dugs barked when they heard the least
soond. But wan nicht we got a terrible
fricht. Ye see it wis gey daurk and aboot
midnicht, a' the tin cans an' dugs commenced
tae rattle an' bark. Then I heard
something cherging up and doon the wires.
So I let bang! That started it. In five
meenits the hale army o' ten thoosan' men
were firing. But the cans kept rattlin' an'
the dugs barkin'. I wis shiverin' wi' fricht.
[pg 43]
Tae mak' things worse, there was a terrible
braying—an eerie noise in front o' us. We
couldnae stop it. Some said it wis auld
Kruger's ghost, others said it wis the Deevil
himsel'; but, man, it wis awfu'. For twa
hoors we fired ten thoosand roonds o' ammuneeshin
but that didnae end it."

"Whut wis it?" queried the anxious and
interested Spud.

"Wait," said Rab. "We kept on firing
till the dawn came. An' then we saw them—dizens
o' them lyin' deid."

"The enemy?" some one asked.

"Na! Donkeys."

"Donkeys! Hoo wis that?"

"Ye see, a' the transport cuddies got loose
an' wandered. They got mixed up wi' the
wires an' that wis the cause o' the bother.
Jist fancy, ten thoosan' roonds tae kill three
dizen cuddies."

"Did ye get the V.C.?" queried Tamson.

"V.C.! Nae fear. I got ten days in
the nick for openin' fire on His Majesty's
cuddies."

"Ach, sure an' I've a better yarn than
that," said Paddy Doolan.

"Tell it," ordered the captain.

[pg 44]
"It was out in India when I was in the
ould Dublin Fusiliers. We were at a place
nicknamed 'Holipore,' that's where the Holy
Fathers pour medicine down the niggers'
necks, an' beer down the sodgers'. The
affair happened at night. I was on sentry-go,
and about twelve I was startled to see a
mad fakir wid fire in his eyes and a sword
in his fingers advancing on me.

"'Halt!' ses I, shiverin' in my pants.
But he never stopped. On he marched.

"'Be jabers, if yes don't halt I'll riddle ye,'
I roared. That didn't halt him. I rammed
a cartridge in and tried to fire, but divil a
bit could I fire. It was jammed, or I was
drammed. And then he stopped.

"'Great Sahib,' he said.

"'Yis,' ses I, all shakin'.

"'I am the Chief Priest of the Temple
of Skulls. I bless you and annoint you
one of my beloved and a son of the faithful.
And I command you to ground your
arms.'

"'I can't—I'll get the "nick" from the
sargint.'

"'Great Sahib, obey, or I shall cut out thy
heart and eyes.'

[pg 45]
"I dropped my gun like a hot Connemara
spud.

"'Sahib, double march and follow me.'
Off went the mad fellow into the jungle. I
galloped after him. The tigers were roarin',
elephants trumpeting and hyenas crying like
ould cats. But they fled from the sight of
the ould fakir. I was puffin' an' blowin' like
a roarin' race-horse, and sweatin' like a pig,
when he cried, 'Halt, O Sahib of the great
white race.'

"'Not so much of the Sahib,' ses I, 'but
give me a drink.'

"'There is no refreshment in the Temple
of Skulls. Your blood shall be the refreshment
for our Gods. Watch, O Sahib.' And
before I could cough the ground opened up
before me showing a stair made out of
bones.

"'Enter,' said he, like a bloomin' ould
butler. Down I went into the devil's hole.
It was a temple lit up with oil. The walls
were made of skulls, and the floors had
carpets made out of Highlanders' kilts,
fusiliers' trousers, artillerymen's pants, and
cavalrymen's dongarees. Holy Moses! I
shivered like a cat on the tiles. As I got in,
[pg 46]
a dozen mad fellows commenced to play their
pumpkin drums, and sing—"

   | "'Death to the Sahib,
   | His blood for our Gods,
   | Death to the Sahib,
   | His bones for our rods;
   | Death to the Sahib,
   | And then he shall know
   | The secrets of Rahib
   | The High Priest below.'

"'Ye dirty ould spalpeen,' ses I, knockin'
daylight out of the fellow who'd introduced
me to this Madame Tussaud's. But he
dodged, and pulling a string, I was enveloped
in blue flames, and then tied to an altar in
front of the Holy Water."

"Have a drink, Paddy." interjected the
captain at this point, to the disgust of the
fascinated Spud and spell-bound Militiamen.

Paddy quaffed a pint from the foaming
tankard, then resumed: "Yes, they got out
their scimitors—knives like the master-cook
cuts the rations up with. But before slicing
the beef-steaks off me the High Priest
offered up a prayer 'for the soul of Sahib
Paddy Doolan, of the Dublin Fusiliers, who
was to be sliced, fried, and eaten on the altar
of Rahib, the High Priest of the Twopenny
Tube in the Jungle of Tigers and Panthers.'
[pg 47]
Next, they did a can-can—a sort of Highland
fling—round me.

"'Stop,' ses I, 'I'll never get drunk
again,' but they just sung—"

   | "'Death to the Sahib,
   | His blood for our Gods.'

"Finally, they sharpened their ould ham
knives, and with a wild, wild yell, stuck every
one into my ould hairy chest. And then I
woke up—in hospital."

"In hospital?" queried the amazed Spud.

"Yes, I was in the D.T.'s (delirium
tremens)."

"Ha! ha! ha!" laughed the crowd in a
rollicking way, for Paddy Doolan was the
champion liar in the corps. But his story
was sufficient to drag another drink out of
the green-eyed Spud, and that was the main
point so far as Doolan and his pals were
concerned.

"It's your turn now, 'Dominie,'" said the
captain to a grizzled old red-nosed warrior,
who had seen better days.

"What do you want?"

"Tell us about Algy—some of them
haven't heard that yarn."

"Well," said the Dominie, lighting up his
[pg 48]
old cutty-pipe, "Algy was a gent who listed
in my first 'crush'—the Perthshire Kilties.
He arrived one night at Fort George with a
cabful of luggage, a bicycle, a box of sardines
and prunes, and a big printed roll showing
how he descended from Willie the Conqueror—that's
the chap who led the Normans."

"D'ye mean the Mormons?" interjected
Spud.

"No, you fathead. However, Algy rang
the bell. When the sergeant opened the
gate he saluted, for he thought this was
some new officer.

"'I'm a recruit, sergeant,' said Algy.

"'What's yer name?' asked the sergeant.

"'Algy de Verepot—I've been "plucked"
at Sandhurst, and I want to get a commission
through the ranks.'"

"'You'll be lucky if you get your dinner;
but come tae the sergeant-major,' said he,
pointing out the sergeant-major's quarters.
The sergeant-major gave Algy a welcome,
and told his colour-sergeant to coddle and
be kind to him.

"In his room he hung up his pedigree,
threw around his public-school blazers and
badges, and dropped here and there some
[pg 49]
family notepaper with a handsome crest on
it. Every soldier loves a real live toff, so
all the boys gave him a hand with his kit,
and acted generally as his lackeys.

"'Don't bother about paying me, colour-sergeant,'
he said one day. 'I've plenty of
money. Keep it and give the boys a drink.'
This charmed the company, and he was
made a hero. He also ordered superfine
clothing, and many other odds and ends,
from the Master Tailor and outside tradesmen.
'Just send on the bills,' was his
aristocratic command. They were delighted,
for the whole garrison was full of the romance
of this peer's nephew in the ranks. And
the girls—didn't they rush him! Even the
officers' daughters went crazy about him.
In his private's uniform he used to walk
them out to tea. You see they pitied him,
and thought he was getting thin on bully
beef, toad-in-the-hole, and dead-cat stew.
And then the colonel's wife met him. He
used to tell her of his fiancée, Lady Gwendoline,
and the great times he had with Lord
Noddy at his Highland shootings. The dear
lady became interested, and even got the
length of walking round the ramparts arm-in-arm.
Didn't we envy him, for she was
[pg 50]
a beauty. And they say she kissed the old
colonel one night and said, 'Now, dear,
you must be kind to that boy and get him
his commission.'

"'Certainly! Certainly!' answered the
old chap.

"In this way, you see, he got into the
hearts of all. And he was as keen as
mustard. He used to slope arms and salute
in front of the mirror, and 'paid' a man
well to clean his kit. At night, too, he used
to go to the adjutant's room and get books
on drill. The adjutant told him everything.—How
the regiment was worked; the keeping
of the books, the filing of records, and
the recording of the cash in the orderly-room
safe.

"'Then the adjutant keeps all the regimental
pay in the safe?' he asked of him
one night.

"'Oh yes, there are the keys,' replied the
captain casually.

"Shortly after this Algy received a wire
saying, 'Can you come for grouse-shooting
on the Twelfth.—Lord Noddy.' He rushed
to the colonel and presented it, at the same
time asking for leave.

"'Well, it's unusual, my lad, but seeing
[pg 51]
who you are, you can go for seven days.'
And away went Algy with all his luggage.
He got a cheer from the boys as he went
through the gate, for he was the idol of all.
The seven days passed, but on the eighth no
Algy appeared.

"'Private Algy de Verepot absent, sir,'
was the report on the morning parade. It
startled everybody. It was the talk of the
garrison, and caused grief among the ladies
in town. Had he been killed! Had he
deserted! What had happened! These
were the topics of the day. Algy's disappearance
caused more commotion than
the coronation of a king. And then some
strange things were discovered.

"£300 had been stolen from the adjutant's
safe.

"A sergeant had lost his false teeth.

"Algy's servant missed all his furlough
money.

"The colonel's wife had given Algy a
cheque for £50.

"Five officers had lent him a fiver.

"And a barmaid from the town was missing.
'It can't be Algy who has done this!' said
the regiment.

"'It was Algy,' telegraphed the police
[pg 52]
from London, for he was arrested there, and
got five years' penal servitude.

"Now, who do you think Algy was?"

"Tell us," cried Spud.

"Algy was the biggest crook in London.
He was proved to be the man who stole
King Edward's dressing-bag at Euston
Station."

Just as Dominie had completed this yarn,
the whole canteen was startled with the
shout, "Who's a liar?"

"You are—you stole ma pint o' beer—ye
thocht I wis drunk."

"Awa' an' bile yer heid," said the
aggressor, a tramp piper, whose doublet
was well soaked with ale.

Bang! went the fist of the aggrieved
private on the piper's nose. In a second
the place was turned topsy-turvy. All joined
in the fight. Lamps were smashed, tables
crashed on the floor, glasses hurled across
the room, and all the windows cracked. For
ten minutes a deadly battle was waged in
the inky darkness. And then some one
shouted, "Scoot, boys, scoot—here's the
picket coming." And they did scoot. Some
jumped through the windows, others hustled
through the doors, and then half-staggering
[pg 53]
and running they reached their barrack-rooms,
where, like true Militiamen, they
tumbled quietly into bed.

Next morning the Glesca Mileeshy paraded
with black eyes and battered noses.
As this was the usual thing after pay-day,
the colonel simply smiled, and gave the
order, "Form fours—right—double march."
While they were galloping round the square,
this commander remarked, "D—— rascals,
but d—— good soldiers."

"Yes, sir," replied the adjutant.

[pg 54]

.. clearpage::

CHAPTER VI. |nl| THE GARRISON LIGHTWEIGHT.
==========================================

:small-caps:`Spud`, having experienced the usual ragging
affairs, was now a full-fledged confidant of the
older hands. And being of a mischievous
turn of mind, he seized every opportunity to
play tricks on his unsuspecting comrades.
These ragging affairs were great or small
according to the mental and physical fitness
of the unfortunates. A powerful recruit was
let down easily, for obvious reasons. A
weakling or "saftie" had "to go through
the mill" in an unorthodox way. Beefy
M'Fadyen was of the latter kind. Like all
of us, he had a pet delusion. His was, that
Nature had destined him for a bantam lightweight.
As a matter of fact, Beefy couldn't
knock a herring off a plate. Still, that did
not prevent him from coddling his puny
biceps and tackling all the penny automatic
[pg 55]
punch-balls in the ice-cream shops of the
garrison. He devoured boxing literature by
the yard, and would slide down the chimney
of the Sporting Club to get a free peep at
the cracks of the noble art. Naturally, this
tickled the funny side of all, especially Spud,
who casually inquired of him one day if he
could be his trainer.

"Of coorse," said Beefy.

"What d'ye usually train on?"

"Weel, I've had tae get fit on fish
suppers, ice-cream, and woodbines."

"And have you boxed ony champions?"

"Oh ay—Wee Broon o' the Coocaddens,
and Pud Webster o' the Gallowgate."

"But they're schule laddies. Hooever,
that disnae maitter. I'll get ye in training
tae box Curly Broon, the ex-champion o'
the Garrison."

"Richt ye are."

"But mind ye, Beefy," said Spud solemnly,
"you've tae dae whut I tell ye."

"Certainly."

"Noo, the first thing you've got tae dae is
tae haund owre yer piy on piy-days."

"Whut fur?"

"Tae get beef-steaks, kippers, an' four ale—that's
the stuff tae get yer muscles up."

[pg 56]
This and other arrangements were duly
completed. In the evening it was publicly
announced that Beefy was in training to
fight the champion named. The training
was somewhat rigorous. After five gallops
round the barrack square, Spud applied a
hose-pipe to the body of his man. Then
coarse towels were used, and now and again
Beefy's limbs were scoured with dripping
and bath-brick. As he was a little weak in
the joints, a touch of blacking was painted
round "tae keep oot the cauld." Minor
contests were got up in the meantime, and
in all these it was arranged to let Beefy
have the knock-out blow. This whetted his
ardour, and when he was informed that a
belt and thirty shillings was to be the prize
at the great contest, he became doubly
keen.

One Wednesday afternoon, when the
officers were having a lawn-tennis party
on the green, Spud called his man into
the training quarters. There he daubed
the usual blacking on his knee and ankle
joints, rubbed ham fat on the remainder of
his body; next dressed him up in a comic
harrier kit, decorated with a skull and cross-bones.

[pg 57]
"Noo, Beefy, d'ye see yon green whaur
the ladies an' officers are haein' tea an'
tennis?"

"Ay."

"Weel, ye've tae gallop roon' that twenty
times wife-beating stoppin'."

"Richt ye are, Spud."

"Ready?"

"Ay."

"Go." Off went the poor, unsuspecting
mortal. As soon as he started, a hundred
waiting heads popped out of the windows
to see the fun. Meantime Beefy had
reached the green, and, true to his trust,
commenced to gallop round. The colonel's
wife spotted him first. The awful apparition
sent her pale. Mrs M'Haddie, the
Provost's wife, let out a shriek, but nearly
all the young ladies and subalterns burst
into peals of laughter. Colonel Corkleg,
however, fumed and cursed like Marlborough's
troops in Flanders.

"Stop——"

"Who——"

"What——"

"Why——" shrieked the old commander,
as he pursued Beefy round the green.

Beefy, however, simply grinned in an
[pg 58]
inane manner and kept on. He was in
training for the garrison belt. That, to
him, was a very serious affair, and he did
not intend to allow any interference—even
from Colonel Corkleg. But he had yet to
reckon with the adjutant. That officer
ordered the bugler to sound the Fall in,
at the same time letting loose a couple of
bulldogs. The result was that in three
minutes half the Glesca Mileeshy were in
swift pursuit of the light-footed Beefy. He
dodged, then led them round the barrack
square, to the secret delight of Spud and
his mischief-makers. Then came the end.
With a deathlike gasp he fell into the arms
of Sergeant-Major Fireworks.

"What do you mean?" yelled this monument
of army rations.

"I'm trainin'."

"Training?"

"Ay, trainin' for the garrison belt."

"Put him in the guardroom, corporal,"
roared the sergeant-major, and off went
poor Beefy to the cells.

Next morning the whole story came out
at the orderly-room, and Beefy M'Fadyen
was awarded fourteen days Confined to
Barracks.

[pg 59]
This did not postpone the fight. Oh no.
Beefy's delusion was a permanent affair, and
he would fight his rival by hook or by crook.
Arrangements, however, had to be made
secretly. The key of the gymnasium was
quietly appropriated on the night of the
tussle, and after dark the whole regiment
trooped in.

"Gentlemen," said Spud Tamson, "allow
me to introduce Beefy M'Fadyen, the
Champion Bantam Weight o' the Glesca
Mileeshy. He has been trained on woodbines,
fish suppers, ice-cream, haddies,
an' Dublin stout, and turns the scale at
9 st. 10 lb. He's a beauty. His muscles
are like corks, and his wind as soond as
the wind in bellows—walk up."

Beefy entered the ring, shook hands with
Curly Broon, then sparred. All laughter
was duly suppressed at a wink from Spud,
for his man had to be impressed with the
seriousness of the business. Beefy commenced
by hopping round like a cat on a
hot plate, delivering natty little blows at his
opponent's chest. Curly accepted all without
any pretence of defence. This roused
the hopes of Beefy higher still, and of course
he was cheered to his task.

[pg 60]
"Go on, Beefy."

"Give him a thick ear."

"Under the belt."

"That's it—slip it across him."

These were some of the remarks. To be
brief, in the tenth round, he delivered a
severe blow under Curly's chin. With a
well-feigned grunt and a hopeless sigh,
Curly collapsed like a pack of cards. There
was a rousing cheer, and Spud gladly held
out his hand to the victor.

Producing a big leather belt made out of
old straps and studded with various cap and
collar badges, Spud fixed this round the
champion's waist. Another member presented
a tin medal neatly fixed on some
old red serge. Then all let out three lusty
cheers.

"Noo, Beefy, you've got tae step intae
the officers' mess for your prize-money—jist
as ye are. The colonel'll gie ye the
money at the table." Unsuspecting, Beefy
glibly complied, while Spud and his friends
took post in the darkest corners to watch
the affair.

The officers were having dinner at the
time, in fact they had just arrived at that
part where the band plays the National
[pg 61]
Anthem, and the subaltern of the day proposes
the toast of—

   | "Gentlemen—The King!"

when in burst Beefy M'Fadyen all perspiring
and somewhat bruised—a perfect nightmare
in his boxing attire. All the young
officers burst out laughing, but the colonel
roared, "Silence, gentlemen!" Then, turning
to Beefy, he said—"How dare you enter
the officers' mess? What do you mean,
sir?"

"I waant my prize-money."

"What money—you fool?"

"Ma thirty bob for knockin' oot Curly
Broon."

"Who sent you here?"

"Spud Tamson."

"Well—get out."

"Nae fear—I waant ma thirty bob.
You'll no frichten me," said Beefy, sitting
down on a chair.

"You—you—you—insubordinate scoundrel.
How—how—dare you!" shouted the
old colonel, getting red at the neck.

"Keep your hair on, auld cock," said
Beefy.

"Send for the guard, adjutant."

[pg 62]
In a few minutes an escort appeared, and
Beefy, the vaunted champion, was seized
and carried forcibly to the guardroom. All
that was heard as he was hustled away
was, "I waant ma thirty bob."

Spud Tamson got fourteen days cells for
this little trick, and poor Beefy received a
paper stating, "You are discharged from
His Majesty's Service as unlikely to become
an efficient soldier."

"What dis that mean, Spud?" said Beefy,
showing him the paper as he was leaving.

"It jist means that *you're* daft."

"Weel, Spud, I'm no' sae green as I'm
cabbage-lookin'. Ta-ta." And this was
true, for next day nearly every man in the
Glesca Mileeshy had lost his spare shirts,
socks, and boots.

"Jings, he's no' sae daft efter a'," was
Spud's final comment on the departed boxer.

[pg 63]

.. clearpage::

CHAPTER VII. |nl| A LECTURE.
============================

:small-caps:`It` was Lord Wolseley, I think, who discovered
that the ordinary soldier had really
got brains. When this startling discovery
was made, the General Staff realised that
lectures were necessary, so that the headpieces
of the troops might be of greater use
in war. Lectures were accordingly devised,
and these consisted of various military topics.
Everything—from the cutting of the soldiers'
corns to the washing of army babies—was
noted down. Company officers were entrusted
with this important duty. Many
performed the work in an interesting way,
others made a hash of it. This was due to
their profusion—or lack—of brain power.
And of the Militia—well, the War Office
did not expect too much. It was therefore
interesting to listen to Captain Coronet
tackling this job.

[pg 64]
"Men," he would say, "I want to talk
to you about Active Service; first of all,
Tamson, just explain the exact meaning of
the word 'enemy.'"

"The Germans," answered Spud promptly.

"Well—not exactly. Of course I know
they're beastly people—beer drinkers and
sausage guzzlers. Still, that doesn't say
that the word 'enemy' means that race
in particular. What is your opinion,
M'Whiskey?"

"Niggers, sir."

"Not necessarily; the enemy may be
white or black. But the meaning is simply
this, any force opposed to——"

"The Mileeshy," interjected some one.

"Well, have it that way if you care.
Now, M'Ginty, what is the first thing expected
of a soldier in the field?"

"The salute, sir."

"No—Instant Obedience. And what is
the next thing, M'Haggis?"

"He should waash his feet."

"That's important, certainly, otherwise
your feet will become objectionable. Now,
the second thing is Courage; and the third,
Doolan?"

"Head erect an' thumbs in line with the
[pg 65]
seam of the troose, sir," said Doolan, glibly
repeating some of the Drill Instructor's
patter.

"I'm afraid you couldn't keep your head
erect, et cetera, if the enemy was potting
bullets into that beery corporation of yours.
The third thing is Endurance. What does
that mean, Tamson?"

"The Prudential, sir."

"Prudential! What the d—— is that?"

"Threepence a week—insurin' your life—ye
ken fine, a' you toffs are insured."

"Don't be so beastly familyah, my
man——"

"Haw—haw," mimicked some one in the
back seat.

"Look here, you pudding-faced fellow,"
said the captain, adjusting his monocle,
"I'll kick your posterior if I have any more
nonsense—I will."

Having settled that little affair, the captain
proceeded. "Active Service, men, is
different to sham fights. At manœuvres at
home you get your beef, bread, and extras;
on active service it's biscuits, bully beef,
and——"

"Sudden daith," cheeped a wag.

"Yes. You're liable to get a fifteen-pound
[pg 66]
shell into your little Mary any day.
Do you think a man could live after getting
a shell there, Callaghan?"

"Depends on his chist measurement, sur."

"I'm afraid he wouldn't have any chest
after that. He would be——"

"Irish stew."

"Exactly."

"Now, what is the first thing you do
when you see the enemy?"

"Take his name an' address, sir," said
a sheepish-looking recruit who had been
chucked out of the Police Force.

"Oh! I'm afraid he would have your life
while you were doing that. No, my lad—get
under cover, and then——"

"Knock his lights out."

"That's the sort of answer I want. But
how would you knock him out?"

"Below the belt, sir," cheeped Tamson.

"Look here, Tamson, this isn't a bally
boxing-school. And don't be so flippant.
What you have got to do, men, is Shoot—and
Shoot well. And what I next want to
know is, what happens after a force has
concentrated a severe rifle-fire on an enemy's
position for a considerable time?"

[pg 67]
"Stick yer bayonets in their guts," answered
M'Whiskey.

"That's how Carlyle would put it, and
that's just exactly what you have got to do.
But when advancing to the Charge, what
does the attacking party do?"

"Makes a hellifa noise, sir."

"Certainly, but it's not necessary to use
these Gallowgate adjectives. Adjectives are
all right when you're thrusting the sausages
inside a German's stomach. In fact, the
more you curse and yell when charging the
enemy, the greater will be the effect of the
charge."

"What's an adjective, sir?" inquired some
one.

"An adjective's a d—— nasty expression—a
swear word."

"But hoo d'ye no' let us sweer at a lectur'
an' tell us tae sweer at a Cherge?" piped in
Spud Tamson.

"My dear fellow, you're a positive bore.
But I will tell you—in peace time a soldier
is expected to be a gentleman; in active
service he's got to be a lunatic. That's the
A B C of it all. To continue, though—what
do you do after the Charge is over?"

[pg 68]
"Search the deid men's pooches," chirrupped
a Coocaddens lad.

"A natural thing for you—for all of you.
You're all pickpockets, I hear."

"No me," said Spud.

"What are you?"

"Rag and bone merchant."

"Beastly job—no wonder you want a
wash. That by the way. After a Charge
you have to assist in routing the enemy.
And then——"

"The canteen opens, sir," said an old
hand with a grin.

"Well, as the canteen is open now, and
I have got a couple of spare half-crowns,
you had better fall out."

"You're a guid yin, sir," said Spud with
a familiar wink.

"Get out and don't be so beastly familyah,"
concluded the captain, adjusting his monocle,
stretching his tunic, then marching out like
an advertisement for corsets and hair-wash.

[pg 69]

.. clearpage::

CHAPTER VIII. |nl| ANNUAL TRAINING.
===================================

:small-caps:`The` annual training of the Glesca Mileeshy
was an event of importance. It cleared
the Models and allowed the local policemen
an opportunity for holidays. To the
gallant Militiamen the training meant six
weeks' pay, a bounty, his shirts, and a pair
of boots. The shirts and boots were important
items, for many arrived shirtless
and almost bootless. As the average Militiaman
had no permanent place of abode, he
was summoned to camp by a proclamation
in big type, which was pasted on the kirk,
police, and public-house doors. This notice
was hardly necessary. The men enjoyed
the training, and were always pleased when
the date came round. They journeyed to
their headquarters in various ways. Some
cheerfully hoofed it; others rode in their
[pg 70]
tinker's carts; but the majority went by
train. When they arrived in Blacktoon,
they found a hearty welcome prepared by
the local publicans. Tons of bread and
cheese were cut and ready; fresh barrels
turned on; and hauf mutchkins piled up
behind the counter ready for the fray.
There was a wild rush for these bars, and
above the din nought could be heard but
the clamouring for "a gill and a pint."

"Hello, M'Greegor, whaur hae ye been
a' this time?"

"In Barlinnie."

"Whut fur?"

"Takin' the len' o' anither chap's watch.
But what hae ye been daein' yersel', Wull?"

"The same auld job."

"Naethin'?"

"Na, I'm in the umbrella trade, ye ken,
an' the wife's on the road wi' me. She
sells laces, an' mooches the grub. Man,
it's the best thing I ever did, when I got
mairret. There's naething like a wife tae
work for ye, lad."

This is a sample of the greetings exchanged
over the foaming ale. When all
had sufficient, and were more or less groggy
about the legs, they sallied out into the streets
[pg 71]
*en route* for the barracks. Of course the
town was prepared. The Chief Constable
had a "Guard of Honour" right to the
barracks gate, while the Parish Minister
had quietly lectured the old maids and
young maids to be indoors on that occasion.
The more timid shopkeepers "baured
the windows and door," but all the bairns
turned out to see the fun. Up the streets
they leisurely ambled, some mumbling on
the way—

   | "Soon we'll be married
   | Never more to part,
   | For little Annie Rooney
   | She is my sweetheart."

Others warbled—

   | "I'm fu' the noo, I'm absolutely fu',
   | But I adore the country I was born in.
   |     My name is Jock M'Craw,
   |     An' I dinnae care a straw,
   | For I've something in the bottle for the mornin'."

But the majority sang—

   | "We're soldiers of the King, my lads,
   | Who've been, my lads, who've seen, my lads,
   | The fights for Britain's Glory, lads,
   | When we've had to show them what we mean;
   | And when they ask us how it's done,
   | We proudly point to every one—
   | Yes, we proudly point to every one
   | Of Britain's soldiers of the King."

[pg 72]
And in this stirring tune all eventually
joined, formed into a rough formation, and
tramped nobly through the barracks gate
and on to the square. Colonel Corkleg's
eyes moistened with emotion as he saw
them come in. If they were rough dogs,
he knew them to be faithful, and he lived
for the day when he would lead them into
action once more. They were immediately
formed into companies, given out their kits,
and told to change—but not in the barracks
rooms. Oh no, that was never permitted,
for the plain reason "that their own clothes
could 'walk.'" They changed in the open,
which necessitated the drawing of the blinds
in the married quarters.

All were thankful to discard their unsanitary
rags, and feel the comfort of good
shirts, uniforms, and boots. The better
suits of clothing were packed away, but
many of the more tattered and torn had
to be destroyed. This outfitting occupied
most of the day. At 5 :small-caps:`P.M.` the bugle
sounded "Fall in." The parade, of course,
was unsteady, nearly every man being fu'.
But when old Colonel Corkleg yelled,
"Glesca Mileeshy—'Shun," there was a lull
[pg 73]
and a steadiness which displayed the soldier
born.

"All present, sir," reported the adjutant.

"Form fours—right—by the left—quick
march." Off they stepped to "The
Cock o' the North," played by the pipers,
and followed by "Stop your ticklin', Jock,"
drummed out by the band. As they
marched through the gates, there was a
rousing cheer from the ladies in shawls, who
quickly spotted their particular "lovers."
These women yelled out a parting jest, and
the glib reminder, "Send me a quid oot o'
yer bounty."

"Mebbe," was the reply of all, for Militiamen
are absent-minded beggars.

Discipline works wonders. By the time
the regiment had reached Bogmoor Camp
all were thoroughly sober and obedient.
Strange to relate, they found themselves
camped side by side with the Perth Mileeshy,
a notorious body, recruited from the
marmalade and jute-making town of Dundee.
These regiments were deadly rivals, and the
reason was not far to seek. In the Grand
Manœuvres held ten years previous to the
camp mentioned, the Perth Mileeshy had
[pg 74]
mutinied and robbed the Glesca Mileeshy
canteen. This terrible breach of courtesy
was never forgotten, and anger was always
stirred when both corps were deep in their
cups. The trouble commenced again on
this, the first night in camp. And all
through an old Glesca hand, who remembered
that the Perth Mileeshy had broken
the square in the Soudan Campaign. This
daring gent stalked into the Perthshire's
canteen.

"What d'ye waant?" asked the waiter,
somewhat surlily.

"Ceevility first, and then a pint o' broken
squares."

"Chuck him oot! Chuck him oot,"
shouted a dozen enraged Perthshire hands.

"Gie's that pint," said the Glesca man
quite coolly, and after his first mouthful he
turned to the "enemy" and remarked,
"You couldna chuck your denner oot."
This was a challenge quickly accepted. In
a flash he was seized and surrounded. But
his shouts brought a rallying crowd of the
Glesca Mileeshy, and then the battle commenced.
Skin, hair, and blood went flying.
Men hooched, punched, cursed, and yelled.
Burly tramps and burglars laid out their
[pg 75]
terrific blows on the heads and faces of the
puny "Dundee Jam Sodgers," as they were
called. In ten minutes the once peaceful
canteen resembled a shambles. Tables were
destroyed, and the stores of bread, cheese,
cigarettes, and beer stolen or scattered
around. The fight, originally confined to
a hundred men, eventually developed into a
tussle between eight hundred. Discipline
for the moment was useless. Officers and
Non-Coms. were simply swept aside, and
though Colonel Corkleg had a scowl on his
face, he had a smile in his heart—his men
were winning, and he hated the Perth
Mileeshy like poison. Nevertheless matters
looked black, and something had to be
done. This was Spud Tamson's opportunity
for fame and lance-corporal. Rushing
up to the colonel he saluted and said,
"Wull I turn the hose pipe on them,
sur?"

"Good idea, my lad. Yes, put it on, full
steam ahead."

Spud rushed to the water-stand, fixed up
the hose, then running it out he let go.
Swish went the cold battering fluid into the
angry, struggling mob. Militiamen hate
water as much as they do soap. And Spud's
[pg 76]
terrible shower-bath was too much. They
broke and fled, the water and blood trickling
down their faces and clothes and damping
the stolen goods in their pockets. Just as
they dispersed the "Fall in" sounded. All
doubled on parade, where the roll was called,
and the seething excited mass reduced to
silence and order.

"Parade—'Shun," yelled Colonel Corkleg.
They sprang up like the Guards'
Brigade.

"Every man will empty his pockets of the
stolen goods. Then the companies will
march in succession off parade."

There was a titter and then a chuckle as
the sergeants went round and ordered the
looters to lay out their wares on the ground
in front. Tins of paste, blacking, polish,
cheese, cakes, cigars, cigarettes, buttonhooks,
lemonade, &c., were quickly disgorged.
When finished each company
marched off. When the last one had left
the ground the old colonel quietly chuckled
as he looked along the sixteen lines of stolen
goods.

"D—— rascals, but d—— good soldiers,"
he muttered. Then, turning to the sergeant-major,
he ordered him to return the wares
[pg 77]
to the much-battered canteen of the Perth
Mileeshy.

Next day in the regimental order there
appeared: "Promotions—Private Spud
Tamson, promoted Lance-Corporal for
meritorious conduct."

[pg 78]

.. clearpage::

CHAPTER IX. |nl| LAUGHTER AND LOVE.
===================================

":small-caps:`Paw`!"

"Ay, wumin," answered Tamson senior,
turning from his task of blowing up his old
balloons.

"Spud's comin' hame on week-end pass,
an', d'ye ken——"

"Whut?"

"He's been made an officer."

"Ye're haverin'."

"I'm no'! Listen," said she, digging a
letter out of her old leather purse and reading
aloud—

-----

":small-caps:`Dear Mither`,—I'm weel. I hop' you
fayther an' the dug's weel. I've been made
a heid yin here. The Kurnel made me a
Lance-Korperal for distingwishet kondukt.
I expect to get made a genral in aboot a
[pg 79]
month. I'm kumin' hame on pass for a
week-end. Love tae a'—an' the dug.

   | ":small-caps:`Spud`.

"*P.S.*—Hoo's ma lass. Tell her I'll staun
her a slider an' fish supper when I kum."

-----

"That bates a'," said Tamson, adjusting
his specs. "I kent the sodger bluid o' the
Tamson wid mak' a man o' him."

"He gets his brains onywey frae the
McSkelpie's," retorted Mrs Tamson, a little
offended.

"Awa' wi' ye, wumin. The McSkelpies
are a' loonies."

"Anither word an' I'll leave the hoose!
Dinnae insult ma family. They've ay worn
hats on Sunday, an' that's mair than the
Tamsons could ever dae," concluded Mrs
Tamson, as she kicked the cat half into the
fire.

"Weel, we'll no' fecht aboot it. You're
the best o' the bunch, an' no' a bad-lookin'
lass," old Tamson crooned in a softer tone,
for he was a born diplomat.

"Thenk ye," she replied a little tartly, but
inside she was real pleased, for she was only
a woman after all.

"An' I say, wife, we'll need tae hae a
[pg 80]
spree for Spud comin' hame. Hoo's the
funds?"

"Weel, I've twa shullin's, but we can get
five mair on your Sunday breeks an' that
auld knock o' oors."

"The very thing. Awa' the noo an' see,"
ordered Tamson.

Mrs Tamson wrapped the Sunday trousers
and eight-day alarm clock in her apron, then
blithely stepped down the stairs on a visit to
"Uncle." *En route* she announced to all in
the close that Spud had been made an officer
in the Mileeshy, and expected to be a
general in a month.

"You'll be haein' a spree," inquired Mrs
M'Fatty, the last to hear the news, and one
who shrewdly guessed the meaning of the
parcel under Mrs Tamson's apron.

"Ay. He'll be hame the nicht. I think
I'll get some table beer, iron brew, finnin
haddies, gingerbreid, an' cookies. It'll be a
chinge tae the laddie efter eatin' biscuits an'
bully beef. But Ta-ta the noo," and off she
went to the pawnshop. There, the goods
which had been regularly pawned once a
week for twenty years, were again handed
over in return for cash. All the necessary
goods were next secured, after which the
[pg 81]
happy housekeeper returned to her attic in
the Gallowgate.

"You've been decoratin'," she said with
a smile as she entered and saw how the
ingenious Tamson had made an arch of
Welcome out of coloured rags and streamers
of variegated hues from all the coloured paper
delivered from the middens.

"Jist that, wumin," he answered, tacking
up "Welcome Home" above the mantelpiece,
which completed the general scheme.

"We'll be prood, prood folks the nicht,
missus," Tamson mused as he slipped his
arm round her waist and gave her a peck on
the washed portion of her face.

"It's a gless o' beer you're efter, ma man—ye
ken fine hoo tae get roon' us puir
weemin."

"Maybe ay, maybe no', but I'll no'
refuse it."

Meantime Spud Tamson, attired in his
best, and with ten shillings in his pocket,
was being hurled swiftly from Bogmoor
Camp to Glasgow in the train. Just before
he was due at the Central Station the
melodeon and mouth-organ band of the
Murder Close Brigade tramped on to the
platform playing "The March of the
[pg 82]
Cameron Men." A large crowd of girl
followers were also present, and in the centre
of these smiling hussies was Mary Ann, her
chubby face suffused with delight and expectancy.
This was the proudest moment
of her life, for was she not the chosen lass of
Lance-Corporal Spud Tamson of the Glesca
Mileeshy?

"Here's the train. Here's the train,"
somebody yelled.

"Form up," ordered the Chief of the
Gallowgate Brigade. A rough line was
formed, the melodeons and mouth-organs in
front, and, as the train steamed in, these
blaring instruments bellowed forth "The
Cock o' the North," while the others let
loose a deafening cheer to Spud Tamson,
who was hanging out of the carriage with
a face like Sunny Jim.

"Mary!"

"Spud!"

There was a wild embrace, which lasted
longer than the time allowed by the official
programme. Other greetings were then
given. Next the band formed up, with
Spud and his girl in the centre, the remainder
following behind, and off they
stepped out of the Central Station to yells
[pg 83]
and hoochs and the tune of "The Old
Brigade." Traffic had to be suspended at
various points in Argyle Street till the
laughing throng marched past. As they
neared the Gallowgate they received a
stirring welcome. And from out of his
father's window Spud observed a string of
balloons with "Welcome" painted on their
sides.

The echo of the cheering and the band
had completely upset the equilibrium of
Maw Tamson. She dropped the finnin
haddies among the cookies, and mixed
table beer with the lemonade. Even the
cold-blooded Tamson was roused. He was
hanging over the window waving an old red
shirt, and shouting, "Hooray! Hooray!"
The mongrel "dug" was doing a sort of
gaby glide along the waxcloth, while the
cat skipped over the floor in a joyful tango
style.

"He's comin'! He's comin'!" shouted
Mrs Tamson at last, at the same time
wiping her large red lips with her rough
brown apron. Just then the door burst
open, and Spud, Mary Ann, and the whole
crowd entered.

"Ma son! ma son!" said the excited old
[pg 84]
lady, grasping the fragile form of her offspring
into her great arms. Her kisses
almost lifted the skin off her hero's face.
Indeed, she only released him on his shouting,
"You're chokin' me, Maw." Tamson
senior next tendered a hearty welcome.
These formalities over, the company were
invited to take seats and be merry. Of
course there was a crush. But Mary Ann
was given a place of honour at the miniature
table, while the remainder were accommodated
on the jawbox, dresser, the bed,
fender, and coal-bunker.

"Ye'll jist need tae tak' pot-luck," was
Mrs Tamson's opening address, as she dispensed
a bit of potted heid, finnin haddie,
gingerbread, a cookie, and a glass of liquid
refreshment all round.

"Help yersel', Mary," said Spud to his
chosen one, at the same time pressing her
foot underneath the table.

"The'll be a waddin' here next, Mrs
Tamson," piped in shrewd Mrs M'Fatty.

"It's anither free feed ye're efter, I'm
thinkin'," retorted Spud, with a wink at
his beaming Maw. "Onywey, I'll no' get
mairret till I'm a gen'ral."

After supper there was a general entertainment.
[pg 85]
Paw Tamson danced the Fling
and the Hornpipe, just as he used to do
at the Hielanmen's Corner; Maw sang—

   | "Spud, he is ma daurlin', ma daurlin',
   | Spud, he is ma daurlin',
   | An' a braw Chevalier."

This was followed by solos on the melodeon
and mouth-organ, and then came the dance.
The old attic fairly shivered with the rattle
of the feet. Indeed, Paw Tamson sat
breathlessly waiting for the surging floor
to crash through to the neighbours below.
An equally startling thing occurred. In
the middle of a barn dance, all gave a
thrilling jump and a hooch. This loosened
the clothes-pulley on the roof of the house
below. Down it went with a crash, tearing
the clock, pictures, and dish-racks with it,
as well as striking the bald and withered
head of Paw Grumpie, a hereditary foe of
the Tamsons.

"Thae d—— balloon an' candy keelies,"
he groaned, at the same time seizing the
poker and rushing upstairs. With a kick
he smashed in a panel of the door, then
flinging it open, he dashed in, followed by
all the Grumpie clan. In a minute a joyful
[pg 86]
party was turned into a regular vendetta.
Pokers, brooms, dishes, mats, and haddie
bones were freely used, and it was only the
cry of "Polis" which ended this startling
combat. As the Tamson party heard the
echo of the bobbies' feet, they fled to their
various buts and bens, leaving Spud and
Mary Ann to sweep up the wreckage, and
renew in private their tender endearments.

"Guid nicht, Mary," said he at the close,
later on, giving her one more kiss.

"Guid nicht, Spud, an' ye'll see me the
morn?"

"Oh ay."

"An' you'll aye be true tae me?"

"True as daith," he said, gripping her
firmly by the hand. Giving her another
kiss and a wave of his hand, he shouted,
"Ta-ta," and made for bed.

Mary Ann's sleep that night was one long
rosy dream. She lived in a land of love,
and the hero of it all was this gallant Lance-Corporal
of the Glesca Mileeshy. She longed
for the coming day, to renew the hours of
bliss; but, alas! that never came. For her
early slumbers were shaken by the newsboys'
cry of "War—Troops for the Front."
Her first thoughts were of Spud, and she
[pg 87]
flew to his abode, but all she saw was Mrs
Tamson, as pale as death, and sitting with
a tear-stained telegram in her hand.

"Spud's awa'—read that," said she to
Mary, with a sob. The girl gripped it
feverishly, then saw—

    "Lance-Corporal :small-caps:`Spud Tamson`
    Regiment for Active Service
    Rejoin immediately.

       | :small-caps:`Adjutant`."


"God help me!" shrieked the girl, swooning
away on the floor, for the poor can love
perhaps more truly than the rich.

[pg 88]

.. clearpage::

CHAPTER X. |nl| MOBILISATION.
=============================

:small-caps:`When` Spud arrived at Bogmoor Camp he
found the regiment in an excited but jovial
mood. They were going to war. War, to
militiamen, meant bounties, blood, and loot.
Though these men were, in many ways, the
scrapings of humanity, they had those rugged,
almost brutal qualities essential in war. Like
bulldogs, they could bite, and once having
nibbled an enemy, they could hang on till
the end. Of course the regiment was not
up to war strength in officers or men. That
deficiency, however, was being attended to.
Hundreds of men had been already wired
for. These were known as the Militia Reserve,
or "The Royal Standbacks," to quote
the barrack-room wags. All day they came
trooping in; some from the open road,
others from the Model, a few quite recently
[pg 89]
from the jail. They all looked like villains
in their muddy rags, but once in khaki, many
had the appearance of real good Guardsmen.
Naturally, there were many reunions, and
these had to be sealed in beer. The canteen
quickly became a Tower of Babel,
wreathed in thick tobacco smoke, and permeated
with the nauseating breath of the
merry Falstaffs, who incessantly called for
the proverbial pint. Discipline was not
exacted on this, the first day. It was useless
to expect it; the officers knew the
calibre of their men.

While the men were thus celebrating the
"Great Day," and discussing how they would
dispose of Kaiser Bill, the officers were also
arriving from many corners of the land.
Some came post-haste from the grouse
moors; others had hurried from Piccadilly;
a few had been dug out of ruined castles,
where they represented a poor but splendid
nobility. Of course there were new hands.
These gentlemen came from the O.T.C.,
in official language, The Officers' Training
Corps. This is an organisation devised by
a great War Minister to create heroes out of
Carnegie's pet children at our universities.
In theory, a perfect system: in practice,
[pg 90]
at times disappointing. There being no
compulsion, the more robust students had
shunned the Corps, leaving its ranks open
to a few keen, and a greater number of the
health culture species, who recognised that
a drill-sergeant might improve their chest
measurement and digestion. Still it was a
scheme acquired in the Lager-laden garrisons
of Germany, and we Britishers,
perforce, had accepted it as the hall-mark
of German military efficiency. However,
Second Lieutenants Briefs, Coals, and Grain
were detached to this Militia regiment and
duly arrived. Briefs, who was studying for
the law, arrived in a greatcoat, with an
umbrella above his military accoutrements
to keep off the rain. As this umbrella trick
was the particular prerogative of the late
Duke of Cambridge, Briefs was immediately
arrested by his brother subalterns for being
"Improperly dressed," and forced to pay
drinks all round. Drinks all round are very
expensive in His Majesty's Service. He
never erred again. Second Lieutenant Coals
was vomited out of one of his father's pits.
He was as black as the devil's waistcoat,
and as big as a bullock. He didn't know
much about form fours, but he could kill
[pg 91]
a pit pony with a punch and chuck a man
over his head. "A useful man," the colonel
whispered to the adjutant, and then in
a louder tone remarked, "Put Mr Coals
in No. 3 Company." This company, by
the way, had its records in the poaching
and wife-beating annals of every Parish
Council. Coals was therefore in a sphere
where his hulking personality would be
useful.

Second Lieutenant Grain had the smell
of horses about him. He was studying for
medicine, but he knew more about his
father's Clydesdales. Indeed, when he
arrived, his boots had the scent of the
stable, and his coat a few stray wisps of
straw sticking around. A rough but likely
looking chap. The colonel saw this, and
after looking him up and down remarked,
"You'll be transport officer. Here are
some warrants—go out anywhere, everywhere,
for two days. Commandeer 107
horses, and mind—no crocks."

"Very good, sir," replied Grain, disappearing
with the transport sergeant.
He returned two days later with 107
thoroughbred hunters, Clydesdales, and
roadsters. The colonel gasped when he
[pg 92]
saw them on the square, and promptly stood
the subaltern a drink.

"Useful man, that Grain," he said to the
adjutant that night. "The O.T.C. has
been kind to us, if they've been unkind
to other regiments. Get him gazetted
lieutenant."

This was one instance of the work of
mobilisation. And mobilisation, I can assure
you, is enough to send men to the grave.
Think of gathering 1200 men, then fitting
them out for war. Trousers came from
Pimlico, buttons from Birmingham, thread
from Timbuctoo, jackets from the sewing-rooms
of the Hebrews, while rifles came in
instalments from Woolwich, Stirling, Ashanti,
and Lahore. Shovels were found in the
ironmongers next the barracks; shirts were
collared in the nearest emporium; plates,
basins, knives, forks, and spoons were found
in the fish and chip bazaars of the town.
"Buy locally," was the order from the
C.O.O.—(the Chief Ordnance Officer)—a
very important personage, whose duty is to
supply everything, from siege guns to bed
pans. Imagine the worry! The Quartermaster
took heart disease and died; the
Quartermaster-Sergeant got drunk and
[pg 93]
was reduced, and so the work devolved
upon a faithful corporal and a few intelligent
aides. But the work went on, for
Colonel Corkleg was a soldier. He might
easily have given Napoleon points in
organisation for war.

Accommodation was also difficult. No
more tents could be had. Twenty men
were therefore crammed into these little
canvas homes. To avoid a plague and
prevent bloodshed, the colonel ordered all
men to place their socks outside the tents.
If you know the Militia you will understand.
But even tents have their limits. The
newer arrivals had to be billeted in the
homes of the citizens near by. These Weary
Willies lolled in their feather beds like
princes. It was a hustling time. The
colonel cursed from reveille till tattoo.
Still, in seven days he had the job done,
and wired to the War Office—"Ready."

Back came the reply, "Proceed at once to
Mudtown, for Coast Defence."

"Coast Defence!" muttered the old
colonel, purple with rage. "Coast Defence!...!...?..."

His after-remarks cannot be printed, for
he was a true soldier. He wanted to see Red
[pg 94]
Blood—not the billets of a seaside town.
He could handle his men in a battle like a
boy playing "bools," but billets, he knew,
meant worry, trouble, and crime. Still,
orders were orders, and he at once obeyed.
In three hours the regiment stood in marching
order, and to the tune of "Hielan'
Laddie" blithely marched to the train. It
was followed by thousands—wives, sweethearts,
mothers, and friends. There were
tears, cheers, and jeers.

"Here's a scone, Jimmy, keep up yer
heirt," said an old budie, throwing a tartan-coloured
scone to her son.

"Hie, you!" shouted a woman in a shawl
to a roguish-looking private with an amorous
leer in his eye.

"Me!" he answered mockingly.

"Ay, you—ye hinnae paid for yer wean—ye
low rascal. But I'll pit the polis on
ye—ye'll no diddle me."

"Yer haverin'; awa' an' waash yer een;"
and on marched the careless prodigal to the
train.

"Haw, look at oor Jock—he's the only
man in step," yelled the admirer of Jock
Broon, a fifteen-stone corporal, whose belt
was too small and tied with string.

[pg 95]
"Is that oor Tam?" queried a half-blind
woman, as a rakish-looking youth went by.

"He's thin enough for a pull through,"
interjected a friend of Tam's.

"An' there's Puddin' Johnson—he's awfu'
like a barrel."

"I weesh I wis a barrel—I'm awfu' dry,"
answered the man concerned.

Behind this valiant stepped Lance-Corporal
Spud Tamson, his chest puffed out like a
bantam and his calves well stuffed with
cotton wool. He was an important person,
for he marched in the supernumerary rank.
Dignity was part of his job. Still, he had
time to wink at the lassies as he went by.
Close to the station he sighted his fond
parent somewhat elated with the thoughts
of war, and aided by the cheapest gin. He
would show him something.

"Left—right—left—March by the
right," yelled Spud, as his section struggled
and rolled up to the waiting train.

"Guid, Spud! Guid! You've the bluid
o' the Tamsons. Man, I'm prood o' ye."
Spud winked and passed on.

After the halt was given, entraining commenced.
Now, it is a rule in the service
that when a regiment entrains every door
[pg 96]
and every bar of the station has to be
guarded to prevent the rush for liquid
refreshments. Colonel Corkleg had duly
provided for this, and smiled grimly as he
quickly entrained his men. Nearly all had
been settled in their carriages when he was
startled by a queer sound from the other
side of the line. He went to the end of the
train and looked across. "Well, I'm d——,"
he muttered. This is what had happened.
As quickly as the bold Militiamen had been
ushered into their compartments, the more
daring quietly opened the doors on the other
side of the train, jumped down on to the
rails and clambering on to the platform
rushed the refreshment bar. The colonel
saw hundreds struggling and fighting for
"a gill and a pint" round three demented
waitresses. It was an awkward moment,
but Colonel Corkleg had experienced many
in his life. For such moments he had one
really trusty man. This was Sergeant
Bludgeon, the provost-sergeant, an ex-champion
wrestler and hammer-thrower.
He had muscles like boxing-gloves, and he
never struck a man without dislocating his
framework. His stick was the most powerful
thing in the regiment. It had quelled
[pg 97]
many mutinies. Thus was it called in
again. Sergeant Bludgeon knew what was
in the colonel's brain, for he stood twitching
his murderous-looking stick in anticipation
of orders.

"Sergeant Bludgeon—clear 'em out," the
colonel ordered.

Bludgeon was across the line in a flash.
Like a cyclone he fell on to the stragglers in
rear. Half pushing and pitching, he dumped
a dozen back on to the rails, then with a
superhuman jerk he burst into the bar.
His great stick whirled in the air and fell
with a terrific clash on to the marble slab.
There was a fearful clattering of pots,
glasses, and money, as the startled men
jumped back; next came a click of heels as
Bludgeon thundered, "'Shun." Every man
stood as still and erect as Roman sentinels.

"About turn." They whipped round like
men of the Guards.

"Double march," finally roared the provost-sergeant
as they scampered out of the bar.
In three minutes every man was back in the
train.

"All correct, sir," said Sergeant Bludgeon
grimly, a few minutes later, to the colonel,
who had quietly observed the scene.

[pg 98]
"Any casualties?" queried the colonel
with a grin, as he looked at the sergeant's
stick.

"None, sir,—this time."

"Thank you, sergeant," concluded the
colonel, ordering the train to go. As it
slipped out amidst the deafening cheers, he
turned and remarked to the adjutant—

"Useful man, that!—useful man!"

"Yes, sir," replied the adjutant.

The journey to Mudtown was a long one—sufficiently
long to allow some of the inebriates
time to soak into their bodies a few
"hauf mutchkins" and some bottles of Bass.
This refreshment, with the heat and roll of
the train, quickly let loose the lung-power
of the crowd. They sang, danced, and
yelled with a devilish delight, and at times
threatened disaster to every window and
every N.C.O. in the carriages. Poor Spud
Tamson shivered in his corner. He was in
charge of eight tough-looking pirates, who
knew neither fear nor pain. Fortunately
they regarded Spud's stripe as a necessary
evil, and eventually left him alone. And so
pandemonium reigned till Mudtown came in
sight. The fame of the Glesca Mileeshy
had travelled before them. There was no
[pg 99]
civic welcome. The Provost had locked his
chain and robes of office up in his safe;
while his nervous citizens sat fearfully in
their little suburban homes. In every manse
the minister prayed for guidance in the
coming trials; while every mother gathered
her daughters round and told them that, on
no account, must they go out at nights. They
became still more alarmed when the news
trickled round that the regiment was to be
billeted in church halls, picture houses, and
other public buildings near. It was monstrous,
they argued. How dare the War
Office do such a thing? They would protest.
Poor ignorant souls, they did not know
their danger. They never realised the perils
of invasion; nor the fact that they had in
their midst the toughest and finest bunch of
fighters in the British Army. Drunkards
and devils, may be, but soldiers to a man.
Meantime, the tradesmen of Mudtown beamed
with delight. They had no use or time for
the men as men, but they were delighted
with the prospect of a boom in trade. And,
of course, the publicans were careful to hoist
the Union Jack above their barrels, and put
out the sign, "All Soldiers Welcome Here."

A bugle-call in Mudtown Station was the
[pg 100]
signal to get out of the train. The men
rolled, jumped, and staggered down. The
more merry chorused—

   | "I'm fu' the noo, I'm absolutely fu',
   | But I adore the country I was born in.
   |     My name is Jock M'Craw,
   |     But I dinnae care a straw,
   | For I've something in the bottle for the mornin'."

"Silence," roared the mountainous Sergeant-Major
Fireworks. His voice made
the station tremble, and the men gave a
perceptible shiver as they fell into the ranks.
Sergeant-Majors are wonderful men.

"Form fours—right," ordered the colonel,
and into the town stepped the famous corps
of Militiamen. They staggered bravely on
till the halt was given in a sort of square.
There the billeting officer met them, and
issued the accommodation orders. The
regiment then divided to the various halls
and billets in the town. Spud Tamson
found himself and his company in an old
church, and, strange to say, he was allotted
the pulpit as his doss. This was hardly in
keeping with his theology, but such is the
fortune of war. Another company was
shoved into an old picture house, the platform
of which was promptly captured as a
[pg 101]
rendezvous for card-playing and clog dancing.
Barns, stables, and old manor-houses
accommodated the remaining companies.
Flower gardens were immediately converted
into cook-houses; wash-houses became
colour-sergeants' parlours, and old closets
were cornered as the special quarters of such
important people as the cooks and pioneers.
A disused backyard with a tarpaulin over
was transformed into the quartermaster's
stores. This quickly became a centre of
curiosity. Citizens were much interested
and amused to observe ration parties coming
out from this place, their loaves of bread in
somewhat doubtful blankets, and great
chunks of juicy red beef in their horny
hands. Hunger, however, is "good sauce,
while plain feeding means high thinking,"—so
the philosophers say. Colonel Corkleg
sometimes disagreed about the high thinking.
In fact, he believed that the issue of one
pound of beef per man was designed to give
soldiers a primitive lust for blood.

It is easy to imagine the difficulties of
training, organising, and disciplining a battalion
in billets. It is like trying to make
alligators out of snakes. Men get into all
sorts of corners when they ought to be on
[pg 102]
parade. Visitors are also a nuisance. Maiden
ladies will insist on entering to read the
New Testament while the men are careering
round in their somewhat spare night attire.
Deputations frequently arrive with shortbread
and liquid refreshments for their pals
just as the colonel is making his inspection.
And the night-birds find the windows a convenient
exit into the darkness where they
may pursue the antics of the owl. Can you
wonder, then, that the officers felt depressed?
Still, difficulties are made to be conquered,
and Colonel Corkleg determined to conquer
them. Sergeant-Major Fireworks and Sergeant
Bludgeon would see to that.

Meantime the regiment, like the civil
population of the country, was most excited
about the German advance. Belgium was
to be invaded, Paris taken, next London,
and then—Mudtown. So there was really
a chance of seeing service in their own native
land. That was a solace to the bloodthirsty
warriors. During many of these discussions
in the billets some wag incidentally remarked
that Mudtown was crammed full of German
waiters.

"Germans! Whaur?" queried the
patriotic Spud.

[pg 103]
"In a' the hotels," replied the informer,
Micky Cameron by name.

"They're spies," declared Spud, who had
read all the penny horribles in his days.

"Ay, 'yin o' them gied me a pint, an'
asked me hoo mony men were in the
regiment."

"I tell't ye," declared our heroic lance-corporal,
who then declared his intention
of leading an attack on the German waiters.

"A'm wi' ye," declared Micky Cameron.

"An' me."

"An' me."

"An' me," shouted many others all over
the room. That settled the attack, and made
Lance-Corporal Spud Tamson conjure up
visions of fame and promotion by his daring
night raids on the hotels. A conference
was next called to discuss details.

"Should we shoot them?" asked Micky.

"Na, that'll mak' owre much noise," interjected
Spud.

"I've an awfu' guid razor," remarked
Beefy M'Lean, as he thumbed a murderous-looking
blade. Other methods were suggested,
such as pole-axing, hanging, and
tying them up in barbed wire. But the
cautious spirit, engendered by Tamson's
[pg 104]
stripe, ruled all these murderous designs out
of order.

"Let's mak' them a' prisoners an' march
them to the colonel." This was finally
agreed to, and the party sallied out to tackle
the first hotel—namely, The Grand, where
twenty waiters were employed.

"Whaur are ye gaun?" a sentry asked.

"Active Service," chirped Micky Cameron,
giving him a wink.

On arriving at the hotel they tackled the
back door. A patriotic kitchen-maid told
them that the waiters were upstairs in their
bedrooms.

"But there's wan," she remarked, pointing
to a portly Teuton carrying a salver into the
dining-room.

"Charge!" ordered Tamson. The wild,
murderous crew tore like Dervishes through
the hall. Poor Otto von Onions was so
startled that he dropped his dish of choice
grilled steak. Then, realising his danger,
he lifted a carving-knife and edged towards
the stairs. Kismet was with him. Tamson's
army halted to pick up and sample the
steaks. This was a golden chance for Otto.
He turned and dashed up the stairs.

"Come on, lads," ordered Spud. His
[pg 105]
men followed with the half-chewed steaks
sticking out of their mouths. Up the stairs
they panted and yelled, alarming all the
guests into a state of hysterics. Old ladies
shrieked in terror, while the younger women
swooned away on the various landings. At
last Otto von Onions was brought to bay.
Spud's army found him, knife in hand, at his
bedroom door.

"Stops, or I vill kill yous all. I am a
naturalusized ceetezan."

"A what?" queried Micky.

"A Breeteesh subjects. I haf Scotteesh
wifes and cheeldrens."

"Oh, you've more than wan wife, eh?"
asked Spud.

"No! No! One wifes."

"You're a spy," roared Micky, advancing
under the cover of a broom.

"I keel you! I keel you!" shrieked the
foreigner.

"Awa' an' kill yer granny," roared the
intrepid Militiaman, striking him with the
broom and wresting the knife right out of
his hand.

"No keel me—no keel me—kind shentlemans.
I give you moneys—wheesky—ceegars."

[pg 106]
"Noo, you're talkin'," said Spud. "Oot
wi' it." From his trunk the terrified Teuton
disgorged his gold, his fine Havannas, and
a bottle of Special Scotch. This loot was
quickly collared and lodged in various
pockets.

"An' noo tell me whaur these ither Germans
stay?" asked Tamson.

"Away! They mobilised. Gone Shermanys."

"When?"

"To-nights. Ten train. They Shermans.
I, Breeteesh subjects," he declared
again.

"All right, old cock, we'll let you off,"
concluded the valiant lance-corporal, looking
at the clock, which had just turned
9.30 :small-caps:`P.M.` Turning to his men, he said,
"Look here, boys, we've time tae capture
them deevils. Come on—aff tae the station."
And down the stairs they walloped like a lot
of schoolboys. The terrified visitors gave a
sigh of relief as they went out through the
great hall door, while poor Otto von Onions
sat down and cried.

"This way, lads," yelled Spud, as they
thundered into the Mudtown Station. There
they saw a mongrel gang of heavily-built
[pg 107]
Germans waiting for the train. A Consular
official with a ponderous umbrella was in
charge. He had them marshalled in a rough
sort of group. Some had still their tail-coats
on, others had napkins round their necks,
while a few showed their bare heels over the
tops of their shoes. A villainous crowd;
more ready to use the stiletto than their fists.
All were eagerly discussing the great Day,
and how long it would take them to invade
our country, when they were startled by the
terrific yell of Spud Tamson's men.

Charge! was the order of the day. In a
second a peaceful station was turned into a
bear garden. Kicks, shrieks, and yells rent
the air. Human beings rocked to and fro,
and tumbled over the luggage littered over
the platform.

"I protest, in the name of the Kaiser,"
said the Consular gent with the umbrella.

"Tak' that, in the name o' the King,"
said Spud, delivering a terrific punch on the
German's bulbous nose. Blood burst all
over his ponderous paunch, but he was
game, and pluckily tackled Spud with his
umbrella. One whack over his enemy's
head smashed the whole framework.

"Made in Germany," yelled Spud, giving
[pg 108]
him one full on the waist-line. He staggered
and fell into a writhing mass of Germans
and Militiamen. Micky Cameron was seen
furiously belting a stout little German, with
one hand; with the other he was rapidly
relieving him of his watch, money, and
trinkets, including a few silver napkin rings
which the waiter had "borrowed" as a
present for the Kaiser. Beefy Duncan
found a fiendish delight in flattening the
nose of Adolph Squarehead, the late boots
of The Grand; while they nobly strived to
tap blood and gather as much loot as possible
in the struggle. It was a titanic conflict.
Blood, skin, and hair were flying like
snowflakes. Faces resembled lumps of beefsteak
instead of respectable features. And
although the Militia were outnumbered,
they struggled bravely on. At last there
was a cry of "Surrender." The Germans
shrieked for mercy, while the stationmaster
vainly implored for peace. An armistice
was granted, during which the enemy gathered
up their false teeth, collars, and other
displaced apparel.

"Fall in now," ordered Lance-Corporal
Tamson, as he wiped his bleeding nose.

"Quick march," and out of the station
[pg 109]
marched the escort with their captures.
Hundreds had gathered and followed the
convoy along. Spud headed straight for the
Officers' Mess. There was no halt on arriving
at the door. He marched them into the
anteroom, where Colonel Corkleg and his
officers were enjoying an evening smoke.
All were startled at the sight of the twenty
bleeding and battered Germans as well as
the rowdy-looking escort. Before they had
recovered, the whole lot was in the room,
and Spud Tamson standing to attention at
their head.

"What the devil do you mean, corporal?"
roared the colonel.

"Twenty prisoners, sir. They're a' spies.
We captured them at the station."

"In the name of the Kaiser, I protest——"

"Haud yer tongue—I'm speakin'," said
the corporal to the Consular gentleman.
But the colonel had realised that this assault
on these Germans was a breach of the Convention.
It was awkward, and although he
had no love for the enemy he knew that
International law permitted their being
mobilised and shipped to their country.
The colonel felt an inward pride as he
[pg 110]
surveyed the bleeding captures, but he had
to assume the mask of duty. Turning to
the adjutant he said, "Place this corporal
and all of our men in the guardroom; I will
see them to-morrow." Turning to the
Germans, the colonel remarked in his best
official tone, "I'm sorry, gentlemen, that
you should have been assaulted. It is all
through the ignorance of my men, as you
see——"

"In the name of the Kaiser, I pro——"

"Very well," interjected the colonel, "you
may lodge that protest when we arrive in
Berlin. Now, you may go," he said, pointing
to the door.

Gladly they tripped to the station.
Another train conveyed these battered
Teutons to the Port of Hull, where they
found a steamer for Lagerland.

Of course there was a Court of Inquiry,
the result of which was a Regimental Court-Martial
for Spud and his pals. Diplomatic
reasons demanded punishment, and Colonel
Corkleg had to comply.

That day was a memorable one in the
annals of this corps, for inside the Reading
Room the bandaged Militiamen stood before
their judges. After a pile of evidence had
[pg 111]
been read and the usual formalities finished,
Colonel Corkleg asked, "Do you all plead
guilty?"

"Yes, sir," was the firm response.

"Well, Lance-Corporal Tamson, I sentence
you to be reduced, and fourteen days'
field imprisonment with hard labour. The
remainder are sentenced to seven days' field
imprisonment."

"March them out, sergeant-major,"
ordered the adjutant. Without a tremble,
they turned about and tramped from the
room.

"Useful man, that Tamson," the colonel
remarked, with a twinkle in his eye.

"Yes, sir," replied the adjutant, who, by
the way, was a perfect military machine,
knowing everything from the strength of a
regiment to the number of grain seeds per
diem allowed to a transport horse.

[pg 112]

.. clearpage::

CHAPTER XI. |nl| OFFICERS AND BILLETS.
======================================

:small-caps:`If` the officers of His Majesty's Service
have a wonderful innings in the piping
times of peace, they have a very rough
outing in the time of war. It is not all
beer and skittles, for, in addition to facing
death, they have to pay for the privilege of
doing the same. The sword and revolver
with which they kill the Huns is purchased
out of their pockets. The few shillings per
diem which they receive will not even pay
for their food and drinks. This system has
many disadvantages for the poor but keen
soldier. It has practically denied thousands
the right to make the Army a profession, and
has turned many educated N.C.O.'s out into
the world to become somewhat fierce antagonists
of a system largely founded on privilege
and caste. But things are improving. And,
in passing, it is only fair to observe that the
[pg 113]
men produced by the old system were really
of the ruling caste—leaders and fighters, and
gentlemen with very few exceptions. It is
true they purchased text-books and never
read them, yet it is equally true that, in
war, they have seldom failed, and have even
managed to outdo such skilful tacticians and
strategists as the Germans. The Militia, of
course, was never so efficient as the Regular
Army. That could not be expected. The
officers were mainly men of means who had
served in the Regular Army; others were
county gentlemen with a passion for rank
and arms; some the well-to-do sons of
ambitious business men; while the more
junior officers were cadets of poor but good
families, who used the Militia as a back door
to the Army. And in this time of war the
vacancies were largely filled by the wonderful
children of the O.T.C. An occasional
ranker with a corpulent quartermaster gave
such a gathering a democratic leavening,
which did no harm. This, then, was the
sort of stuff which composed the regiment
under review. All had fighting instincts,
and every man believed that it was "the
thing to do." They felt it a pleasure to
serve, and deemed it an honour to die.
[pg 114]
There was no vulgar bragging about what
they would do with the Germans. Indeed,
they had chivalry enough to accord the
Germans admiration for their work. War
was no picnic to them. If they had slacked
it in the past, they bucked into their job
with a thoroughness which did them credit.
In brief, they represented a few of the
willing thousands who have always been
eager to die for the Britain which, unfortunately,
left them and their men in the lurch
when saddled with poverty and old age. A
materialist has termed such men the "Fools
of Imperialism." Thank God, materialists
are in the minority. Such "fools" have
secured to us a mighty heritage. Men of
this breed have stuck to the flag in the
freezing Antarctic and in the sun-baked
East. We know little of them, and in the
times of peace care less. Yet when the
drums of war are rolling hard, we turn and
yell for their arms and aid. How brutally
selfish; how horribly weird! Let us hope
the war will teach us to honour and care
for such men, when these awful days are
past.

Now let us review these gentlemen and
their billet. First, there was old Colonel
[pg 115]
Corkleg. He was a tough old dog, with a
red nose and cork stump, the relic of a grim
struggle with Dervishes. He could neck
the best part of a bottle of Scotch at a
sitting, yet, next morning, he would be found
in his cold tub before parade. Spick and
span as a dandy, erect as a Guardsman, as
strict as Wellington, yet every inch a gentleman.
The men loved him because he gave
them a square deal. And he knew his job.
True, he could curse like Marlborough's men
in Flanders, but you cannot drill Militiamen
without a wide vocabulary of oaths. The
more original the better. To these heroic
scallywags, it was the hall-mark of soldierly
efficiency. But Colonel Corkleg could do
more than curse. He could drill and manœuvre
his men "on the top of a barrel,"
as the old sergeant-major used to say.
When he shouted "'Shun" they shivered;
when he roared out "double" they ran like
hares. And he was not afraid. Men loved
to tell of how he had killed a dozen niggers
in a skirmish, and captured a cannibal king
with only a smile and a walking-stick. You
will therefore realise that Colonel Corkleg
was a good fellow; you will also understand
how every man felt confidence in his leadership.
[pg 116]
Confidence in a colonel, let me tell
you, is worth everything in a fight.

The second in command was "The Dandy
Major," a rollicking squire who owned broad
acres and big cellars. A bit of a Beau
Brummell, too. He was measured for his
socks, pyjamas, and ties. There was a
touch about his waist-line which suggested
the "Nut," and a look in his eye which
was deadly. The subalterns said that he
had kissed everything human, from a Geisha
girl to an Eskimo. He had done everything
from killing a tiger to sticking a Hun, and
had crowned his career with the capture of a
famous beauty of the land.

Major Tartan was the junior major. He
was chief of a clan possessing numerous
castles and miles of heather. He looked a
ghillie, and was very proud of his calves.
These never required the Sassenach stuffing
of cotton wool. And in his bedroom he
hung a painted scroll of his lineage. That
was his weakness. He could recite his
descent from Macdonald M'Tartan, who
ran away with the wife of Dugald M'Phail,
once chief of the thieves on Benmore. He
loved the kilt and he lived in it. It greatly
distressed him to think that his regiment
[pg 117]
had the awful trews. But this owner of
Highland homes and grouse moors hadn't
a bean to call his own. Everything was
mortgaged, even his kilt, and that was a
sore strait for a true Highland gentleman.
So he lived in a cottage on the shore of a
lonely loch. There he read the 'Spectator,'
drank Scotch, and cursed the Government,
as every Tory is expected to do. Yet he
was as proud as Cæsar. He was content
to accept the little dole left when his lawyers
paid the interests on his heavily mortgaged
bonds. He was glad of this war. It gave
him something to do. And he had the dour,
grim, hacking qualities which always distinguish
the Highland soldier. If he was
as surly as a Highland bull, he was also as
kind as a little child. His last shilling had
often gone into the beer-pot of a scheming
Militiaman. Militiamen, I can assure you,
are like Chinamen—as deep as the seas and
as canny as the snakes. They can squeeze
blood out of a stone, and so this kind old
major was frequently their prey.

The most interesting senior captain was
Captain Coronet. A splendid fellow, but
annoyingly clean. He washed himself six
times per day. His shirts were spotless,
[pg 118]
and his clothes were aided by corsets.
Captain Coronet had the waist-line of a
lady, and the smooth creamed complexion
of a girl. His features were regularly massaged,
and he always prided himself on his
pinky-coloured nails. Through the ages his
family had fought like devils for God and
Duty. Their tombs could be found in
Flanders, Egypt, and burning Hindostan.
Naturally he was rich. Tons of gold lay
to hand, and he lavishly sent it round. An
awfully good fellow, as an Oxford grad.
would say. Soldiering was his game. He
cursed the passing of the Feudal System
and the rise of commerce. Killing was the
family job. Leading was his special prerogative.
Naturally he scorned the man in
trade, and only had time for men of his
caste. Haughty as a Prussian to all who
would ape his own, yet as generous as a
monk to the poor beggars in the ranks.
He loved good deeds, and did them without
offence. When he gave a thousand guineas
he did not inform the Press. A civilian
would sum him up as a snob; a soldier
would call him a man, and would follow
him to the gates of death. True, Captain
Coronet had the little faults of his kind, but
[pg 119]
these were mainly affected and superficial—simply
a pose, which hid a real white man.
When you scratch the skin of such a type
you will find a courage and grit which simply
staggers. If you know the Army you will
understand. He was called the chocolate
soldier for many a day, till once a man was
drowning in a tidal river before the eyes of
the whole regiment. No one ventured to
the rescue except Coronet. He plunged in,
rescued his man after a thrilling struggle,
and calmly brought him up to the bank.
All he ever said about it was that "it was
beastly wet."

Another interesting gent was Captain
Hardup. He was a professional Militiaman,
and therefore a mystery. His pedigree
was uncertain; his schooling vague;
while his cheques were frequently marked
"overdrawn." But he had the necessary
qualifications to keep up appearances—that
is to say, he had a knickerbocker suit, a club
address, and a mess kit, which, by the way,
had the appearance of having passed through
the hands of grenadiers, fusiliers, light
infantry, and other branches of the service.
In the times of peace he collared a living,
for about four and a half months of the year,
[pg 120]
by training with various militia corps. For
this he received a captain's pay, which was
supplemented by his winnings at bridge and
an occasional cheque for taking a richer
fellow's turn of duty. The county men
tolerated him, regarding him as a necessary
evil, and, at times, a useful friend. What
Captain Hardup did when the Militia "broke
down" was wrapped in a cloud. Some said
he canvassed for insurance; others averred
that he travelled for beer; while a few suggested
that he ran baby incubators at
country fairs. Nevertheless, Hardup was a
man of experience. He knew his job, and
could even tell when a Militiaman had no
feet in his socks. To Colonel Corkleg he
was invaluable, for he could twist a company
outside in.

The subalterns, of course, were equally
interesting; they always are. These youthful
officers are the life of a regiment. Invariably
they are splendid sportsmen. To the
outside world they present a haughty air,
which generally merits for them the title of
snobs. But this is an unfair characterisation.
The air of supreme importance which they
adopt is really the result of old army training,
which compels an officer to hide his virtues
[pg 121]
and his failings under a mask of chilling
hauteur. Scrape that, and you will always
find a generous heart and a kindly soul. It
is in the mess that you realise this. There,
they are all big bouncing boys, full of innocent
fun and youthful candour. To them a
spade is a spade. If a brother officer is
really a prig and abuses his men, these
youths will take it out of his skin. A broken
bed and a broken head is the penalty of
unpopularity. Tar and feathers is the punishment
of the cad. Drinks all round is
usually the verdict when a subaltern forgets
his manners and commits a smaller sin. The
mess is the school for courage, honour, and
truth. In the British officers' anteroom you
will find the foundations of that splendid
chivalry which has given us fame. Isolated
cases to the contrary usually mean that the
colonel is an idiot, and the adjutant a fool.
But these are rare, and when found the War
Office has a blunt style of treatment. A
German officer has shown us, in the pages of
'Life in a Garrison Town,' how things are
in the Army of the Kaiser. You will not
find these things in the Army of our King.
This statement can also be applied to the
Militia and Territorials.

[pg 122]
And this was the type in Colonel Corkleg's
corps. Jim Longlegs, the senior sub, was
cox of the Cambridge boat. His nose had
been flattened while learning the noble art
of self-defence. He could tear a pack of
cards with his hands, and crack an iron bar
over his knee. He was clean-limbed and
alert, good at a spree, and if he did like a
whisky-and-soda, he could drink it as Luther
did, in the manner of a gentleman.

Cocky Dan was an impish sprite from a
public school. He was five feet of delightful
impudence and daring. His nose was
always stuck in the Maxim gun. This tricky
machine was his hobby and his job. When
he rode alongside of it on his piebald charger
he resembled a beaming boy scout with the
all-round cords. Cocky Dan was a name
that suited him. And then there was Willie
Winkie, the sausage merchant's son, who
tried so hard to be a gentleman. He would
have been a perfect gentleman if he hadn't
worried too much about 'Etiquette for
Officers,' and that other social handbook,
'Manners made Easy.' Billy Isaacs was
hampered by his name. Not that he was a
Jew, but, as he said himself, one of his
female ancestors had got mixed up in a
[pg 123]
money-lending affair with a Hebrew, who
was financing her fads in silks, port, and
rouge. To save the family pewter and the
old manorial brick bungalow, she married
the man, and thus hampered a decent fellow
with a hooked proboscis and an ikey name.
Still, he was a devil at finance, and almost
sent the colour-sergeant insane when he
balanced a halfpenny out in his pay-sheet.
Then there was Gerald Hay Du Patti
Brown, who made the dickens of a row
about some of his people coming over with
William the Conqueror. This carried him
far till Second Lieutenant Briefs discovered
in the Doomsday Book that his ancestor was
a pioneer-sergeant in the army which landed
at Hastings in 1066. Still, he was a good
fellow, and always willing to stand a port
the day before the month's pay was due.
Brown's boon companion was Giddy Greens,
a husky youth intimate with the musical
comedy stars. He had only a hundred a
year, and was always dodging the Jews.
His suits were easily the best, for the reason
that he changed his tailor monthly and always
burnt their bills. But there, one might rave
for ever about the subalterns of this famous
corps.

[pg 124]
Now, the billets in which they were lodged
at Mudtown was hardly in keeping with
their tastes. It was a musty manor, with a
touch of age and a scent of dead cats. Dirt
was rampant and barrenness profound.
Where the pictures once hung they found
great holes, while through the windows came
sparrows, bats, and rain. The floor was
rotten, indeed Colonel Corkleg lost his artificial
stump in a mouldy corner of his room.
There wasn't a bath. All had to wash themselves
in biscuit tins, and wipe their faces on
a greasy roller towel. As to the kitchen,
only a single fire remained to cook soup,
fish, entrees, and sweets. These had to be
served up on one old kitchen table.

"This is——" muttered the colonel.

"Yes, sir," replied the adjutant.

Still, it was war time, so things had to be
devised. Tables were made out of floor
boarding and salmon boxes; beds were
created out of blankets, ancient and modern.
These were sewn together in the form of
sleeping bags. Candles were used for
illumination; while other necessaries were
begged, borrowed, or stolen from patrons
and friends. But all the worry or discomfort
did not upset the usual cheerfulness of the
[pg 125]
subs. Life to them was one continual round
of joy. They danced till their legs burst
through the floors, and sang so loud that the
senior major vigorously protested. Guest-nights
were occasionally held, when fellow-officers
in other corps arrived to sample
their good things. Tinned sardines, ration
beef, Irish stew, slippery jellies, and musty
macaroni were served on the one plate,
liquid refreshments were gladly drunk out of
bowls and collapsible mugs. After these
sumptuous repasts the senior sub, Jim
Longlegs, put his juniors through the
"Modulator." This is a performance which
the priggish youth hates like prussic acid,
but one much enjoyed by all true sportsmen.
In the course of this ceremony, a sub may
be ordered to stand on his head, sing "Annie
Laurie" in that position, and afterwards endeavour
to swallow a Scotch. A somewhat
ignoble performance to the uninitiated, but
underneath all these foolish pranks there is a
deep reasoning, and that is the teaching of
youth a respect for authority and a prompt
obedience to orders. Anteroom court martials
were also held in the billets of Mudtown.
At these tribunals all delinquents
were bluntly catechised for their sins. For
[pg 126]
instance, Cocky Dan was charged with
"irregular conduct, unable to control his
horse, riding through a ham merchant's
window and sitting in a basket of rotten
eggs." This conduct was deemed unbecoming
to an officer and a gentleman, so
Cocky Dan received a formal sentence of
"drinks all round, and to sleep three nights
without his pyjamas." Being winter, this
sentence will be well understood. Du Patti
Brown was also arraigned on a charge of
"unauthorised swank—blowing his horn
about his Norman pedigree, having a double-barrelled
and plebian name, and attempting
to enter his name in Burke's Peerage." This
was deemed a fraud. His sentence was
"a cold tub in full regimentals, and afterwards
drinking two quarts of ice-cold water."
Billy Isaacs was charged with "Jewish tendencies,
in that he in the billets of Mudtown
did order a fatigue party from his company
to search for the sum of one penny which he
had lost on parade." Sentence of death
was passed, but this was remitted on the
understanding that Billy Isaacs would lend
every subaltern a "fiver" till next pay-day.

There *were* nights when the wine was
rich and merriment strong. On these occasions
[pg 127]
the spirit of mischief and devilry
became rampant. One of these famous
nights was the celebration of Captain Coronet's
receiving what he described as another
"beastly legacy of fifty thousand from an
old aunt, who had cheated her heirs for
ninety-five years." The flowing bowl went
round. Colonel Corkleg, with "The Dandy
Major" and Major Tartan, like true sportsmen,
helped to consume a few quarts of
champagne vintage. Their red faces and
beaming eyes told all that they had reached
that stage which demands, for a senior,
immediate retirement from the scene of action,
so as not to prejudice good order and
military discipline. In the privacy of their
rooms they supped more wine, damned the
Kaiser and the Radicals, and figured out
their actual part in the triumphal march
through the Unter der Linden. Meantime,
the gay young bloods danced and hooched
to their hearts' delight. Choruses, of course,
were popular, and many of those songs so
dear to all of our public schools echoed out
into the still Mudtown night. And then
the Tempter came into Jim Longlegs' brain.

"Let's rag the captains," he whispered
round.

[pg 128]
"Right ho," all cried. Now this is a
violation of the unwritten law. A captain
in the service is a little tin god. He
must not be ragged by his juniors. But
the spirit of mischief abounded. Armed
with mops, brooms, hose pipes, and minus
their caps and jackets, they rushed the captains'
rooms. Danger had been scented.
As they entered the sacred sanctum they
were received with well-directed douches
from buckets of water. This soaked them
to the skin, and for a moment checked the
general advance.

"Charge!" ordered the senior sub. An
order is an order, so they promptly obeyed.
There was a merry scrum. Jim Longlegs
seized the nearest man and promptly commenced
to give this somewhat portly person
a half-nelson and a duck in a basin.
Heavens! when he looked at his antagonist's
face he found it was that of Major
Tartan, who had been visiting the captains'
rooms. He was nonplussed for a moment,
for a major is like the prophet Allah, one
of the Holy of Holies. To even touch a
hair of his head is more irreligious than
the tearing out of the precious eyes of a
Brahmin's god. But the major was a
[pg 129]
sport. The temporary astonishment of the
senior sub was used by him to the best
advantage. With a great effort he encircled
Longlegs' waist, and heaved him with a
terrible crash to the floor. The lamp was
smashed and the revellers found themselves
in darkness. This lessened the fear of the
consequences. Beds were lifted and crashed
around. Basins were emptied out over the
blankets. Brooms smashed through the
windows, while many of the captains and
subs had their shirts torn from their backs.
And then the whistle blew "Retire." The
subs retired singing "Rule, Britannia," and
yelling

   |     "Glory, Glory, Halleujah,
   |     Glory, Glory, Halleujah,
   |     Glory, Glory, Halleujah,
   | We've wrecked the Captains' Home."

It was in the after-discussion of the night's
escapade that Cocky Dan dared Jim Longlegs
to sneak into the C.O.'s room and
collar the colonel's cork leg, which always
lay by the side of his bed.

"Done," said the senior sub before he
realised his venture. But it had to go on.
His pluck was at stake. There was a tense
silence as he crept out of the room in his
[pg 130]
stocking soles. Quietly he opened the
colonel's door and slipped inside. The old
gentleman lay on his bed asleep. Jim crept
forward and stealthily picked up the colonel's
cork limb. He smiled grimly as he turned
towards the door. Cocky Dan would have
to yield him that fiver after all. But just
as he touched the handle there was a rustle
on the bed and then a terrible roar—

"Damn you, Mr Longlegs—how dare
you?...?...?" cursed the colonel, who
slept lightly, due to his years of living
amongst the Dervishes and Afridis.

"I'm—I'm—I'm sor——"

"Put that leg down—get out, you scamp.
Report to me in the morning."

The senior sub placed the leg down again,
in the most shamefaced manner. He was
sorry he had been caught. He had meant
no disrespect, for the colonel was a lovable
old gentleman at heart. But he had violated
a sacred rule, and he guessed what the morning
would bring forth. When he arrived back
in the subs' rooms his fellow-officers went pale
with terror and quickly scampered to bed.

"I think we ought to report this ragging
business to the colonel," said a supercilious
senior to old Major Tartan next morning.

[pg 131]
"What?"

"Report it to the colonel!"

"Don't be an ass," said old Tartan, stumping
out of the room. He had been a true
subaltern in his day.

The colonel, however, ordered the adjutant
to bring Mr Longlegs in.

"Well," commenced the old gentleman in
his best official manner.

"I—I—I'm very sorry, sir."

"Should think you would be! Damned
impertinence, sir. How dare you? How
dare you? Never heard of such a thing
in my life. Good mind to cashier you."

"Really, I'm very sorry——"

"Hold your tongue, sir."

Then he harangued him in the best style
of Judge Hawkins for a quarter of an hour,
after which the senior sub felt like a little
grease spot instead of a man.

"Now you can go, sir; don't let it happen
again—understand!"

"Yes, sir," said Longlegs, saluting and
marching out.

As the door shut, the colonel, with a subdued
twinkle in his eye, remarked—"Useful
man that, eh?"

"Yes, sir," replied the adjutant.

[pg 132]

.. clearpage::

CHAPTER XII. |nl| THE GENERAL STAFF.
====================================

:small-caps:`The` General Staff is improving. Red Tape
is being killed; common-sense is beginning
to triumph. It took exactly two hundred
and fifty years for our General Staff to
realise that soldiers cannot be expected to
skirmish in busbies, or entrench a position
in crimson tunics and skin-tight trews. This
admission, you will agree, is evidence of
awakening, so the British public need not
be alarmed. Years ago, generals received
their rank through the influence of their
wives, or somebody else's wife. Now, a
general is expected to have the brains of
Wellington and the sauce of the Kaiser.
He is promoted for his efficiency, not for
his glass eye or double-barrelled name.
Indeed, it is only a brave man who would
be a general, for he is supposed to know
[pg 133]
everything, from the weight of a soldier's
socks to the number of men that can be
killed by a shrapnel shell. And he is the
generator of all schemes for the training of
His Majesty's men. When the G.O.C.
speaks, all are expected to show that they
have a wholesome fear and awe of this
almighty personage. The correct reply to
a general, on all occasions, is "Yes, sir."
Woe unto the man who would dispute the
theories of the G.O.C., for "Death or such
less punishment" lies in the hollow of his
hand. A general who is keen of C.B.'s,
knighthoods, and a baton, is always careful
in the selection of his Staff. Up till fifteen
years ago the young bloods of Mayfair were
chosen because of their lineage, cash, and
ability to ride a hunter at a five-barred gate.
Now, a general seeks for an aide who can
work twenty-three hours out of twenty-four,
and possessed of all the knowledge that the
Staff College can bestow. It is pleasant to
note that many clever aspirants can be found,
and that is the reason for the success of our
arms to-day. If Wellington had had men
of this type, he, like Hannibal and Napoleon,
might also have conquered the Alps.
But Wellington had to deal with aides who
[pg 134]
were simply British gentlemen with a passion
for fox-hunting and a primitive thirst
for blood. The modern Staff officer can
secure the maximum of efficiency with the
minimum of friction. He can inspire the
training of a thousand muddling amateurs,
and in six months can procure veterans
of the type that conquered at Waterloo.
Nothing is too much for him. He can
make transports out of mud barges; bridges
from milk carts; impregnable redoubts from
biscuit-boxes, rubble, mud, and sand. In the
midst of a most crushing reverse, he will collar
a thousand retreating men, stick them in
hen-houses, mills, and churchyards, and thus
delay the advance of several army corps.
He is tireless, persistent, sometimes dogmatic,
but ever tactful and cheerful. Haking
has instilled into him that soldiers are
mainly human, and, in certain instances,
fools, hence his ever cheerful charm, his
pertinacity and human understanding. Of
course there are a few of the old Peninsular
type still left on the Staff. When you find
them, Heaven help you! Their skulls are
as shallow as the aborigines, and their
tongues as cutting as a circular saw. They
swear by The King's Regulations, and meet
[pg 135]
every problem by a precise reference to para
so-and-so, section something, of the supplement
to His Majesty's manuals of military
muddles and laws. They terrify the simpleton
by the fierceness of their dogmas, and
ruthlessly crush the intellectual by thundering
adjectives and cries of—insubordination
and arrest. Thoroughly honest, thoroughly
patriotic, but equally incompetent. They
are tolerated for the simple reason that a
shell or the age limit will eventually pass
them out.

Now, in the Division to which the Glesca
Mileeshy belonged there was a G.O.C. of
the modern school. He was as big as a
Cossack, and as cute as an Oxford Don.
Common-sense was his theme; regulations
he abhorred. He cursed everything which
savoured of stupid obedience and ignorant
obstinacy. Yet he had the faculty of
humour, and in the midst of a fierce castigation
would soothe ruffled pride and vain
dignity by a funny yet kindly touch. This
G.O.C. was nicknamed "Sunny Jim."
Somehow his parents had missed the way
to the Peerage and 'Who's Who?' Still,
his worthy folks had produced an abnormal
and interesting type. In a kindly family
[pg 136]
atmosphere "Sunny Jim" imbibed the true
belief that love is the only philosophy to
secure happiness and success. In a good
public school this genius developed his
amazing brain, and at the same time hardened
his strong arms. Tin soldiers was his early
game. Boy soldiers followed next. He
armed his little army with mops, brooms,
and carving knives, and, playing on an old
frying-pan, marched them out to war. This
was the beginning of great things. And
from these boyish battles "Sunny Jim"
moved into Sandhurst. And in Sandhurst
"Sunny Jim" learned the more noble
idealism of arms and the bedrock of those
things which can be summed up as the
chivalry of war. When he joined his regiment
he created a stir. He was unorthodox.
For example, he upset the tradition of three
hundred years by ordering a sentry to stand
under a verandah out of the wet; while he
shocked his brother officers by eating an
apple on the line of march. "It isn't conventional,"
his captain remarked. "Oh,
hang convention!" was his tart reply. And
so he progressed, upsetting all of the portly
seniors, who declared that the Army was
going to the dogs. While these old gentlemen
[pg 137]
went off to shoot grouse, "Sunny
Jim" went forth to every sort of man-hunting
expedition. His sword within ten
years had been inside the paunch of many
Dervishes, Afridis, hillmen, and negroes.
His breast of ribbons told all the tale of
days of hardship and of daring. In every
scrap he was always "Sunny Jim." That
was why he got the charge of the famous
"Mixed Division." It was very mixed—twenty
thousand gentlemen and scallywags,
with little knowledge of war, but a
terrible thirst for blood. Jim had to train
them.

"Get them fit," he ordered.

"How, sir?" said the A.A.G.

"Make them charge mountains with fixed
bayonets for a month."

"But there's no mountains nearer than
fifteen miles, sir."

"March them out to them—good for
them!"

"They'll probably kick, sir."

"Then we'll have them shot." And so
the Mixed Division tramped, manœuvred,
and charged. It lowered each man's weight,
and made him wring his shirt after the day's
darg was done. The older soldiers cursed
[pg 138]
and growled; the younger men whined and
often fell out.

"Too stiff, eh?" inquired "Sunny Jim"
one day of a perspiring Tommy.

"A wee bit, sir," said the man with a wan
smile.

"It's example these men want. I'll show
them. Here, you," he shouted to a young
subaltern in charge of an infant company.

"Yes, sir."

"Hand over your company to me."

"Very good, sir."

The company was awed. They had only
heard of "Sunny Jim." Now, there he
stood in his gold-braided cap and ribboned
chest—a perfect type of soldier.

"'Shun," he roared. They shivered, for
the voice told them that Jim was very much
alive.

"Advance." They trekked behind him
over the manœuvring area. The whole
regiment stopped to look on.

"Extend," was his next command.

They went out in a sleepy way.

"Come back! Come back!" he roared.
They doubled back half startled.

"Now, look here, you young rascals, I'm
fifty, and about fifteen stone. I've been
[pg 139]
through five wars and fifteen battles. I've
been wounded twice and half starved in all
my Army life, but if I couldn't double better
than that I would desert and go home."
Then in his thundering voice he bellowed,
"Extend," once more. Out they ran like
whippets.

"That's the way, my lads, and that's the
way you'll run when the bullets are cracking
round your ears. Now, advance."

Off they went again.

"Down—at the enemy in front—at five
hundred—fire."

They flopped down in an awkward
manner.

"Well! Well!" muttered the general.
"Get up! Get up!" All rose in a shamefaced
way.

"Now, watch me," and off he went at the
double; next he flopped on to the muddy
ground. It was mighty quick, but then
"Sunny Jim" had done this many times to
save his skin. All the while the men marvelled
at this wonderful general doing such
things when he might have ridden his horse
and cursed them in the orthodox way. But
they gladly followed his lead; ran, lay down,
and opened fire.

[pg 140]
"Rapid fire," he yelled above the din.
The reply was a feeble thing to a trained
ear.

"Oh dear! Oh dear! What the ...?
...." he roared, using the most choice and
original adjectives. "It's fifteen rounds a
minute I want, and fifteen rounds I'm going
to have. Give me your rifle," he yelled to
a shivering youth. Lying down, he quickly
opened fire, while an aide-de-camp timed
his shooting with a watch.

"How many?" he inquired when closing
his bolt after firing the last round.

"Just fifteen, sir, to the minute."

"There! And these young scamps take
about half an hour. Now, my lads, ready
once more."

"Rapid fire!" The response was good,
almost perfect.

The old general smiled grimly as he
muttered—

"They're getting on."

In this way he conducted the fight to the
point of assault. This, of course, was the
critical stage of the whole manœuvres. But
before proceeding he gave another address.

"Look here, my boys. This is where
you've got to frighten the devil out of the
[pg 141]
enemy, and charge like Hell. When you
charge, open your mouth and yell like a mad
Dervish. Keep yelling till you get at them,
and then plug your bayonet home with a
mighty thrust. As you pull it out give it a
pleasant twist. Every twist helps to end
the war. Are you ready?"

"Yes, sir."

"Well, charge!" and off went "Sunny
Jim" at their head yelling like a mad fakir.
They gleefully followed and charged as they
never had before. At the conclusion he
formed them up, remarking, "Well, how
did you like that?"

"Fine, sir," was the quick response.

"All right, lads; that's the way I want it
done—good day to you."

"Good day, sir," answered the company,
as proud as Punch.

There was no more growling in the Mixed
Division, for the general had shown them
that he could do their job.

[pg 142]

.. clearpage::

CHAPTER XIII. |nl| TRAINING FOR WAR.
====================================

:small-caps:`The` soldier of to-day is a very different
person to the one of fifty years ago. In
the past, all that was asked of a Tommy
was clean buttons, a padded chest, and
handling of arms. To-day, the soldier is
equal to the officer of Wellington's time.
His brain is a well-packed encyclopedia on
everything from minor tactics to sanitary
duties in war. In the past, he was a machine—a
splendid machine; now he is an individualist,
one trained to use his science in
such a way that he feels that upon his conduct
the fate of a battle depends. Many
stripes have been lost, and many hearts
broken, in the achievement of this necessary
standard; but, thank Heaven, common-sense
has come to stay. It is now practically
impossible for an officer to hide his inefficiency
[pg 143]
under a mask of haughty reserve.
Modern tactics demand that he shall teach
his men the alphabet of military affairs, as
well as those side-issues which count so
much in the making of a soldier. Mental
superiority and physical efficiency are the
only qualities which can inspire loyalty,
discipline, and confidence. Of course, the
strain is hard, especially upon an officer.
Too hard, perhaps, when one thinks of the
niggardly pay and the chance of losing one's
life in the tender and more useful years.
Nevertheless, it is mighty interesting and
equally amusing. Imagine a corps like
the Glesca Mileeshy suddenly mobilised
and ordered to train and become fit within
three months. Fortunately Colonel Corkleg
was a resourceful and a clever man. He
commenced at the bottom—that is, on the
square. It is there that obedience and discipline
are developed and perfected. When
a regiment can march and drill like the
Guards' Brigade, there is no fear for its
conduct in the sternest battle. This was
the colonel's reasoning, and all agreed that
he was correct. Each company then went
out to march and drill. Let us study a
sample. This was Captain Coronet's company.
[pg 144]
His colour-sergeant, known as Fiery
Dick, was a regular terror. This valiant
was supported by Sergeants Maloney,
O'Dooley, M'Sappy, and Greegor. Very
tough gents, I assure you. If they lacked
a knowledge of the three R's and perfection
in the King's English, they could bash their
sections about in the most vigorous style.
The preliminary address of Fiery Dick was
interesting.

"Look 'ere, you funny bundles of humanity,
you've got to drill like soldiers, not like
fishermen. And when I says ''Shun,' I
means ''Shun.' None of your hankey-pankey
tricks, such as wiping your wet
noses on your sleeve, or keeking round
the corner for a smell of the canteen.
Stand erect, head still, eyes to your front,
and puff out your chest. Keep your thumbs
in line with the seam of your trousers, not
inside of the next man's pocket. Remember,
pickpocketing's not allowed in His Majesty's
Service. If you want a bob, I'll lend you
one—and charge you interest. Now—'Shun!"
This evidently was not perfect.
"Here, O'Riley, don't squint at me like
that. That's dumb insolence. Won't have
it. None of your moonlighter tricks here."

[pg 145]
"To the divil wid ye," muttered O'Riley,
who was a bit of a hard case.

"Take his name, Sergeant Maloney. I'll
teach him not to talk back in the ranks.
Squad—'Shun!" There was now a stillness
that pleased the professional eye.

"Not bad for Militiamen. Now we'll try
the slope. Look slippy! Chuck it about.
It won't bite you. And don't wobble your
head like a looney in the asylum. Squad—Slope.
Macsausage, wait for the last word—you're
too slippy—expect you've been a
bookie in civil life, always slipping the cops.
Stand still, Private Rednose. Squad—Slope—arms!"
There was a weird attempt at
precision. Weird is the word, for Fiery
Dick immediately bellowed, "As you were."
They tumbled back to the order again.
"You for soldiers—you're like a lot of
monkeys gettin' up a pole. But I'll teach
you—Double march." Off they galloped
round the square, to the grim delight of
Dick, who heaved his chest with martial
pride, and followed their antics with his
eyes. "Double," he roared, as they slacked
a little. "Who told you to crawl like
worms? Hi, M'Ginty, you're rolling like
a bloomin' old fishwife. O'Riley, I'll get
[pg 146]
a stretcher for you, you lazy spud-eating
Paddy."

"Ach, to H—— wid you," shouted back
O'Riley.

"Halt!" roared Dick, aflame with military
wrath. "What do you mean, talking back
to a Non-Commissioned Officer?"

"Yis couldn't drill my ould cat," leered
O'Riley in a fearless way.

"What—you—— How dare——"

"Aisy, sargint, or, be jabers, you'll
burst."

"Sergeant Maloney, march him to the
clink. Skilly and cells will teach him."

"Thank yis, sargint—I'll get a sleep in the
clink," chirped O'Riley as he was marched
away.

"Double march," roared Dick to the
remainder again. When he had almost
pumped the last breath out of their
bodies he gave the halt, then—"Stand at
ease."

"Wipe your sweat off, and then we'll try
the slope again." Gladly they mopped their
brows. When finished, the old sergeant
ordered, "Slope—arms." Every rifle went
bang on to the shoulder with a precision that
was truly amazing.

[pg 147]
"That's the way. You can do it when
you like. Now, Present—arms." This
had its faults.

"Keep your stomachs in—it's corsets you
want. And grip your guns. They ain't
dynamite. Just think it's a beer pot. No
laughing, Muldoon, or I'll clap you in with
O'Riley."

"I couldn't help——"

"Silence! Who ever heard of talking in
the ranks? Company—Slope—arms. By
the right—Quick march."

"By the right! By the right! Don't
wobble like ducks in a mud-pond. Hold
your heads up—swing your arms—stick out
your measly chests, and march. Steady
now! About—turn. One—two—three—four—Step
out—you're not at O'Riley's
funeral yet. Right—form. Come round
like one man. Keep back, Tamson, it's
not dinner-time yet."

"I weesh it wis," whispered Tamson.

"Squad—Halt! Stand at—ease," concluded
Fiery Dick. "Now you section
commanders march off your sections. Slip
it across them. If they look sideways, double
them till their wind-bags burst."

The sergeants gladly complied, for they
[pg 148]
were itching to emulate the style of their
worthy "Flag," as the colour-sergeant is
known in the Service. When sufficiently
apart, the din commenced.

"Left—right—left—haud up yer heids—oot
wi' yer chists—eyes aff the grun, there's
nae money there," piped Sergeant Greegor,
the sprightly commander of No. 1 section.
His colleagues followed suit, much to the
amusement of Captain Coronet and his Subs
(Lieutenants Greens and Briefs), who quietly
observed all from a corner of the drill-ground.
This section drill went on for a week. At
the conclusion, the company commander and
his subalterns fell to and instructed them in
company drill. The methods of these gentlemen
were of the polite order. Their adjectives
had not the strong flavour of Fiery
Dick's. Indeed, their treatment was much
too ladylike in the opinion of the sergeants.
However, these trusty henchmen kept the
scallywags in order. If they stumbled,
mumbled, or jumbled when on parade, a
quiet dig with a boot mended matters.

Having polished the eight companies into
shape and order, Colonel Corkleg and his
adjutant decided on battalion drill. Battallion
drill under such a colonel was a
[pg 149]
treat. He was a martinet, and could drill
a regiment like a Guardsman.

"Battalion reported present, sir," announced
the adjutant on the first parade.

"Thank you," said the colonel, clearing
his throat, and viewing a thousand expectant
souls.

"Battalion—what's all the moving now?
When I say 'Battalion,' every man should
stand still and wait for the next word of
command. Who's that moving about on
the right of Number Eight? Sergeant-Major."

"Yes, sir."

"Take the name of the fat, red-headed
man—third from the right of Number Eight.
Give him marked drill. That will teach
him."

"Battalion—'Shun. Slope—arms. By
the right, quick—march." Any man who
quivered an eyelid or turned his eyes the
eighth of an inch was promptly collared and
marked for drill. Up and down they went,
neither looking to the left nor to the right,
as if in terror of their lives. The bailies of
a hundred towns, with all the men in blue,
had tried to quell and train this same
material, but it had been left to Colonel
[pg 150]
Corkleg to instil into them that orders were
orders. Discipline—discipline, and obedience,
the holy watchword of His Majesty's
men. From a sullen, slovenly, careless gang
of devil-may-care cut-throats and vagabonds,
he whacked them into a regiment of steady,
proud, and sterling men. And he did not
hesitate to curse them. He knew his men.
There was not a sense of cruelty or spite in
Colonel Corkleg's soul. He was a gentleman,
but he knew that these men were the
victims of environment. In their dreary
crime-and drink-sodden homes they had
learned to emulate the law-breaker, to idolise
the criminal, and applaud the football god.
Their philosophy was material—necessarily
so: for poverty made them steal; environment
sent them out to seek the heat of the
ale-house and the shelter of the jail. Brutes,
some people would call them. But they had
never seen these men dying on the sands
of Egypt or on the plains of Hindostan.
Colonel Corkleg had. While he cursed
them in his stern way, that was simply because
these men knew no other tongue. In
his heart he loved them as his own children.
They had stuck to him in many a bloody
combat. He knew this same type would
[pg 151]
stick to him again. Yes, and the men loved
him, too. They were shrewd. A cruel
world had given them a keen perception.
One look at a man and they knew him to
be friend or foe. Many a time old Corkleg
had met them on the open road and stopped
his high-stepping mare to give them a lift
and the price of their doss. Often had
Colonel Corkleg amazed his guests at his
country-seat by hauling a dirty old blackguard
off the highway and introducing him
as "one of his boys."

Having steadied them up at drill, the
regiment was then initiated into the wonders
of modern war. First came musketry.
Musketry was never good in the British
Army till the War Office made a soldier
shoot for his pay. This truly brilliant
thought made Thomas Atkins spot the bull
as he never did before. Those who hitherto
spent their lives in tasting ale realised that
during musketry they had to study abstinence
and do with a pint a day—a great
sacrifice on the part of such men. Next
they discovered the difference between the
line of sight and the trajectory. This kept
them low—dead on at six o'clock. The
ribbons on their caps, or the fluttering flags
[pg 152]
on the range, gave all the tip of the wind;
while the wonders of the wind-gauge aided
in getting the bullets into the best billets
every time. All of these theories were
amply explained by the N.C.O.'s, who had
learned the latest crazes from "The madmen
of Hythe." Those queer professors of
the art of shooting went to bed with their
rifles. They wallowed in cartridges, and
prayed for new ideas to get the British
Army bulls. And to the horror of all
thirsty privates they invented green-and
khaki-coloured targets at which the soldier
had to pop to qualify for his pay. Standing,
kneeling, lying, and sitting, the Tommy was
expected to hit the khaki specks on the
landscape. Rapid fire was another theme,
while grouping, and cones of fire, they
argued, were the theories to win a modern
war. Very excellent, but, at first, annoying
to those who had been used to firing volleys
and keeping their cartridges still till they
saw "the whites of the enemy's eyes." Yet,
in time, all realised that the madmen of
Hythe were right, and so the British Army
has become the finest shooting force in the
world.

Of course, the best-regulated systems are
[pg 153]
liable to fraud. Spud Tamson proved that.
While marking at the butts, under the officer
of the day, he found that a pencil pushed
sharply through the target resembled the
puncture of a bullet. Now this was a great
discovery. It meant salvation to many of
his pals who were third-class shots. It also
indicated to Tamson the road to a lucrative
income by charging so much per head for
every bull that he secured by the aid of his
pencil. Naturally there were risks, but
Tamson was willing to take them. To
ensure success, he squared his orderly
sergeant to get him the job of permanent
marker at the butts. Having accomplished
that, Spud intimated to many hopeless aspirants
for first-class shot that he could pull
them through, and thus secure them the
threepence a day which is the reward for
musketry efficiency. He put dozens through
his hands; indeed, he was so zealous that
not a third-class shot was found in many of
the companies.

"This is really marvellous shooting, sir,"
said the A.A.G. to the G.O.C. one day
during this regiment's course. "Not a
third-class shot, so far."

"Don't believe it. There's something
[pg 154]
wrong there," quickly observed the general,
who knew the rifle upside down. "I'll test
this regiment to-day," he concluded, putting
on his cap and making for the range. There
he found a company doing great things at
the game. Bull after bull was going up to
the delight of all, especially Colonel Corkleg,
who was proud of his men's achievement.

"Here, my lad," said the G.O.C. to a
blind-looking man firing at a target, "give
me your rifle." Lying down, the general
fired two shots.

"What's that?" he inquired casually.

"Two bulls, sir," answered the colonel.

"Bulls, eh?"

"Yes, sir."

"Very well—blow the cease fire."

This was sounded, and the general ran up
to the butts. There he found the zealous
Tamson "pasting up."

"Show me the last two shots on number
one target," ordered the general.

"Here they are, sir," replied the cool and
resourceful rascal.

"Umph! Not much of a bullet went in
there."

"Oh yes, sir, that's right enough. I saw
them spit on."

[pg 155]
"Well, lend me your pencil for a minute,
my lad."

Out came Tamson's pencil, which he
handed to the general.

"Now, look here, young man—I fired the
last two shots at number one target, but I
fired them in the air. They went miles
from here—somewhere in the sky."

"It's gey funny, sir."

"Not so very funny, either," replied the
G.O.C., "especially when I look at your
pencil. It's the exact circumference of a
bullet, and a little paste on each side shows
that you have been sticking it through the
target."

"No' me, sir! No' me, sir!"

"Oh no—it was your pencil. Put him in
the guardroom, colonel, and all of your
companies must fire over again with neutral
officers in the butts. Good-day." And off
stamped the G.O.C. with a grim smile in
his eyes. He knew Tommy Atkins, and
had caught many a regiment before. In the
next shooting many "marksmen" suddenly
fell to the status of third-class shots. Thus
was a Bisley standard foiled. Tamson got
seven days' cells without the proverbial option.
But he didn't mind. He was thirty shillings
[pg 156]
to the good. Colonel Corkleg's opinion
cannot be printed.

Having performed the necessary musketry
course, all hands were initiated into skirmishing
and the need of taking cover. Skirmishing,
as you are aware, was invented to dodge
the unpleasant effects of "Black Marias,"
"Coal Boxes," and whizzing volleys of death
in tabloid form. This new formation gives
all the sporting chance of getting through
a war and winning a medal and a wife. As
for taking cover, that undignified game has
robbed war of much of its chivalry, compelling
the most austere martinet to hide
behind a blade of grass. This sort of thing
would not have pleased the army of Wellington.
Imagine the Iron Duke's Guards, clad
in the glories of red and gold, hiding in a
mud-hole, or crawling along a ditch, like a
lot of boy scouts. These gentlemen would
have declared that the Army was going to
the dogs. Speaking of dogs, the soldier of
to-day is very much of a dog. He is expected
to scent, crouch, crawl, and spring
on his prey. The closer he gets to mother
earth the better his chance of getting a bite.
Of course, such a proceeding is very annoying
to one with the girth of Falstaff or Bailie
[pg 157]
Nicol Jarvie. And it was a very difficult
matter to get these gallants to understand
the tricks of the weasel. The sudden flop
on to mother earth at first dislocated the
internal bag of tricks. Crawling, too, was
bad for their tender knees. Nor did they
realise that the effect of posing with their
nether regions like humps of khaki meant
an unpleasant wound. Think, then, of the
difficulties. Imagine training one thousand
men into crawling monkeys. You can
picture the scene. How weird! How
funny! But it had to be done. As the drill-book
says, "You must see without being
seen, and take advantage of all cover."
Thus did the Glesca Mileeshy wriggle and
crawl. Darwin would have been delighted.
The sight would have convinced him that
man *did* come from the crawling and clambering
apes of the forest.

A week of this business fitted them for a
more interesting stage—namely, "Artillery
Formations," or, in other words, the tactical
disposition of men to avoid the effects of
artillery fire. The modern shrapnel shell
has a forward throw of about 200 yards and
a lateral spread of 50 yards. This necessitates
the breaking of a company into four
[pg 158]
little groups. Two groups or sections are
in the front line, about 50 yards apart; two
in the rear line with about 200 yards between
them and the first line, and about 50 yards
between sections. The four sections then
move forward in a sort of diamond formation.
This really prevents a gunner getting the
correct range, and even if he does get a hit
he can only blot out one of the sections.
The sporting chance of life, you will observe,
is there for all. Quite a cunning device of
our General Staff; presenting to every man
the opportunity of glory and the chance
(sometimes meagre) of getting home to one's
own fireside.

Artillery formation was at first a weird
business to the old soldiers accustomed to
the straight business and marching with their
whiskers in line. The idea of manœuvring
in a lot of disordered groups distinctly upset
their precise barrack-square drill. It didn't
look well, and that seemed a weak point in
the scheme. However, as the G.O.C. remarked,
"They would be glad of it when
the Kaiser had his guns going at them."
But we must get on. Well, on reaching,
say, seven hundred yards, all were impressed
with the need of urgently and rapidly extending
[pg 159]
to avoid the rude effect of the
enemy's rifle-fire. An enemy has little respect
for football-like crowds advancing to
the attack. Their machine-guns usually
squirt out lead injections at a furious rate,
with the most startling results, hence the
open order at the range indicated. It is
here, too, that the soldier must get behind
a blade of grass or a jam tin, anything likely
to stop the bullet from putting him on the
roll of honour. From a vantage point, all
are expected to create as many German
widows as they possibly can. Quite a
murderous job, but delightfully thrilling to
the man who has the hereditary thirst for
blood. In such a phase, the third-class shot
is of little account. The marksman, however,
has the time of his life. He can inoculate
the brain or the little Mary of his
foe at will. Indeed, he can play nasty tricks
with the angles of the square-headed Teuton.
If such is the case at seven and six hundred
yards, imagine the deadliness of matters at
five, four, and lesser ranges.

Mistakes will happen in field-firing
practices, as officers know to their sorrow.
Many rifle-ranges are used as grazing
grounds for cattle and sheep. These quadrupeds,
[pg 160]
as you are aware, have very bad
manners. They persist in getting in front
of the targets just as a company is opening
out a deadly volley. Officers under such
circumstances are always careful to cease fire
and clear the offenders away. But on one
occasion at the Mudtown range the officers
happened to be having a little refreshment
in the range-keeper's hut. During this
interval a flock of prize sheep happened to
stroll along in front of the khaki figures.
Just then Sergeant Maloney bellowed out—"At
the enemy in front—at four hundred—rapid
fire."

"Z—r—r—r—p," rattled the volley—not
at the targets. The devil had tempted the
noble Militiamen to pot the sheep in front.
Fifty fell, others screamed and ran blindly
about with bullets in their skin.

"Cease fire!" roared Sergeant Maloney,
but too late! The damage had been done.
"What the ...?..."

Then the officers arrived. More ...?
...?...?...

Next the farmer, and still more ...?
...?...?...

Finally the colonel!...?...!...!...?...!

Sergeant Maloney was placed under arrest,
[pg 161]
and every man was marched back to the
guardroom. This little incident cost the
small sum of two hundred pounds. The
officers gladly paid—for the honour of the
regiment. But the affair was chronicled deep
in regimental memories, especially in the
canteen, where the culprits received a certain
amount of hero-worship. "It wis d——
guid," as Tamson often remarked.

Another interesting phase of modern training
is scouting. Each battalion has about
twenty men trained for this job. The toughs
of a battalion make the best scouts. They
will face anything, from a mad bull to a
German Division. Life to them is cheap.
They glory in slitting an enemy's throat and
getting back with sound news. Naturally
the training of such gentlemen in peace times
is troublesome. They *will* get lost. Any
colonel will tell you that at manœuvres he
sees his scouts at the beginning of an attack,
seldom during or after the mimic battles,
especially in a district where inns and hospitable
old ladies abound. For example, in one
great fight on the Hills of Mudtown, Colonel
Corkleg was determined to win the day.
Information of the enemy's whereabouts was,
of course, absolutely essential for victory.
[pg 162]
For this he hailed his worthy band of scouts.
Spud Tamson was one. They were told to
double out a mile or so ahead and get in
touch. As soon as they located the enemy,
all were instructed to retire at once with
their reports. Gleefully they marched away.
Their intentions were good, but, alas! Colonel
Corkleg was opposed by a colonel of a
Territorial Corps who had studied well the
temperament of the Militiamen against him.
This alert Terrier instructed his scout officer
to bag the enemy's scouts at all costs, and
see that they were well treated.

"I understand, sir," replied his alert intelligence
officer. This smart young subaltern
marched off his merry men towards the
enemy. He did not worry about using his
glasses or sending his men ahead to crawl
through hedges and drain-pipes. No, he
simply marched them to the village, which
lay in the centre of the manœuvre area.
There was only one inn. In that hostelry
he was sure to find the opposing Buffalo
Bills.

"Steady," he cried, as they drew near.
Creeping forward, he peered through a
corner of a window. Yes, there they were,
sitting round a table and enjoying four ale
[pg 163]
of an appetising kind. There was another
attraction—a buxom wench of eighteen, who
had singled out Spud Tamson as the object
of her jests and affection. This bold young
man was leering into her eyes with a persistency
akin to the style of Don Juan.

"Good!" muttered the subaltern as he
crept back again to his waiting men.

"Sergeant."

"Yes, sir," answered the subaltern's henchman.

"Here's five shillings. Take half the
men and get inside there. Pay for all they
want and keep them merry. Whatever you
do, see that they are well entertained for
two hours."

"Very good, sir," replied the non-com.,
boldly stepping towards the door. The
officer then crept away with the remaining
scouts. In twenty minutes he located
Colonel Corkleg's Corps in quarter column
behind a hill, with only half a company
thrown out as an observation post. The
colonel was waiting for his scouts before he
set out to annihilate "those bally amateurs,"
as he termed the Territorials. While he
was fretting, fuming, and cursing the overdue
scouts, the gallant subaltern was busily
[pg 164]
pedalling back on a borrowed bicycle with
his report.

"Well," said the Territorial colonel, as
his chief scout arrived.

"I've bagged all their scouts, sir, and we
can decimate the whole regiment."

"Good," said the C.O., avoiding unnecessary
inquiries in anticipation of future
trouble with headquarters.

"You can double the regiment, sir, to
within five hundred yards of the enemy.
One company might engage their observation
post; the remainder might make a
detour with our Maxim guns and annihilate
the regiment."

"Right—lead the way," ordered the
colonel, signalling the advance. Quickly
they covered the ground. In half an hour
they arrived at the point to deploy.
Leaving a company to engage the enemy
in front, the others circled round, then
moved into long skirmishing lines. Down
on their knees they went, and up the hill all
quietly crawled to bag the Glesca Mileeshy.

"Where *are* those scouts?" said Colonel
Corkleg in a furious manner.

"*Can't* understand, sir—most annoying,"
replied the adjutant.

[pg 165]
"It's worse—it's *damned* annoying," raved
the colonel, looking at his watch. "But we
can't wait. We had better move out to——"

"Bang!" interjected a shot in his rear.
Next there was a fierce volley of blank on
three sides of his position, while away to the
front he heard the volleys of his defending
outposts. The startling onslaught frightened
his charger, which reared and flung him to
mother earth. The crack of the enemy's
Maxims and the terrible crash of their musketry
threw the regiment, for the moment,
into a state of panic and alarm.

"Good Lord!—they've trapped us," roared
the angry colonel, as he was helped to his
feet.

"Yes, sir," replied the adjutant.

"Extend—extend," ordered the now alert
veteran, in an endeavour to save his regiment.
Alas! he was too late. Like one
man the whole seven companies of Territorials
fixed their bayonets and charged
down on to the surprised Militiamen. It
was, indeed, a glorious victory—one which
startled the Brigadier, who happened to ride
on to the scene.

"You've been scuppered, Corkleg," said
the general, with a dry grin.

[pg 166]
"Yes, sir," was the tart reply of the disconsolate
C.O.

"Well—you're out of action. But why
were you caught napping?"

"Waiting for my scouts, sir."

"Ah, Corkleg," interjected the Brigadier,
"I thought you knew better. Scouts are
the only privileged absentees at this game.
Have a look in the nearest public-house,"
concluded the Brigadier as he rode away,
well pleased with the work of "those d——
amateurs," as Colonel Corkleg had termed
the enemy. By the way, this defeated
colonel *did* look for his missing men. With
his adjutant he rode towards the village.
As they neared the inn, sounds of revelry
rent the air. A cracked piano was playing
"Tipperary," while many fuddled voices
mumbled out the words of this popular air.
"Tipperary" was followed by a general
shout of—

   | "Oh, we won't go home till morning,
   | We won't go home till morning,
   | We won't go home till mor-n-n-ing,
   |   And so say all of us."

"'Shun!" roared the adjutant, as he led
the way into the tap-room.

Spud Tamson disengaged his arm from
[pg 167]
the barmaid's neck and jumped, or, rather,
staggered to attention with his pals.

"What are you men doing here?"

"We're scouts," answered all, with one
accord.

"And who are you?" inquired the colonel
of the Territorial's sergeant and his party.

"Scouts, sir."

Corkleg stamped out and rode home like
the Kaiser in a rage. For the next ten days
the scouts of the Glesca Mileeshy were under
the care of Sergeant Bludgeon, the police
sergeant. His total prohibition campaign
made them thirsty, but not wiser, men.

Any chapter on training must also refer
to night operations, generally called Night
Attacks. These operations are never
popular in times of training. They interfere
with social engagements. The finest
dinners have to be refused, and the most
amorous engagements cancelled. These
attacks in real war are simply organised
nightmares to shorten the life of the enemy.
They are difficult, and only successful under
the most favourable conditions. Mistakes
always happen. And, to an officer, such
sorties are anxious affairs. Think of leading
a company, every man of which has a
[pg 168]
bayonet as keen as a razor edge. Remember
that every bayonet is carried at the
"Charge." If there is a sudden halt in the
course of the advance, the officer's anatomy
generally acts as a sort of buffer for the
nearest blade. Indeed, it is safe to assert
that the reason for an officer's quick and
gallant advance in the assault is not his
thirst for death ahead, but his fear of death
from some careless fellow behind. To prevent
such accidents, the officers of the Glesca
Mileeshy always carried coats, canteens, and
a general emporium on their backs. These
articles were most useful as a shield in case
of accidents.

Talking was barred and smoking absolutely
prohibited. The red glow of one
cigarette on a night job is enough to give
a whole Division away. This had to be
deeply impressed on the brains of these
gallants. They did their best to comply—a
severe test to the garrulous gentry who also
believed in "thick black." Subdued excitement
was always characteristic of these
affairs. The chirping of a bird, the rustle
of leaves and creaking of trees, were signs
of "the enemy."

Preliminary night attacks were done on
[pg 169]
the Mudtown Common—a great expanse
which had been gifted by a king to the
sweethearts of all ages. The loneliness and
darkness of this area may be imagined.
This place, by the way, was the rendezvous
of the Territorials at dusk. In all of its
dark corners these gay Lotharios told the
old, old tale. The Militia knew this, and,
still bitter with the poison of their great
defeat, determined to have revenge. It was
to be accomplished on a night attack.

"We'll get oor ain back the nicht," said
Spud Tamson on hearing the orders given
for night operations.

"How?" asked Micky Cameron.

"The Terriers are no' trainin' the nicht.
They'll be a' owre the place. We'll capture
them an' their weemin and bring them in
tae the colonel." This great plot was
quietly sent round. When the regiment
paraded, all were thrilled with the prospect
of fun ahead. Of course the officers knew
nothing about it. That would have spoiled
the game.

"Gentlemen," said the colonel to his group
of officers, "we shall imagine an enemy at
the other end of the Common. Our plan is
to make a simple reconnaissance from this,
[pg 170]
our outpost line. Two companies will go
out, the remainder will stay here. The
enemy which is represented by the Mudshire
Militia will also have strong patrols in
front. Elude or capture them, but do something
useful."

"Very good, sir," replied the officers concerned,
moving off. These officers split up
their companies into strong patrols and sent
them out as arranged. The darkness
swallowed them up almost instantly. For
half an hour there was a tense silence, broken
only by an occasional patter of feet, as a
scout returned with the necessary false news
from the various patrols to keep the officers
at ease while the comedy went on in the
darkness. Then the trouble began. Shouts
and screams rent the wintry air and carried
far, while here and there a thud or scuffling
noise made the expectant colonel and his
staff prick up their ears.

"What the devil is wrong?" said Corkleg
anxiously.

"There's women there, that is evident
from the screaming," ventured Coronet.

"It seems to me your patrols have gone
woman hunting instead of man hunting."

"Well—eh—yes."

[pg 171]
"Send another patrol out and see what's
on, and stop that awful din," ordered the
irate C.O.

Another patrol went forth, but to no
purpose. The screaming and scuffling continued,
to the annoyance of the officers and
the secret delight of the men. To understand
it better, let us picture the scene. In
each dark corner, and beneath every great
oak tree, was a loving couple. These youthful
warriors and their girls were lost to the
world. What mattered the Germans? What
mattered the waiting sergeants who were
calling the roll in the billets beyond? They
loved and were beloved. And so into each
servant and shop-girl's ear they poured those
words which have thrilled all women since
the advent of Eve. So lost were they in
this fairyland that none heard the crawling
patrols of the Glesca Mileeshy. The real
enemy mattered little to these warriors. It
was the Terriers' blood they desired. Into
each nook and up to each tree went these
rascals. Just as each pair were renewing
their bonds of affection in a long—long—kiss
there was a general shout of "Hands
up" all over the Mudtown Common.

"Oh!" shrieked the girls.

[pg 172]
"Get out," roared the Terriers.

"Hands up," persisted the Militiamen,
presenting their glittering bayonets in a
manner distressful to the anatomy of the
men. This menacing attitude, with the fierce
expression on the tough faces of the aggressors,
sent nearly all the ladies into tears and
hysterics. But all the tears and shrieks were
of little avail. They were prisoners, and, as
such, would be presented to the powers that
be. They cursed and struggled, but the
rifle slings and bootlaces of their captors
eventually subdued all resistance. Pitiful
they looked; more pitiful were the girls who
followed their captured braves, with handkerchiefs
to their eyes.

This, then, was the awful din which
Colonel Corkleg had heard. Louder it
grew as the returning warriors neared the
zone of flashing torchlights, which now
indicated the end of the operations and the
position of the outpost lines.

"In the name of Heaven, what is this?"
ejaculated the C.O. on seeing one patrol
emerging into the light with four battered
Terriers and their weeping lovers.

"Prisoners, sir," was a Tommy's blunt
reply.

[pg 173]
"What—more of them?" he again remarked
as a great big sergeant was carried
in, all gagged and bound. This was the
scout-sergeant who had played his part so
well in the old village inn. The colonel
recognised the N.C.O., and inwardly
chuckled.

"Still more, sir," ventured the adjutant,
as four more patrols came forward with
the battered remnants of the Territorial
Force.

"But these men are not the enemy," insisted
the colonel in his official tone.

"Na, sir, but they *were* the enemy the
ither day. We're piyin' them back," chirped
Micky Cameron.

"Ay! an' here's an officer," gleefully
yelled a brave then coming into the light.

"A what?" queried the now startled
colonel.

"An officer, sir," said Spud Tamson,
saluting proudly as he presented the form
of a young subaltern who had been having
a quiet stroll with the daughter of the
Brigadier.

"I protest, sir. It is an insult to me and
my regiment."

"Yes, positively disgusting," pouted a
[pg 174]
very charming maid of seventeen, with a
haughty flush on her cheek.

"We didnae protest the ither day when
you made us fu' in the pub," chirped Spud,
almost sticking his nose into the young
scout-officer's face.

"Silence!" roared Colonel Corkleg.

Addressing the officer, he said, "I apologise
for this rude interference with your very
pleasant mission. I can well understand
your indignation," at the same time casting
a roguish glance at the pretty girl.

"Oh, it's all right, sir," replied the subaltern,
saluting and marching off.

A similar apology was tendered to all the
other captured swains when they were allowed
to depart. "Fall in" was then sounded, and
all marched merrily home. In the officers'
mess that night the laughter was loud and
long, for their men had squared the defeat
of the previous day. Even the colonel let
himself go, and laughed till his old artificial
leg rattled on the floor with glee.

"Useful men, eh," he concluded.

"Yes, sir," replied the adjutant.

[pg 175]

.. clearpage::

CHAPTER XIV. |nl| ALL ABOUT SPIES.
==================================

:small-caps:`Giddy` Greens, to whom you have already
been introduced, was a queer fellow. He
was a mixture of Beau Brummel, Cæsar,
and Don Juan—one who dressed well,
fought well, and kissed gloriously, as a
flapper would say. He was also a student,
and certainly a daring adventurer. His fine
complexion, well-groomed figure, and air of
blasé indifference, gave to all the idea that
he was simply a delightful idiot who hunted
women and tippled good wine. But Giddy
Greens was something like that hero in
'The Scarlet Pimpernel'—a man who had
his strength and ambition under a mask of
genial imbecility. He knew English literature
upside down, and delighted to rave
about the glories of Shakespeare, Milton,
and Stevenson. A traveller too, for Giddy
[pg 176]
Greens had toured the whole world on a ten-pound
note. He had done everything from
cattle-ranching to that of a super in a third-class
Musical Comedy. To women he was
ever a hero. His magnetic personality was
of a forceful yet charming kind.

Still Greens was a very serious man.
Imperialism was his dream; patriotism his
ideal and pride. He lived for Britain. In
all his wanderings he preached for the flag.
In these ramblings, too, he observed things,
noted them down, and then startled his
friends by his discoveries. The Germans
he loathed, and the Germans he had followed
from John o' Groats to Timbuctoo. He had
dogged German travellers and spies from
Tilbury Docks through Egypt, Ceylon,
Australasia, Canada, and Japan. Like
Sherlock Holmes, he followed quick, yet
silent. At the outpost of Empire he had
seen the evil work of Prussian hands. It
was Greens who discovered "The League
of the Fatherland"—that is, a German semi-official
and social organisation within the
British Empire. He found that it was
bossed by their Consuls, and he found nearly
all Vice-Consuls to be officers—and spies.
He had written to the press and revealed
[pg 177]
these things, but the luxurious-living public
only laughed. They had no time; they had
engagements for music halls, football, and
golf. The awful dangers, however, stirred
this zealot on. He kept at the Teutons'
heels and learned more things. These were
revealed one night at mess when Greens
had declared that the bombardment of
Sandtown-on-Sea was the fruitful work of
spies.

"Explain, Greens," shouted one of the
subalterns.

"Well, I'll tell you. I first discovered
the Germans at work on the North-east
Coast. Every German waiter, schoolmaster,
and tradesman in all the towns from Peterhead
to Dundee I found to be spies. They
were in "The League of the Fatherland."
All were registered by the Consul. In the
event of invasion every man would have a
part in the job. In the times of peace they
studied the coast, the tides, the location of
ships and troops, the position of guns, everything,
in fact, which would be of use. These
things were reported in writing to their
Consuls, or verbally, when the League met
at the many German clubs and gatherings.
I pointed this out.

[pg 178]
"In what way?" asked an anxious sub.

"A story which appeared in 'The Daily
Owl.' In that romance I let them know
what was going on. Yes, I frightened the
lackadaisical bounders into a panic. Lunan
Bay I pointed out as a landing-place. The
coast near St. Andrews I also emphasised as
a jumping-off shore, while Dundee was
proved to be without a gun or boat to
defend it; in fact, the whole coast displayed
a general invitation to the Germans to come
and shoot."

"What happened?"

"Some official big-wig stopped the story."

"Why?"

"It showed every weakness up, but——"

"What?"

"They got to work. Dundee got a submarine
base; Montrose got aeroplanes; Fife
was scheduled out for guns, troops, and
trenches; Cromarty was seized and fortified;
and Rosyth works pushed on."

"You finished then, I suppose?"

"No fear. I went out to the Dominion of
Canada to see how things were going."

"And what did you find?"

"A German traveller in every train representing
subsidised goods to cut out our
[pg 179]
British trade. A German club in every
town for the general entertainment of spies.
German women who were willing to sell
their souls to gain the secrets of State, and
fools in Canada like our own fools at home,
who laughed at it all, who gave trade to
these Germans, who toyed with the women
designed to lure and rob them of their
heritage. Worse, in every coast town on the
Atlantic and Pacific there were the same
German waiters, the same rascally Consuls,
the same old League of the Fatherland.
These men knew and had told the War
Gods of Berlin that the forts of Halifax,
Quebec, and Esquimalt were almost obsolete;
that their guns were somewhat
ancient; and that the Canadian Militia
system was inadequate, loosely organised,
and unfit to provide an auxiliary force for a
sudden mobilisation to aid our Expeditionary
Force at home."

"Prove it," interjected Lieutenant Longlegs.

"Read Bernhardi's book. He got his
information from these spies in the Dominion
of Canada."

"Well, what did you do?"

"I spoke to the man then at the helm of
[pg 180]
military matters. I emphasised the dangers,
and asked him what he was going to do.
'Young man,' said he, 'we've enough to do.
We've got a mighty fine country to develop
and people. We can't be pioneers and soldiers
too. And we can't get men in this
country to soldier for a shilling a day.'"

"What did you say to that?"

"I simply said that there was some truth
in his statements, but I also pointed out that
Canada, like America, was getting dollar
mad. Materialism, I argued, was beginning
to be their all in all. Success had made
them a little selfish, and I showed him that
up till then they had contributed little in the
way of ships to guard the Pacific against the
coming peril, and aid our merchant destroyers
in the time of war. Of course he got angry.
Canadians don't like the truth. That was
proved by General Fearless, who chucked
up his job there rather than command such
a system."

"But, you'll agree, they're playing the
game now."

"Certainly, and they'll fight the Germans
like devils; but my point is this, that if they
had had their Pacific Fleet thoroughly organised,
we might have been able to avoid
[pg 181]
disasters and have shortened the war. And,
of course, it is only fair to say that their new
Defence Minister is nobly trying to remedy
the horrible slackness of the past. But
politics are the curse of Canada. Politics
have retarded Canadian defence. However,
things will be better there after this
war."

"Are the Australians the same?"

"Not quite. They have done more for
true Imperial defence than any other dominion.
They have got national service.
Every man is a soldier. And, mark you, it
was a Labour Government that introduced
national service into Australia. Now, that's
a wonderful thing, when you consider that
Australians used to abhor discipline and
stake their all on pleasure. But these
labour men realised the growing yellow
peril. Again they had plumped for a white
Australia, and so they determined to defend
a worthy ideal. I grant you that their Fleet
is somewhat small, that the armaments of
Sydney defences and other harbours need
much attention. But they can't do everything
in a day. They have only a population
of five million to work on, and a great
country to develop. What they have done
[pg 182]
is wonderful, and they deserve the greatest
credit."

"Then, have the Germans been working
there too?"

"Yes. Australia was permeated with the
German system of espionage. Their commercial
Huns have collared the metal
market there. The North German Lloyd
Company have been trying for years to cut
out the Orient Line and the P. and O.
And, in Sydney itself, I have heard the
German Vice-Consul drink to 'The Day,'
and curse the Empire which kept his country
out of the sun. The Australians, like the
Canadians and ourselves, were too busy with
other things to hunt out these tools of the
Kaiser. However, they have now got the
order of the boot."

"Do your remarks apply to New Zealand?"
inquired a sub.

"New Zealand," continued Greens, "is a
land of patriots. The New Zealanders call
it God's country. That is a good name. It
flows with milk and honey, and its people
have not forgotten how to love. Their
temperate climate has preserved all the
nobility of our northern temperament, while
the general prosperity of the land has
[pg 183]
eliminated almost every trace of the misery
and poverty so characteristic of Great Britain.
The beauty of New Zealand is that it
is small. Bill Jones of Auckland in the
North Island knows Tom Brown in Invercargill
(South Island). When Lizzie Smith
of Wellington gets married, every townsman
and cockey in both islands wires his congratulations.
A New Zealand lady can give
you the pedigree of every known family in
the little Dominion. And every one knew
Dick Seddon, just as well as they know
Bill Massey, the present Premier of the
Dominion. A Governor-General in New
Zealand is compelled to be 'At Home' to
all—and a good thing too."

"What about defence?"

"Splendid! Their defence system is the
same as that in Australia. Every man
carries a gun; better still, every one is
delighted to carry his gun. Their mounted
men are wonderful, and they possess some
of the finest field artillery in our Imperial
Army. One great mistake they made was
the installation of the German Telfunkin
system of Wireless. They were too honest,
perhaps, to realise the full significance of
such a decision. And like Australians,
[pg 184]
Canadians, and Britishers, they have been
foolish enough to be courteous to the parasites
who represented the evil materialism of
Kaiser Bill."

"You haven't said anything about the
women?"

"Oh, charming!" interjected Greens,
with a smile which suggested many hours
of delight with the ladies of the North and
South Island. "And my advice is this—if
you want a real fine girl for a wife and chum,
marry a New Zealander."

"Cheer oh!" chirped Coronet, inviting all
to drink to the girls of Maoriland.

"At the same time, Greens, don't you
think that our Secret Service is just as good
as the Germans?"

"Well—it's quite good. And its great
merit is that it never speaks. While the
Germans openly vaunt their wonderful
system, our men apply themselves quietly
and sternly to their task. Such a service
includes men of the most chivalrous and
daring kind; it also numbers some of the
queer folks. You see they are not officially
recognised. If nabbed in the act, they must
pay the price. While a thoroughly patriotic
service, it is, unfortunately, one which we
[pg 185]
can never honour in a truly public way.
There are skeletons 'neath the soil in all
parts of Germany of many noble fellows
who have died for the Cause. In German
fortresses you can see others who foretold
the war, who helped to place our Expeditionary
Force in the right spot to meet the
great hordes who tried to capture Paris.
The work of these men has been accomplished
throughout a period when public
opinion denied Germany's intentions and
refused to affirm the theories of such
splendid prophets as the late Lord Roberts.
Think of the mental tortures of such patriots.
Picture their agony and grief when viewing
the careless throng. How cruel! How
maddening it must have been! Yet each
went on ploughing a lonely and dangerous
furrow over the fields of German espionage
and defence. You talk about bravery under
shrapnel and in face of the bayonets of
Huns! But it takes a brave heart to do
that job. And, mark you, if Germans are
good at the game, the French are as good,
and the Russians infinitely better. It may
be a sound policy for us to allow the cocksure
German spy to buy the faked maps,
plans, and news, and to stop the same from
[pg 186]
going through the post. But public opinion
ought to be more firm on the question of
naturalised Germans and their families.
These are the men who have grown wealthy
in our midst, who have married our women,
who have been honoured by the greatest
of our institutions; yet, all the while, their
homes and offices have been the centre of
intrigue for the downfall of this land of ours.
The real German spy, who is unnaturalised,
and risks his life, deserves as much credit
as the brave men of the Prussian Guard.
But the low swine who would sever the hand
that has fed them are the ones we should
hound out of our country."

"But I say, Greens," interrupted Captain
Coronet, "don't you think we have frightened
these bounders?"

"No. They are still working. And they
even cover their sins by sending their sons
into the commissioned and other ranks of
our forces. Many of these boys fight
gallantly for us, while their dirty old fathers
are playing a double game. I admit we
must be generous. A German must remain
a German. He is entitled to his patriotism.
Still, that is no argument for our stupidity.
Our land, our homes, our liberty, and our
[pg 187]
women are dear to us. By heavens! we
have got the finest heritage of all the
nations. It's worth fighting for; yes, worth
dying for."

"Good old Greens," echoed the thrilled
subalterns. Then Longlegs started him off
again by the sceptical inquiry—

"Look here, Greens, can you prove what
you say? If you can catch a real live spy in
Mudtown within the next month, I'll stand
champagne all round."

"Done," said Greens, with an emphasis
which startled all. "But, I say, it's two :small-caps:`A.M.`
We've been talking for hours. We'd better
go to bed. Good-night."

"Good-night, Greens," answered his
fellow-officers, remaining a little behind to
discuss the wonderful phase of his character
which Greens had so well revealed.

"Longlegs," said Coronet, as he turned
into his sleeping bags, "you've lost your
bet. Greens will keep his word."

"Good luck to him," replied the long
subaltern as he also went off into the arms
of Morpheus.

-----

For many nights Greens was absent from
dinner. This did not surprise those in the
[pg 188]
know. He was spy-hunting. Though the
military and police had terrified many of
the fraternity, Greens knew that he would
at least catch one. So he lounged carelessly
through the streets, casually glancing at
every face. Unlike the average policeman,
he did not search for the square head, flaxen
hair, and soft-footed Teuton. He could tell
by their eyes. Strange as this may seem,
any Intelligence Officer will substantiate the
same. The spy has that peculiar glint of
cunning, with a touch of the haunted and
hunted, and the shifty movements which
always suggest a base intent. Such a keen
student of espionage found little difficulty in
locating his man. Nevertheless he waited
almost a fortnight before he got his chance,
and then it came almost unexpectedly.
While lounging carelessly in a public place,
he was amazed to hear a man using German
gutturals behind. This person was inquiring
of his friend, in a somewhat casual style, as
to the number of troops in the town, where
they were located, and what was their
job in the event of any attack. Listening
intently, he discovered a keen German
brain analysing all the replies of the honest
and simple-minded citizen. Through a
[pg 189]
mirror the observant officer studied the face
of the spy. Strong, almost English, with
firm set lines and a chin suggesting courage
of a bull-dog kind. An excellent type for
such a mission. His flaxen hair and a
slight student cut on the lip were the only
outward signs of his race. His English,
to an ordinary man, would have passed
unobserved, but Greens detected the thick
guttural now and again, as well as a furtive
glance towards his own person. This
German agent was unaware of the keen
scrutiny which he was being subjected to
through the mirror. Nor did he imagine
that the officer who paid his bill and went
out would confront him again with his escort
of soldiers.

"Who is he?" asked Greens of the
proprietor.

"A German, sir."

"Thank you, I'll be back in a minute,"
and off went the spy hunter to the nearest
billet.

There he collared an escort, and marched
to the place again. The German was just
going out.

"Excuse me, aren't you a German?"

"Yes, sir. Here is my passport, signed
[pg 190]
by the Foreign Secretary, also my birth
certificate," replied the Teuton, pulling out
the bonds of safety which a sleepy officialdom
gives to the enemies of our country.

"Naturalised?"

"Yes, certainly; my mother and friends
are knitting socks for the troops," he
answered testily.

"You seem to be interested in our troops
here?"

"Everybody is—it's natural at a time
like this."

"Perhaps," said Greens, stroking his chin
and sizing up his man in case of emergency.

"What are you doing here?"

"I'm an agent for iron goods."

"The name of your firm?"

"——, London."

"That's an alien firm."

"A naturalised German. You don't deny
us the right to live?"

"No, but I deny you the right to spy."

"You are insolent, and you will be asked
to prove your words," said the German in a
threatening way.

"Keep cool! Now, look here, this passport
shows that you were in Germany at the
time of mobilisation. It also shows that
[pg 191]
you were in France at the time that the
advance was made on Paris. Can you
explain?"

"Of course, I was on business for my
firm."

"The Secret Service, eh?"

"No, sir; again you insult me."

"Very well; quick march."

"I refuse."

"Take him off," ordered Greens sternly
to the escort.

"Uh!" was the fierce exclamation of the
baffled Teuton, stepping on with his guards.
He was quickly placed under lock and key.
In his bag Greens found correspondence in
code, envelopes from a famous "firm" which
always paid well for information, as well as a
heap of notes and gold. A simple citizen
and the ordinary policeman would have
passed this man as innocent, but Greens
found a clever Intelligence Officer who
labelled this German as an Inspector of the
Espionage System. He travelled around
for his iron goods. He also called on his
local "friends," and paid good cash for
"services rendered," as many receipts in his
possession showed. In a few words, Greens
proved his contention that this man, like
[pg 192]
thousands more, was a spy, immune from
arrest because of naturalisation,—a scrap of
paper which ought to be ruthlessly burned
and disregarded when found on any of
German birth or origin. There was a smile
on Greens' face as he entered the mess-room
that evening.

"Why that smile?" inquired Longlegs.

"The smile means champagne. Your
spy is in the garrison guard-room, and
to-morrow, no doubt, will find him interned
for many a long day."

"Cheer ho," yelled the subs, gathering
round to hear the spy-hunting exploit.
That was the last spy caught in Mudtown.
The German Secret Service labelled it
"Dangerous." If every policeman was as
alert as Greens, all of these naturalised
scoundrels would be under lock and key
to-day.

[pg 193]

.. clearpage::

CHAPTER XV. |nl| A COMPANY OFFICER'S WORRIES.
=============================================

:small-caps:`Uneasy` lies the head that wears a captain's
crown, for the lot of a company officer is like
that of a policeman—not a very happy one.
He is not only captain of 120 souls, but
father, jailor, pastor, and moneylender. His
day is a day of toil and worry. It is only
a strong man who can hold a company
within bounds and at the same time retain
their love and respect. A captain must
necessarily be a gentleman. I do not mean
by that that he must have his name on the
scroll of peers, but rather the possession of
honour, with a great sense of justice and
infinite tact. The company officer is the
man who has helped to win many battles.
Quebec, Waterloo, and Mons were successes
because the company officer loved his men
and the men loved their company officer.
[pg 194]
Germans cannot understand how British
soldiers fight and die so gloriously without
that brutal discipline so characteristic of
Teuton arms. When Germans are captured,
it is always noted how the officers refuse to
sympathise with their men in their shame
and defeat. They stand aloof and scorn
the men who have braved so much for the
Fatherland. They seem to loathe the men,
who have really done remarkably well in
view of the overpowering opposition of the
Allies. To a Britisher this is disgusting,
for the Britisher realises that Love rules
this whole world. "Look after the men,"
said Colonel Corkleg, "and when you're in
a tight corner they'll look after you." That
was why no officer of his regiment ever
tasted food till the men had been fed; why
many an officer carried a sick man's rifle
and pack on a weary march; why they
bribed everybody and anybody in the
Quartermaster's stores for extra bread, extra
beef, spare boots, shirts, and socks. In the
officers' mess no one dared to allude to his
men in scornful tones. The subalterns themselves
deemed this an offence which merited
a cold bath in full regimentals and drinks all
round. But there, it is the company officer
[pg 195]
we have to specially deal with at the
moment.

An efficient company officer must know
every man's name and understand each
man's temperament. More important, he
must be able to handle each man's moods,
to instil into him the best and kill the
worst. There are men that he must curse,
and curse loud and long; there are others
he must only coax and wheedle like an obstinate
beauty in a ballroom. When there
is mutiny, unhappiness, and discontent, never
blame the men; blame the officer. He
doesn't know his job, and should get the
boot. A well-disciplined company means
a happy company. To a casual observer,
the average company officer may seem an
idle person who issues orders then disappears.
Not at all. Every day he finds a
thousand problems. For example, Captain
Coronet was one day met at the corner of
the billet by Private Micky Malone, who
carried a black-bordered envelope in his
hand.

"Beg pardon, sor, can I spake?"

"Well, Malone."

"My ould father's dead, sor—can I get a
wake-end pass?"

[pg 196]
"Your father?" queried the captain, who
knew his man.

"Yes, sor, he died wid consumption o' the
bowels."

"But look here, Malone, your father died
last year, for I remember giving you a
pass and lending you a pound to go to the
funeral."

"That was the wife's father."

"How *many* fathers *have* you got?"

"Wan, sor."

"But look here, Malone, you've had about
a dozen grandfathers, fathers, mothers, sisters,
and wives who have died since mobilisation.
You're a bit of a liar—eh?"

"Ach, sure, sor, ye know I'm dacent.
I've only been in the guardhouse twice
this month."

"But why do you tell lies, Malone?"

"Well, sor, to tell ye the truth, Widow
Riley's havin' a dance for the bhoys. She's
a bit swate on me, an' she's asked me
through."

"That's a different story. Why didn't
you tell me that at first?"

"Sure, sor, I only told the truth once in
me life, an' the ould judge sentenced me to
thirty days."

[pg 197]
"Well, you can have a pass—but, by the
way, let me see that letter."

Malone hesitated, then handed the captain
the black-bordered epistle. This the
company officer carefully perused. A smile
crept over his face as he remarked—"Look
here, Malone, this is the same letter that
Cameron, M'Haggis, and Muldoon showed
me when they wanted leave for a funeral."

"Yis, sor."

"You pass this round, I suppose?"

"Yis, sor."

"Well, you won't pass it round any
more, understand!" said the captain, tearing
it up.

"Yis, sor," replied Malone, saluting smartly,
and marching off to report to his cronies how
the captain had collared this general service
document.

Just as Captain Coronet reached the foot
of the stairs he was met by Private Sneaky,
a weedish-looking gent.

"Well?"

"I waant tae mak' a complaint, sir."

"What about?"

"Private M'Ginty punched me for naethin'
at a', an' gied me a black e'e."

"I see; well, come with me," said the
[pg 198]
captain, entering the billet and calling for
M'Ginty.

"Look here, M'Ginty, this man complains
that you struck him without cause."

"Well, sir, he's a greedy yin. He's
pinched wan o' the recruit's dinner every
day for a week, so I jist punched him on
the nose."

"Quite right, M'Ginty. If you get him
at it again, knock his head off, and break
every bone in his body. Get out, you
scoundrel." Off tailed the little rascal, for
in all regiments you will find a few undesirables.

"Private M'Nab wishes to see you, sir,"
then remarked the colour-sergeant.

"What is it, M'Nab," inquired the captain
kindly, for M'Nab was a good soldier.

"The wife's bad, sir, an' the wee boy's
got consumption. The doctor says they're
tae get steak, eggs, an' beef-tea, but I canna'
dae that on a shillin' a day."

"I'm sorry to hear that, M'Nab—very
sorry. But look here, I'll write to the
doctor to-day and tell him to buy everything
that they need. Will that keep your
mind easy?"

"Thenk ye, sir. It's awfu' guid o' ye."

[pg 199]
"And it's very good of you, M'Nab, one
with all your responsibilities, to serve your
country. That's why I do it."

"I'll no' forget you, sir," concluded M'Nab
with a lump in his throat, as he saluted and
marched away.

"Here's a letter from Private Smith's
mother, sir. She says he hasn't sent any
money for a month, sir, and when he was
on pass he got drunk, smashed up the
crockery, and pawned the old woman's bedclothes."

"Call him up."

"What's this you have been doing?"

"Nothing, sir," was the insolent reply.

"Do you call insulting and robbing your
mother, nothing? You're a low rascal.
Now, look here, I'm sending your mother
two pounds to-day to keep her going. But
I'm going to stop it out of your pay.
Charity would be wasted on a man like
you. And if I were not an officer I would
give you a sound thrashing."

"I'm sorry, sir,—I'll no' dae it again."

"You had better not—fall out."

"Private O'Toole has lost his eye, sir,"
remarked the colour-sergeant.

"What!" exclaimed the amazed captain.

[pg 200]
"His eye, sir."

"Is he in hospital?"

"No, sir."

"Why not? He must be in agony. How
did it happen?"

"It's a false one, sir," chirped in O'Toole
with a grin.

"Ah!" laughed the captain, "I never
knew that before."

"I used tae hae a guid wan, sir, but I
lost it. The wife gied me yin oot o' a doll's
e'e. It didnae look weel, but it wis guid
enough."

"How did you lose that one?"

"I left it on the bed tae watch ma hauf
loaf. When I came back it wis awa'."

"Well, I'll buy you a new one. Still,
I don't see how you can shoot at the
Germans."

"If I cannae shoot, sir, I can feel them
wi' the bayonet. Nelson had only wan e'e,
sir."

"All right, O'Toole."

"Thank you, sir."

"What's next, colour-sergeant?"

"The meat is short. All the men are
complaining, but the cook says the weight's
there."

[pg 201]
"Umph! Is the cook married?"

"No, sir; but I believe he is well in with
a widow in the town."

"Well, colour-sergeant, you know what
widows are, and you know what cooks are.
Put a policeman on to watch him. You'll
probably find him carrying all the choice
steaks out at night. If you nab him, I'll
deal with him."

"Then, sir, a lot of the blankets are being
stolen."

"Heavens! This life is full of troubles.
What is the cause?"

"Women, sir! Women! Root of all
evil, sir."

"Well, I'll see the colonel about that."

(Next day Sergeant Bludgeon and his
policemen raided the haunts of every Mary
Ann in Mudtown. Two hundred blankets
were found—and collared.)

"Some of the boots have gone amissing.
These devils would steal the sugar out of
your tea, sir. I'm nearly balmy, sir. They
pawn them for beer, sir."

"Well, I'm——!" ejaculated Coronet.
"What are we to do?"

"Make them march in their bare feet,
sir. That will teach them. They'll soon
[pg 202]
find another pair—without paying for them.
You're too kind-hearted, sir. They put it
on to you."

"I suppose they do; in fact, I know they
do. But there! they can fight like Trojans.
And that is a great consolation, should we
ever get in a fix. Now, is there any more
correspondence?"

"Just one letter, sir. And a queer one,
too. Here it is," said the colour-sergeant,
handing over a dirty, grease-marked epistle.

-----

   | :small-caps:`Dear Officer`,—

I'm in grate pane, my Sweethart
Privit Spud Tamson in your Kumpany
is gaun wi' ither weemin. He hisnae ritten
me for a fortnicht. And a lad on Pass tell't
me that he wis flirtin' an' kissin' ither lasses
(servants in big hooses). He promist tae
mairry me owre a year ago, an' I've been
savin' up. It's jist awfu'. If he disnae stop
it, I'll droon masel' in the Clyde. Wull ye
tell him that, kind sir. I'll no' forget ye,
and I'll send ye a pair o' hame-made socks
at Ne'erday.

   | I Am,
   | Yours Respeckfully,
   | :small-caps:`Mary Ann`.

[pg 203]
"The limit, sir, eh?"

"Worse than that. Call that man up."

"Yes, sir," said Tamson, unprepared for
the revelations concerning his infidelity.

"Listen," said the captain, in his most
solemn tones. Then he read the amazing
document, during which Private Spud Tamson
grew red, then white, red again, and
finally finished up in a sort of purple,
apoplectic hue.

"Very serious, Tamson. I'm afraid you
are a cabbage-hearted youth. And you
seem to have been having the time of your
life below stairs."

"The lassie's bletherin', sir. I wis jist
gettin' a feed. A' the cooks are kind tae
the sodgers."

"Cupboard love, I suppose?"

"Na, beefsteak, sir."

"I'm afraid you'll be landed in for a
breach of promise case. Pretty serious
that, Tamson."

"I'll square her a' richt, sir."

"How?"

"Buy her a new shawl on piy-day."

"It's not a shawl your Mary Ann wants.
It's love. Do you know what that means?"

"Fine, sir."

[pg 204]
"What is it?"

"Oh, kissin'."

"Anything else?"

"Gettin' mairret, sir."

"And——"

"Sausage and eggs for breakfast."

"That's stomach love, Tamson; but there,
I expect your heart's all right. See and write
that girl a letter. She's pretty bad."

"All right, sir—ay——"

"What?"

"Can you lend me a shullin' tae buy a
stamp, sir?"

"Yes—when you bring the letter."

Thus was Tamson reminded of the obligations
of the past. His lapse had only
been of a temporary kind. He had simply
been enjoying himself in the kitchens of
the mighty suburbanites of Mudtown. The
much-blotted and effusive epistle which he
penned was generously marked with crosses,
and in each corner was placed a crude-looking
heart with the shaft of Cupid
piercing through.

Such are the worries of a company officer.

[pg 205]

.. clearpage::

CHAPTER XVI. |nl| NEW YEAR'S EVE.
=================================

:small-caps:`The` end of the year is always a merry—and
a critical—time in a Scottish regiment.
Since the invention of whisky and haggis,
New Year has become the season of high
feeding and hard drinking. Even the Free
Kirker deems it his duty to carry a hauf-mutchkin
and a cake. And in the Army it
has long been the custom to almost abandon
discipline and allow officers and men to enjoy
themselves in a thoroughly hearty way. But
on this New Year's Eve there were circumstances
which compelled Colonel Corkleg to
adopt stern measures so as to keep his men
in hand. The first and most important was
the activity of the Teutons. These alert
students of human nature knew the value
of landing in Scotland. They also understood
the tippling temperament of the average
[pg 206]
Scot at this period. And as they had
every ship and Zeppelin ready to disturb
the orgies of the Scottish nation, it was
essential to be spruce, sober, and alert.
Every officer realised this, but every Tommy
entirely disagreed. They would spend their
Ne'erday, come what may. Colonel Corkleg
and his fellow-chiefs decided to counteract
their schemes of revelry. Passes were barred
after 9.30 :small-caps:`P.M.` Every road was picketed.
Every public-house within a radius of three
miles had almost a regiment on duty at the
door. All mounted men were turned into
policemen, while all N.C.O.'s were duly
warned to abstain from the evils of the
national fire-water. Each company officer
harangued his men about the wine which
stingeth like a serpent and biteth like an
adder. And Sergeant-Major Fireworks,
with his crony, Sergeant Bludgeon, suddenly
became pious and abstemious—in anticipation
of events. The final stratagem, however,
staggered all. No man was to be paid on
this—the great day. Lamentations, groans,
and curses were heard on all sides when this
order went round. It almost smashed the
ingenious scheming of thirsty gentlemen who
knew every shebeen in Mudtown. Nevertheless
[pg 207]
they sallied forth, determined to get
hospitality—or demand it—from their many
pals and patrons. Down the muddy road
they tramped, singing—

   | "We've had no pay,
   | We've had no pay,
   | We've had no pay,
   |   No b——y pay to-day."

And drink they found. Those that did
not secure it, managed to collar a draught
of methylated spirits—a time-honoured
beverage amongst penurious Scots. Having
had their fill, they sauntered towards the
Cross to bring the New Year in. The
pickets, however, requested or shoved them
back to billets without ceremony. And,
amazing to relate, on the roll being called,
only ten were absent. When "lights out"
went, there was a prompt response, which
surprised the officers. These unsuspecting
gentlemen, believing that the usual revelries
would not occur, departed to their beds to
rave about the splendid discipline of the
regiment. Sergeant-Major Fireworks and
Sergeant Bludgeon knew better. The
deathlike stillness they gauged to be a
deep game.

"Don't trust them, major?"

[pg 208]
"No; I'm too old a soldier for that.
They've got something on—I bet. Let's
have a walk round."

Quietly they slipped round the billets of
the regiment.

"Here, Bludgeon—what's that?" said
the S.M. peering through the darkness.

"It's a long pole, and the blighters are
sliding down it."

"A pole!"

"Yes. Listen."

One by one, over a hundred men slid
down the long pole from the window to a
quiet field. There they were gathering
prior to a general advance on Mudtown
Mission Hall, where a hundred mill-girls
had pledged to bring the New Year in and
kiss them under the mistletoe. It was an
awkward situation—doubly awkward because
of their discontent about pay and the lures
of the buxom wenches beyond. Once women
enter into such problems the difficulties are
manifold. A thousand men with fixed
bayonets would not stop this contingent.
Something unusual and extraordinary had
to be done. For once, Sergeant Bludgeon
knew that his immortal stick was useless.
Yet he knew there was only one road to
[pg 209]
the Mission. This climbed up a hill through
a deep sort of gully. The head of that
gully must be held at all costs.

"I've got the idea, major," whispered the
provost-sergeant.

"What?"

"Weesht! This way," and off scampered
the wardens of military discipline. On arriving
at the guard-room, Sergeant Bludgeon
'phoned to the local Fire Brigade. In a few
words he explained his needs, and requested
that the great steam fire-engine should be
rushed at once to the head of the Mudtown
road. There the firemaster was ordered to
clear for action and wait for orders.

"That will do them, major," said Bludgeon
with a sardonic grin, as he replaced the
'phone and led his superior quietly by a
circuitous route to the scene of the coming
action. The fire-engine was waiting behind
a great hedge. Three powerful nozzles lay
ready for drenching deeds. Quietly Bludgeon
detailed his orders; the firemen gladly concurred.
Just as the final points had been
explained there was heard a low mumbling
of voices and soft patter of feet.

"The blighters have got their boots off,"
whispered Bludgeon. "But—listen!"

[pg 210]
"We've fairly bate them this time," said
the apparent leader.

"Ay! Auld Bludgeon 'ill get a fricht in
the mornin'."

"Man, we'll hae a fine time. Thae
weemin 'ill hae plenty o' hard stuff an'
shortbread."

"If you get there!" muttered Fireworks
under his breath, as he espied the column
of crawling and creeping revellers.

"Ready?" whispered Bludgeon.

"Yes," answered the firemaster.

"Fire!"

The three great nozzles sent forth gigantic
waves of freezing water. The leading men
were knocked down and almost petrified
with the amazing deluge. Those behind
were also drenched and chilled to the
bone.

"God! It's the Germans," said a silly
youth, as he turned and fled. But the
harder cases cursed and charged up towards
the foaming nozzles. The firemaster simply
increased the water-power and down they
went like ninepins, rolling and cursing in
the most awful manner. Still, they were
all as game as bantams, and cunningly
clambered up the banks to make a flank
[pg 211]
attack. Here another surprise awaited
them, for on reaching the top they heard
a voice yell out, "Rapid fire". Twenty
rifles spat out their lurid, flashing lights.
The crash was terrific and terrified many.
They rolled and fell back into the foaming
lane of water.

"Are ye kill't?" one asked.

"Na, that's only blank ammunition.
Charge!" yelled the leader, leading the way
up the bank in an angry and determined
style. Soaked as they were, they meant to
conquer. It was an awkward moment, and
Bludgeon thought that his great scheme was
about to fail. Up over the bank came the
half-drenched army. But just as they got
up to make a final onslaught, Bludgeon rose
from behind the hedge. He lifted his big
stick in the air, at the same time yelled,
"Fix bayonets—charge!"

"Heevens! It's Bludgeon. He'll kill
us," yelled a timid soul.

The name of Bludgeon—not the bayonets—was
enough. All turned and fell, or
scrambled into the now surging stream of
water and dashed for home.

"That's one little lot settled," chirped the
Napoleonic provost-sergeant, as he listened
[pg 212]
to the yells of the fast retiring mob. Turning
to the firemaster, he thanked him for his
services, and, accompanied by Fireworks,
made for the main billets of the regiment.
But if he had nobly killed the raid on the
Mission Hall, he and the sergeant-major
had still to reckon with the devotees of
Bacchus now running riot in the great rooms
in which they lived. This place, so peaceful
at "Lights out," was now alive with lights,
laughter, and singing. You see, the hour
was twelve, and, in accordance with custom,
the Glesca Mileeshy were acting up to all
traditions.

"Expected that?" said Fireworks, pausing
to listen to the awful din.

"Yes," said Bludgeon, gripping his stick
in a way that boded ill for the revellers
beyond. Through the great doors they
quietly slipped, and, in a flash, were inside
the rooms of the men. What a sight! Five
hundred men, dressed something like Adam
in the Garden of Eden, doing cake-walks,
Highland flings, and Irish jigs. Some also
chirped the "Wee Deoch-an-Doris," while
others glibly sang—

   | "Oh, it's nice tae get up in the mornin',
   | But it's better tae lie in yer bed."

[pg 213]
In another room Bludgeon saw Tamson
at the head of a procession of worthies.
Round his attenuated shanks was a tattered
blanket, on his head a dixey lid, in his right
hand a mop, and in the other a bottle, which,
alas, was empty. His entourage was dressed
in similar style. This procession was accompanied
by mouth-organs and melodeons,
playing "The Lament of Lochaber," which
signified the general wail of the unpaid
habitués of the barrack-room. Round and
round they went, knocking here and there,
and occasionally throwing a more peaceful
soul out of his bed and through the window
to the green below. Next came a sword-dance
by Mickey Cameron, after that a
fling by the general company, followed by
"The Floo'ers o' Edinburgh," and other
well-known barn dances. The entertainment
was more pleasant than annoying.
Indeed it was so orderly that Bludgeon and
Fireworks thought it better to leave them
alone. But in the midst of their revelry
another company decided to pay a fraternal
call. They arrived beating a march on
ration tins and old canteens. Unfortunately,
they decided to take charge of Tamson's
party, and generally boss the show.

[pg 214]
"Here," said Tamson, "this is oor pitch—clear!"

"Awa' an' bile yer heid," replied a bulbous-nosed
private, giving him a push.

"Wha are ye pushin'?"

"You!"

That was enough. Tamson hit out. His
friends followed suit. In two minutes the
room was a bear-garden. Brooms, pokers,
shovels, rifles, and other hefty weapons were
being wielded with cool indifference as to
the result. Blood, hair, and skin were flying
like snowflakes. The lights were smashed,
and darkness reigned. Still the fight went
on in the inky night. It was serious, so
Bludgeon set to with his stick and voice to
quell the awful din. This was useless. The
fight had got beyond control.

"It's hopeless, sergeant-major. We can't
stop this Donnybrook."

"Pretty bad, certainly, but it's got to be
stopped."

"Why not sound the alarm?"

"Yes; the very thing," answered Fireworks,
dashing out for a bugler. In a few
minutes the shrill call of the bugle pierced
through the din.

"It's the alarm," a voice yelled.

[pg 215]
"Yes—Fall-in!" shrieked Tamson.

The din ceased, and the combatants fled
to their rifles, packs, and ammunition-pouches.
By the aid of matches and candles
they dressed, flung on their equipment,
grasped their rifles and dashed breathlessly
on to the parade-ground. In twenty minutes
every man was present and ready for action—a
tribute to the discipline and zeal of the
corps.

"Well, sergeant-major—what's up?"
asked the adjutant on arriving at the
muster-place.

"A free fight, sir. Only way to quell
it."

"What's that?" interjected the colonel,
who, at that moment, made his bow.

"A free fight—skin and hair all round.
Had to sound the alarm, sir. Only way—absolutely,
sir——"

"When did you sound it?"

"Twenty minutes ago, sir."

"Twenty minutes! That's good business!"

"Yes, sir."

"Why were they fighting—too much
beer?"

"The want of it."

[pg 216]
"Well—I suppose some concession has to
be made," he muttered, walking to the head
of the column.

"Battalion—'Shun!"

All sprang up like Guardsmen.

"Look here, men, I don't mind you making
a butcher's shop of a German's face, but I
object to your doing that with your own.
They are not too pretty at the best of times.
If you make them worse you'll frighten every
woman in Mudtown. However, you have
turned out remarkably quick. And as you
are not required on a Hun-hunting expedition,
I propose—on this special occasion—to
march you all to the canteen and give you
a pint of beer. But, mark you, if I hear a
word from you after you go to bed again, I'll
have the canteen closed for a month, and
feed you on salt herrings, just to tickle your
thirst and teach you forbearance. Understand?"

"Yes, sir," roared a thousand voices.

"Parade—dismiss." As each company
went by they gave old Corkleg a smart
salute, and sang, "For he's a jolly good
fellow."

Bludgeon got a bottle of Scotch, a box of
cigars, and a new blackthorn cudgel, "for
[pg 217]
services rendered," as the colonel tersely
put it, when handing over the gifts.

"Thank you, sir," said Bludgeon.

"Welcome! Welcome! And when we
all meet down below, Bludgeon, I'll have
you appointed provost-sergeant to Old
Nick."

[pg 218]

.. clearpage::

CHAPTER XVII. |nl| WAR.
=======================

:small-caps:`The` preceding chapters have given you the
fun of the game, but do not imagine the
training of this corps was fun—and nothing
more. The Glesca Mileeshy spent many
weary days and nights preparing for war.
Every weakness was found and ruthlessly
eradicated. Every loafer and weed was
booted out. At the end of their training,
one and all were as tough as tinkers, and
fit to shoot the tail of a sparrow at 500
yards. Better still, every man was out to
conquer and to kill. Colonel Corkleg was
proud of them, and he deserved to be, for,
as old "Sunny Jim," the G.O.C., had said,
"They were the pride of the Mixed Division."
Imagine their bearing and think of
their cheers on being ordered to move. Of
course, the Kirk-session of Mudtown made
[pg 219]
no protest about their departure. The regiment
mustered 1020 strong, and on their
backs was piled everything, from a shovel
to a beer bottle. A thrill of pride ran up
the backbone of every officer as they viewed
the throng, while old Colonel Corkleg felt
the strings of emotion pulling at his old
heart. Keen he was to fight and win; keen
even to die at the cannon's mouth. But he
knew the cost of war, and realised that ere
the game was done many of his gallants
would bite the dust, thus adding to the roll
of the widows and fatherless. However,
duty was a stern call. He received the
adjutant's report of "All present" with the
same stiff air which marked his attitude on
all parades.

"Battalion—'Shun! Advance in fours
from the right of companies—Number one
leading."

"Quick march," ordered the leading commander.
The band struck up "The Girl
I Left Behind Me," and with many a laugh
and cheer the heroes stepped to war. If
you have never known this great experience
you will never understand. But a soldier
knows it well. It is the greatest moment
in his life. His pride is dominant, his step
[pg 220]
jaunty and gay, and his whole body permeated
with an electric-like thrill peculiar
to his kind. And there is a look in a
woman's eye which is a fine reward. Soldiers,
on such occasions, rouse all that is
great in a woman's soul. She feels she is
gazing at men. She realises that such men
guard her from the brutalities of the Huns;
she knows the children of her blood will not
be bayoneted like the babes of Liége and
Namur. Deep in her heart there is also
sympathy and love, for women have a keen
perception. Though she never lives in the
tented field, she fully understands the horrors
of it all. To one who has a lover in the
van it is more trying still. Even the poorest
are capable of great devotion. To see
the object of their affection march to the
field is a proud, yet a heart-gripping affair.
If many of these men were scallywags, they
were delightful scallywags, if one may use
the term. And in their own way they could
express that love which is mightier than the
sword. Words will, therefore, hardly depict
the sadness of parting. Thousands of fathers,
mothers, and sweethearts had gathered to
see their heroes off. No rudeness; no mock
hilarity was seen. Even the men grew
[pg 221]
somewhat sad at leaving their all in all.
As they swung through the station in their
sections of fours, women burst into tears,
some even swooned away.

"God bless you, laddie!" said an old
woman, falling on the neck of her son.
He kindly unlinked the withered arms and
marched silently on. Another woman seized
her husband in the frenzy of grief and despair;
while many a young girl clutched the
hand of her lover for the last time on earth.
Even the officers' wives could not restrain
their feelings. Caste and education could
not stem the tears of sorrow for their own.
Beautiful women in beautiful clothes stood
sobbing by the carriage doors. Tearful
partings were seen in the quiet corners of
the great station. Even Spud Tamson was
curiously white and still as he stood by the
side of his own Mary Ann.

"You'll no' forget me?" pleaded the distracted
girl.

"Na, Mary, I'll no' forget ye," was the
soft reply.

Then the great bell rang, after which a
bugle sounded "Advance." A rattle of
carriage doors, a shriek of the engine's
whistle, and off steamed the great express.
[pg 222]
Some one led a strong Hurrah! and a band
played out a cheerful Good-bye. Handkerchiefs
were waved and kind words echoed
far. Grief, for a moment, subsided, and
patriotism sprang to its heights. All gladly
cheered their heroes off to war.

When the regiment arrived at Southampton
they marvelled at the organisation of
the Embarkation Staff. A place for everything
and everything in its place. System
paramount; disorganisation cursed and
banned as soon as it reared its head. The
clockwork precision was amazing, and the
catching of the tides as ingenious as the
sardine packing of troops on the great
transport ships. Even a place was reserved
for "the tears of the Marys and Lizzies,"
as an unromantic skipper remarked. In
two days the Mixed Division was embarked.
In five days it was landed all complete. Of
course, it caused a stir in gay Boulogne.
Twenty thousand husky Scots in kilts and
breeks amused and amazed the excitable
folks of France. The ladies threw flowers
to the gay commanders; the maids cast
kisses to the men. The Glesca Mileeshy,
however, got more than flowers and kisses,
thanks to a very cute Bandmaster, who made
[pg 223]
his bandsmen play "The Marseillaise" till
their cheeks almost burst. The regiment
lilted the air in grand style, thus earning
many a good flagon of real red wine.

Their first billets on the outskirts was
also the scene of L'Entente Cordiale. Gay
little girls came out in scores to see their
khaki gods. Every billet had a swarm of
unconventional flappers, who smoked the
Tommies' Woodbines with gusto, and donned
their coats and caps, to the amusement of
the crowd. The Glesca Mileeshy had never
seen such figures, such lips, such eyes.
Their women at home had not approached
them with such polished ease and frankness.
These charming souls even put out their
lips to receive all the greetings that came
their way. Naturally, all were delighted,
with the exception of the colonel and
Sergeant Bludgeon.

"There's going to be trouble here, Bludgeon,"
remarked the colonel on the second
day.

"Yes, sir, I expect anything from abduction
to murder," answered the sergeant,
handling his great stick in a sinister way.
For once Bludgeon was wrong. When parades
were done, the whole regiment swarmed
[pg 224]
into town, and soon were in the toils of
women and wine. Even the wizened and
bald-headed old veterans were rejuvenated.
They sipped the champagne with gusto, and
danced the gay Can-can like the belles of
the Russian Ballet. Every café had its
patrons. Tommies and "Frenchies" vied
with each other in "Tipperary," "A Wee
Deoch-an-Doris," and other popular airs.
Never had the citizens seen such gay sports
and fine soldiers. Yet all played the game
to a man—no riotous drunkenness, no absentees.
If all enjoyed themselves, they also
remembered that they were at war, and in a
few days would be 'midst the horrors of the
same. When they parted there were many
tears and lots of cheers, and, of course, all
decided to return again. Alas! they little
reckoned on the grim days ahead.

Their first job was burying the dead and
clearing up the battlefields of the weeks
before. Parties went out to gather up the
stiffened corpses of all nations. In places,
too, they found human bodies torn, shattered,
and disfigured. It was a gruesome
job, still the apprenticeship was sound.
The more irresponsible at once realised the
seriousness of the game; the older men
[pg 225]
perceived that this was different to the wars
they had seen before. The dead occasionally
found in heaps showed the cruel power
of the modern shell; the great craters made
in the ground also illustrated the disastrous
impact of those huge missiles from the
German guns. Blood-stained accoutrements,
broken guns and rifles, dead and wounded
horses, trenches which had become cemeteries,
dug-outs transformed into catacombs,
revealed what they were up against. It was
the science of fifty years exploited by the
most cruel, clever, and cunning disciples of
Mars. And all the while there passed
through their ranks the motor transport with
loads of wounded and dying men. Prisoners,
too, came in batches. Great strong
men they were, some stricken with hunger
and cruel hardships, others dumb with the
sense of humiliation and despair. Over their
heads the regiment frequently noted the airships
of their own army and the enemy. A
bomb occasionally fell in their ranks, forming
a useful introduction to the game beyond.
It taught them how to run, how to take
cover, and how to hit the petrol-tank of such
impudent offenders. They also acquired at
first hand a knowledge of our Allied arms.
[pg 226]
Little Belgians, they realised, were poor at
the pomp and flashwork of war, but sound at
the game of killing and holding men. The
French, they saw, had all the *élan* of their
fathers, but less of their stomach and nerve.
They needed victories to inspire them, and
the sight of the khaki troops to remind them
that war is only for the patient and the
strong. These early days created a sense of
comradeship with their Allies. The ever-generous
heart of the French and Belgians
inspired a mutual feeling of love and respect.
This, they all felt, would hold them in the
days to come.

Having served this apprenticeship, and
learned that the men who wore red breeks
were French, and those with porter's bonnets
Belgians, they marched forward into the
great battle-line in Flanders. What devastation!
What ruthless savagery! Churches,
hospitals, cottages, in ruins. Women and
children homeless and fatherless, and cursing
the barbarous Huns. And still more processions
of prisoners, wounded and dying.
Death on all sides, blood everywhere.
Horror upon horror, allied with hardship,
pain, and sorrow. Tough as this regiment
was, the sights saddened and made them
[pg 227]
wise. This was war. And they were
plunged into the midst of all in less than a
day. It was their job to relieve a regiment
of regulars, who had been fighting since
Mons. This corps was stuck in trenches
a hundred yards from the enemy's lines.
Snipers had thinned the officers' ranks;
repeated assaults had killed and worn out
the N.C.O.'s and men. To relieve them
was a problem, for the area behind their
trenches was a shell-swept zone. But it had
to be done. The safest time was at night,
so when dusk had come they cautiously went
forward. Sometimes they ran, at other points
they had to creep and crawl. For a while
all seemed well, but aerial scouts had told
their tale. Just as the regiment reached the
trenches, all were startled with the lurid
flashing of great star-shells in the sky. This
lit up the whole area and showed the lines
of men advancing into the trenches.

Crack! went a Mauser rifle. This was a
signal for hundreds more. More star-shells
went up, and then the Maxim guns of the
enemy opened a deadly fire.

"Double to the trenches!" roared a staff
officer, who was the guide. In a few
minutes the whole were jumping into the
[pg 228]
long water-logged fortresses. Many were
left behind wounded and dying, but the
danger ahead was too great to study these
casualties. Volley after volley came across
the narrow zone. The hits were now few,
for sighting was impossible. To the crouching
men, who had just been baptised, the
affair was somewhat awe-inspiring. Many a
man shivered, just as nearly all brave men
shiver in their first fight. The moans of the
wounded men who lay behind did not help
matters. Worse, however, was yet to come.
The Germans, somehow, feared a night
attack. Determined to check this, they
sallied out on a counter-assault. Across the
hundred-yard zone they ran, cursed, yelled,
and stumbled. It was an anxious moment,
for the star-shells only lit the ground in a
dim way. Colonel Corkleg, however, was
equal to the hour.

"Out men and at them!" he roared from
a point somewhere in the darkened region.
There was a loud clatter as his gallants leapt
out of their trenches. A second to fix their
bayonets, then passing through the little
avenues in the barbed wire they quickly
formed and charged.

"Give them Hell, lads!" roared Coronet.
[pg 229]
And then there was a crash of bodies and of
steel. The sickening plug of bayonets into
flesh was heard all along the line. Still,
these Bavarian men were game. They took
their punishment and nobly tried to wrest
the laurels of this night affair. But they
were up against the toughest lot of men in
the whole line. The impact was terrific, the
onslaught fierce and frightful. They felt the
backward push of those determined Militiamen.
Their counter-assault was useless, so,
with a yell, they turned and fled. The
victors pursued them, routed them out of
their own trenches, captured two Maxim
guns and smashed them, and after denuding
the knapsacks of their fleeing enemy, returned
across the darkened zone into their
own lines.

"Well done, colonel," whispered the staff
officer to Corkleg. "Your men are the
right stuff," he concluded, as he disappeared
into the night *en route* for headquarters of
the Brigade.

Next morning the regiment counted the
cost and the gains. In front of their own
lines lay a hundred Germans dead; side by
side lay fifty of their own; while in the rear
of the trenches more dead were found.

[pg 230]
"Not bad for a first night," said Greens,
peeping out.

"Hardly a comedy," replied Coronet,
bandaging up a wounded hand.

"No, melodrama, with full effects. Corkleg's
a sound actor manager. But, I say,
how can we get those dead men buried?
They'll soon smell like polecats."

"Not during the day. It isn't safe," remarked
the captain, putting his cap up out
of the trench on top of a stick. Crack!
went a bullet.

"A bull!" shouted the owner, drawing it
down and surveying a battered cap badge.

"Sniper, eh?"

"Yes, Greens, a top-hole one at that.
We'll need to be careful." The men, however,
enjoyed the sport. Spud Tamson and
his friends delighted in putting up empty
jam-tins on the end of sticks. In a second
there was the usual crack, and down came
the tin with a bullet-hole through it. When
an unfortunate sentry popped his head up
too far, he generally met the same fate, and
was immediately struck off the strength of
the regiment. In some cases the men signalled
such hits by putting up a white piece
of cardboard, meaning a bull's-eye to the
[pg 231]
sniper. These German snipers were also
sportsmen. Each time a Tommy inoculated
the square head of a Teuton with a dose of
lead, they also signalled a hit. In this way
the troops managed to keep a musketry
record. Of course, all sorts of tricks were
employed. One section placed a row of
turnips with Balaclava hats and Glengarrys
on them at the edge of the trench. At once
there was a terrible fusilade, and for half
an hour each sniper had a go. Indeed, the
refusal of these turnips to become casualties
so annoyed the opposing Germans that they
all commenced to pop at them. While their
whole attention was thus concentrated, a
small body of marksmen under Lieutenant
Greens suddenly popped out of a sap-head.
They placed steel plates for protection in
front of them. All then took a deliberate
aim at the enemy. In three minutes they
shot twelve men through the head, and
would have got more but for the sudden
attack of a Maxim gun. This was rather
unpleasant, so Greens and his merry men
flopped down into their burrow again.

There were three kinds of trenches in
which the men were placed. The first line
nearest the enemy was long and as deep as
[pg 232]
the holes in a graveyard. No head-cover
was allowed, and luxuries were barred. For
forty-eight hours all danced, cursed, snored,
or shivered according to the thermometer
and the fulness (or emptiness) of the stomach.
When one grew tired of being a mole
and absorbing the germs of rheumatism,
pneumonia, and enteric, he simply put up
his head and got a free discharge from an
obliging sniper.

A communicating trench led to the
supporting trenches. There was also a
telephone to inform the Brigadier when the
first line had been sent to heaven and more
living targets required. Trunk calls to
Oxford Street and Piccadilly, of course, were
barred—an annoying restriction. In these
supporting trenches, however, a man could
manage to scrape a hole in the earth and
there lie down. This was not exactly a
comfortable experience, especially for those
who slept with mouths open. Worms,
snails, and other messy slugs would persist
in dropping right into the gullets of the
sleeping innocents. Only Frenchmen who
had eaten frogs could enjoy such delicacies.

From the supporting trenches another
communicating line led to the reserve
[pg 233]
trenches. These trenches were the last
word in cunning, comfort, and luxury. They
were literally dug-outs or caves, where
officers and men improvised everything,
from biscuit tins to toilet paper, in the
making of underground homes to while away
the weary days. Bridge and nap was
played—not for money, but full tins of jam,
which a beneficent commissariat showers
upon all British soldiers to keep off scurvy
and other Whitechapel diseases. Nights
were made merry by liberal issues of rum,
and hope was inspired by the regular arrival
of love epistles through the F.P.O. Replies
to these communications had to be vague
and somewhat guarded, for the colonel
censored all officers' letters, while the officers
acted similarly with the correspondence of
the rank and file. Parcels of tucker cheered
the somewhat plain fare, and bundles of
New Testaments from anxious maiden ladies
taught many that their former deeds would
eventually make them stokers down under.
When things became too monotonous, the
German artillery plunked a few Jack Johnsons
over. This employed all hands on
burial services and writing letters of sympathy
to the widows and orphans.

[pg 234]
The most wonderful person in this system
was the transport officer, Lieutenant Grain.
He had an army of enlisted ostlers, carters,
and jockeys to bring up the rations from the
rear. This had to be done over quagmires
and along serpent-like roads which were
packed with Hammersmith omnibuses, field
guns, motor-cars, and hare-brained motor
cyclists. Worse, his job had to be done at
night. It was enough to try the will and
nerves of Hannibal. But Grain did it every
time. It was his boast that the regiment
had fresh bread, fresh meat, cigarettes and
tobacco every night—a great accomplishment.
Fancy delivering cans of hot tea and dixeys of
good stew to the front trenches at midnight!
This had never been done in any previous
campaign. No wonder some men wrote home
saying that they were "still well, but overfed."

This life in the trenches levelled all distinctions,
and revealed all that was good and
bad. The skunk came forth in all his shady
colours; the loyal and patient soul quickly
won the affection of all. Discipline was
difficult, especially when rain and frost
gripped the flesh and bones. Cold feet in
the first line of trenches is more demoralising
than a thousand shells. Men object to
[pg 235]
being killed on a frosty morning. It is very
uncomfortable, and certainly unromantic.
They feel it better to die on the greensward
with the sun lighting up the scene and the
birds twittering out a grand amen. But war
is never waged to suit the convenience of all.
It is a battle for the fittest. The strong
must survive and the weakest die. And
war in the trenches is the most awful strain
on officers and men. Perhaps it is worst for
an officer. He suffers just the same hardships;
worse, he has the anxiety of responsibility.
Men seldom understand this. While
they may sleep the officer has to be awake,
ever watchful for the assault and ever jealous
of the honour of his regiment and his name.
Only men who have been thoroughly disciplined
can stand such a strain. The
amateur at this game is usually a nuisance,
and better at home.

The disadvantage of trench-fighting is
that it robs even the best soldiers of their
dash and initiative. Men who have been
stuck in trenches for months get out of
condition, and, at times, fail to seize opportunities
to strengthen and consolidate their
lines. Perhaps that was the reason for the
deliberate progression of the Allied Army.
[pg 236]
Each week a certain forward movement had
to be done, even if this only amounted to a
few yards. Saps were made underneath the
enemy's barbed wire, explosions levelled
these obstructions low, then with a rush our
men would have a go to capture another of
the German trenches. This work provided
scope for all. Variety was frequently
afforded in village fighting—the toughest
job in war. The most interesting was a
fight for a little house which commanded a
short bridge and road over a Belgian canal.
It was important to gain this point. Half a
battalion of the Glesca Mileeshy, under
Major Tartan, was ordered out to the job.
The house itself was loopholed and sandbagged.
There were two machine guns
inside as well as fifty snipers. Outside there
was a circular redoubt, manned by three
hundred more. The whole place was thoroughly
protected by barbed wire and other
tricky lures.

"It will cost us a lot of men, major," said
Colonel Corkleg; "but the Brigadier says it
must be done."

"Yes, and we'll do it, sir," replied Tartan,
with a decision in his words which was
inspiring.

[pg 237]
"Very well, Tartan, I leave it to you—you
know your job."

Tartan's attack was preceded by a terrific
bombardment by our artillery. But these
shells did not dislodge the enemy. They
stuck gamely to their job, and opened a
fierce fusilade on the three skirmishing lines,
which moved forward after the bombardment.

Captain Hardup had the first line. He
took his men forward inch by inch. Trees,
walls, holes, fence-posts, all sorts of cover
were used by the men. Now and again a
groan and curse was heard as men fell back
wounded or dead.

"Come on, lads!" roared Lieutenant
Longlegs, who was Hardup's subaltern.
They gallantly replied and pushed forward
to within one hundred yards of the barbed
wire entanglements. Matters were serious
here, and casualties heavy. Ten men were
knocked out in twenty minutes.

"Sergeant Brown, have a go with your
cutters."

"Right, sir," said the sturdy little fellow,
crawling forward. He wriggled like a snake
right up to the wires. Click! went his
cutters through one strand, click! through
[pg 238]
another, and up went his arm to get a strand
higher up. All the while he was under a
terrible fire. Just as he cut the third strand
a bullet struck his arm. It fell limp and
shattered. With wonderful fortitude he adjusted
his body and cut the fourth strand
with his other hand. Zip! sang a bullet
again. It went right through his head. He
rolled over dead.

Lieutenant Longlegs saw it all, and looked
round for another man. But he had no need
to shout. A young lance-corporal jumped
over a wall and crawled up to the wires.
Seizing the dead man's cutters he coolly
commenced to cut right and left. Bullets
whizzed around,—they even passed through
his cap and clothes,—but still he went on,
making a great gap in the strands of wires.
He was succeeding splendidly when a bullet
struck the wire-cutters, smashed them, and
pierced his right hand. At once he lay low,
tore out his field dressing, bandaged his
hand, then commenced to crawl back to his
lines. He got half-way when a bullet struck
him in the spine. A weird yell told all of
his fate.

"By God," muttered Longlegs, "that's
too brave a lad to leave out there." He
[pg 239]
jumped over the wall, and, heedless of the
fire, ran forward, picked up his man and
brought him into the shelter of his line. A
great cheer went up as he returned. Longlegs
had asserted his pluck.

This success at cutting the wires inspired
many more to go forward. In three hours
five good gaps had been made, and the way
paved for a final assault. Meantime Major
Tartan had arrived in the firing line with
the reserves. He opened a fierce fusilade
and accounted for almost a hundred of the
enemy. Having done all that was possible
at that point he passed the word along,
"Prepare to charge." Bayonets were fixed,
and every eye centred on the tough figure of
the old Highland Chief. Like a deer he
rose, and, raising his arm, shouted, "Up,
lads, and at them." What a din! Four
hundred gallants running, yelling, cursing,
and panting. Through the gaps in the wire
they rushed, leaving many on the way.
Things were going well till a bullet struck
the old major in a vital part. He fell
mortally wounded. The sight checked the
whole advance. His eyes saw the pause.

"Go on, men—give them it—never mind——"
and he rolled back dead. Hardup
[pg 240]
and Longlegs now called them on. With a
mighty rush they scaled the great redoubt
and leapt down into the ranks of the
Germans. Some of the Teutons fought
gamely; others cowered back, listless and
powerless, an awful fear and awe in their
eyes. The sight chilled the men, but a
bloodthirsty old sergeant shouted, "Remember
the Belgian atrocities, boys." That
was enough. They bayoneted every man
on the spot. During this bloody combat
the machine guns and snipers in the house
were pumping out volleys of death.

"Take the house now, men," roared
Hardup.

"By God, we'll soon do that," answered
Muldoon, the worst character in the regiment.
Running forward to the walls this
powerful man got near the mouth of a Maxim
gun projecting through the wall. With a
terrible swipe he smashed the end of the
tube, breaking his butt at the job. Another
man did the same for the other gun, while
the remainder of the men made for the
doors. A check happened here. The doors
were barred and the enemy firing furiously
from within.

"Smash it in," ordered Hardup, standing
[pg 241]
near. Three men sprang forward. First
they smashed the protruding rifle barrels
and then they tackled the doors. In ten
minutes great holes were made. Captain
Hardup was the first man through. Longlegs
followed at his heels. The captain
pinned a great big German with his bayonet,
but another of the enemy stuck the gallant
officer right through the chest. Longlegs
had just got in when he saw his captain fall.
Jumping forward he clubbed the man's brains
out. The remaining Germans cleared up a
stair to the next floor. This gave a breathing
space and time to get more men through.
When enough had been collected Longlegs
led the way. Another barred door was
found. Willing hands quickly ended this,
and into a room Longlegs and his men
dashed. The enemy stood at the end of the
room with bayonets fixed.

"Come on, lads—wipe them out." Forward
they went. There was a terrific tussle
for five minutes. Longlegs had the muscle
of his arm torn away with a bayonet, while
three of his men were killed on the spot; but
every German was bayoneted to death.
Longlegs had his arm hastily bandaged.
"Come on," he shouted again, and up to the
[pg 242]
top flat they rushed to end their job. There
they found a German officer and a host of
men inside a loft. The door of the place
was also barred. But this was easily
smashed, and into the den the gallants
rushed. As they went an old sergeant
pushed Longlegs back out of danger.

"What's wrong?" he inquired angrily.

"I'm in charge o' this lot, sir. You're
owre braw a fechter tae get kill't."

"Nonsense, sergeant."

"Nae nonsense aboot it, sir. Staund
there," kindly insisted the old non-com.,
who saw that Longlegs would soon faint
from loss of blood. Meantime the din inside
the room was deafening. Squeals, groans,
and curses rent the air. It was a battle to
the death. The officer fought like a Trojan
for his life, but, in the end, he was bayoneted
to death. Half of the enemy were killed,
the other half surrendered or jumped through
the windows, smashing their legs on the
hard stones below.

"We've won, sir," reported the sergeant,
rushing out of the shambles to where the
pale-faced officer was standing at the top
of the stair.

"Good!" said the subaltern, tumbling in
[pg 243]
a heap from loss of blood. At that moment
a thundering cheer was heard outside the
house. It was the colonel and the other
half of the battalion, who had been sent up
in support. The job, however, had been
well done. Old Corkleg was met at the door
by the faithful sergeant.

"We've done it, sir," said he, saluting.

"Yes," said the colonel gravely, as he
looked at his dead and wounded men. Then
looking up, he remarked, "Where is Major
Tartan?"

"Killed, sir."

"And Captain Hardup?"

"Inside, sir, badly wounded."

"What about Mr. Longlegs?"

"He's lying upstairs wounded too."

"Any other casualties?"

"Two other officers wounded, sir, and I
think we've lost over a hundred men."

"Sad—very sad, and some of the best,"
said the old colonel, turning away to hide
the moisture in his eyes.

"Well done, Corkleg," said the Brigadier,
walking up to the scene.

"Yes. Our men have done well, but our
casualties have been awful."

"Still, Corkleg, your men have captured
[pg 244]
the key to the whole German lines here.
They will have to retire for almost a mile
now. Good business! Good business!
Terrible scamps, these men of yours, but
heroes every time. Let me have any
recommendations."

Hardup and Longlegs got the D.S.O.,
the old sergeant and wire-cutting corporal
received the Distinguished Conduct Medals,
while every paper in Britain wrote columns
about the gallantry of the Glesca Mileeshy.

"Useful men! Useful men!" said Corkleg,
on reading the appreciation in 'The
Times' a few days later.

"Yes, sir," replied the adjutant.

[pg 245]

.. clearpage::

CHAPTER XVIII. |nl| THE POWER OF BREAD.
=======================================

:small-caps:`Roadways` are the mainsprings of an army.
They are more precious than jewels. When
captured they have to be jealously guarded.
For this purpose the drill-book says you
must have examination posts. These posts
are simply clearing-houses for the liars and
laggards of war. It is an important job,
and usually given to important men. As
the Glesca Mileeshy were the most important
gentlemen in the Mixed Division, it fell to
them to guard the main highway which led
through their lines right into the heart of
General Von Burstem's camp. Captain
Coronet's company, on this occasion, supplied
the guard, consisting of Sergeant Killem,
Privates Tamson, Muldoon, and Cameron.
This observant detachment was posted in a
little hut at the cross-roads. The point commanded
[pg 246]
communication and regulated the
flow of spies, patrols, and supplies. Every
waggon, motor, officer, and man had to be
halted, examined, and passed by the man on
sentry-go. The job suited the temperament
of Spud Tamson, for he had all the craving
for novelty and sensation. He swaggered
up and down the beaten path with the air of
a new-born subaltern. Nothing escaped
him, and as night came he grew still more
alert.

"Halt—who goes there?" he challenged
out.

"A Gordon!" was the reply.

"Pass, Gordon—all's well."

"Halt—who goes there?" he shouted
again.

"Black Watch Picket."

"Pass, Black Watch—all's well."

"Halt—who goes there?" went his
challenge once more.

"Wot the 'ell's it got to do with you?"
piped some one in the dark.

"Pass, Canadian—all's well," was the apt
retort, which in itself reflects the unruly but
otherwise splendid man from the Golden
West.

For a time there was silence, during which
[pg 247]
Tamson puffed the smoke out of his dirty
old cutty-pipe. Between puffs he mused on
the mud and hunger of war, and occasionally
switched his fancy back to where his own
Mary Ann would be sitting in anxious
dread. During this sort of meandering he
was roused by the flashing lights of a powerful
motor-car. On it came, right up to the
barbed wire gate which Spud was guarding.
Gripping his rifle in no uncertain fashion, he
came down to the charge and bellowed out,
"Halt—who goes there?"

"Staff officer, you fool—open the gate,"
said a muffled voice from the front of the
car.

"Step oot and gie the countersign,"
ordered Spud.

"—— you—open the gate. I'll report
you to your colonel."

"Report yer granny—gae me the countersign,"
persisted Spud, his whole cunning
roused by the well-muffled face of this staff
officer.

The officer jumped from the car. As he
did so the alert sentry noted his hand behind
his back. Something was wrong.

"Stand and gie the countersign."

The officer whipped the hidden hand round.
[pg 248]
A revolver banged in the stilly air. The
aim, however, had been turned by a cunning
parry, followed by a dexterous thrust by the
nimble Spud. He had pinned his aggressor
right through the breast. The man fell with
a groan. As he tumbled, Sergeant Killem
and the guard dashed out. One glance,
and the sergeant staggered a little. "God!
Tamson—it's a staff officer. You've kill't
him."

"A spy, ye mean," said the cool sentry,
putting his foot on the dying man's chest,
and with a jerk withdrawing his bayonet.

"A spy!"

"Ay—see the revolver! He tried tae
shoot me."

"That's queer, man," ejaculated Sergeant
Killem, bending down. Lifting the red-banded
cap off the wounded man's head and
unwinding the muffler, he was startled to see
a face clearly German, with the usual student
scar. Opening a British warm jacket, the
sergeant also found a close-fitting tunic worn
by the German officers.

"You're richt, Tamson. By Heaven!
he's got a cheek," muttered Killem, as he
extracted a large six-inch map, a note-book,
a woman's photo, and other things from the
[pg 249]
dying man's pocket. When this search had
been completed they lifted the almost
dead German into the guardroom. Spud
now tore out his own field dressing and
tried to stanch the mortal wound, while
the sergeant rang the telephone bell in
the Divisional Headquarters.

"Well?" replied an aide-de-camp.

"I'm the sergint on the examination
post. A sentry has jist shot a spy in a
motor-caur. He's dying in the hut."

"Let him die," was the blunt reply.
"And I say, sergeant?"

"Yes, sir."

"Search the man and his car. Keep
everything till the Intelligence Officer
arrives."

"Very good, sir," said Sergeant Killem,
hanging up the 'phone. A further search
revealed many things. Papers showed the
amazing daring and skill of this spy. The
strength, guns, morale, and distribution of
the Allied Arms was almost perfect. In the
garb of a staff officer he had been everywhere—an
easy thing when one remembers
the mighty salaams and reverential awe
which the "Brass Hats" receive from the
respectful Tommy Atkins.

[pg 250]
"This is his last trip, onywiy," said the
sergeant, casually picking up the woman's
photo which the spy had carried in his
pocket. Spud came forward to view it.

"That's an actress," remarked Tamson.

"Ay. English at that."

"It's the Principal Boy in that big London
panto," exclaimed Spud, who knew the name
of every actress, boxer, and racehorse.

"Man, you're richt; but listen——"

"A motor-caur! That'll be the officer,"
said Spud.

A few minutes afterwards the car stopped
at the door, and a major of the Intelligence
Staff came in.

"Here he is, sir," said the sergeant,
showing him the wounded German in the
corner of the hut.

"Good Lord! it's Von Darem!" muttered
the startled officer.

"Wha, sir?" inquired Killem.

"Oh, the late Military Attaché in London,"
was the off-hand reply of the officer.

"Here's his papers."

"Thanks," said the major, walking to
the lamp. Opening out the note-book, he
quickly read the contents. He was as
fascinated as he was surprised.

[pg 251]
"Well, sergeant, this *is* a good night's
work. Who caught him?"

"Me, sir," chirped Spud, clicking his heels
and giving a smart salute.

"You know your job. I'll see the
General about you. You ought to be a
sergeant. Good-night all."

"Good-night, sir."

Next morning Private Spud Tamson had
a paragraph of praise in Divisional Orders,
and at night the colonel of the Glesca
Mileeshy informed him that he was pleased
to promote him to sergeant. The examining
guard had brought Spud Tamson fame.
A few days later the newly-promoted
sergeant was also given the job of taking
out a standing night patrol towards the
enemy's lines. For this purpose he was
allowed to select his men. Muldoon and
Micky Cameron were, of course, in the
band. It was a dangerous job, yet Spud
was not alarmed. It suited his nature and
whetted his ardour for the all-precious
D.C.M.

'The Field Training Manual' has it that
patrols are primarily intended for reconnaissance,
not fighting,—in other words, to see
without being seen. Spud remembered this.
[pg 252]
He was also aware that the German commissariat
was badly managed. Perhaps that
accounted for his stuffing of bread and meat
into the haversacks of his party. The men
were also ordered to keep their tongues and
rifles from barking, and when the enemy
was spotted—to lie down. Having duly
impressed his little band with these instructions,
he gave the order to march. Away
they went, Spud at the head. Like cats,
they stalked on the metalled roadway for
almost a mile.

"Halt!" whispered Spud on nearing a
long line of trees which he knew were
occupied by the outposts of the enemy.
Then all lay down. For a time they could
see nothing in the darkness, but gradually
their eyes grew accustomed to things. A
crunching of feet told its own tale of sentry-go,
and a few minutes later the patrol discerned
two men at the edge of the wood.

"Micky, you come wi' me," said Spud to
his old friend Cameron. "You others stiy
here. If you think we're gettin' done in,
come owre an' len' a haund. But mind, nae
shootin'—the bayonet, every time."

"Right ho, Spud," was the willing response
as the sergeant and Micky crawled away on
[pg 253]
their hands and knees. For twenty minutes
they wriggled like snakes. Luck and the
shadows favoured them. They finished up
fifty yards from the German sentries.

"Here, Spud," whispered Micky, "this is
sudden daith for us."

"Are ye feart, ye puddin heid."

"Na, I'm no' feart, but are we no'
daft?"

"Blethers! Noo, look here, Micky, get
yer haversack haundy, an' mind the breid."

"What's that for?"

"Catchin' them."

"Catchin' them?" queried Micky.

"Ay, jist like catchin' canaries. But,
listen, when thae chaps turn their backs,
mak' a jump for it. Nae killin', though.
Haunds up, and then gie them a lump o'
breid."

"Breid?"

"Dae whit yer tell't. I'm fed up wi' yer
questions. If yer feart, awa' hame." This
sharp retort ended Micky's fears. For the
next ten minutes they lay watching their
prey. Then came their chance. The two
sentries met and turned their backs to have
a chat. With a light bounding step, Spud
and Micky reached their men. The startled
[pg 254]
sentries turned and then jumped for their
rifles, which were leaning against a tree.
Too late, though. A glistening bayonet
and a low command, "Haunds up," ended
their service in the German Army. Both
held their hands up in terror, expecting a
sudden despatch to the heavenly land, at
the same time tearfully muttering, "Don't
hurt me—Don't hurt me," for, like nearly
all Germans, they spoke English well.

"Here," said Spud to his man, handing
a lump of bread and a sausage. The man
grabbed it like a hungry wolf. His comrade
did the same with Micky's peace-offering.
This bait reduced them to a state of friendliness
and civility. Indeed, the attitude of
Spud and Micky amazed them. They had
been told that the British Army were murderers
and barbarians. When they had
finished their simple repast, Spud casually
inquired—

"Whaur's yer picket?"

"Back there," said one, pointing to the
end of the wood.

"Hoo strong?"

"About a hundred."

"Any Maxims?"

"Two."

[pg 255]
"Whaur are they?"

"At that end," said the German, showing
Spud a sort of earthwork at their end of the
wood, about six hundred yards away.

"Many men there?"

"Plenty."

"All right, come wi' me."

The Germans hesitated.

"Step oot," said Spud, fingering his trigger
in a determined way.

"Well, don't kill us."

"Na, we'll no' kill ye. But mind, keep
quiet as ye go," he ordered, pushing his
prisoners ahead. The victors followed, carrying
the rifles of the enemy. But they were
not to get off scot-free. The clumsy Germans
made a fearful din, rousing their
compatriots some distance away. This and
the rising moon told the now vigilant
Teutons that something was wrong. A
searchlight was flashed across the danger
zone. Spud and his men were spotted.

"Double," he roared, giving the Germans
a prick with his bayonet, but the crash of
rifles and then the patter of feet told the
daring sergeant that he was pursued.

Zip! went a bullet past his ear. Zip!
went another, striking Micky in the leg
[pg 256]
and smashing a bone. He tumbled with
a groan.

"Here, you German waiters—lift him,"
ordered Spud. The prisoners hesitated,
but the stern look in the sergeant's face,
as well as the danger of death from the
rifles of their own friends, made them grab
the wounded man and carry him on. A
five minutes' run brought them to the spot
where Spud's reserves were handy.

"Halt!" challenged Muldoon, jumping
out of a hole.

"It's me, Pat—haud on here. Stop these
scallywags that's chasing us up. Gie them
a dose o' Rapid. They'll think they're up
against a hunner men."

"Roight, sargint," replied Muldoon, assuming
command of the reserves.

Spud with his unwilling bearers ran on,
glad to be out of the danger zone. A few
minutes afterwards, the German patrol,
which had followed them, came panting and
stumbling towards Muldoon's little army.

Z-r-r-p! crashed a volley. Cries of amazement
and shrieks of pain rent the air.

Z-r-r-p! rattled another, and still another.
The enemy fled in disorder towards their
startled friends. Muldoon sent more volleys
[pg 257]
into the retreating host, and then retired
about a hundred yards. Crash went his
rifles again. The Germans were thoroughly
checked and their whole line surprised.

"Back, bhoys, for the love of Saint
Patrick," ordered Muldoon, leading his three
men at a trot down the long winding road.
They quickly pulled up on Spud and his
burdened prisoners, and in half an hour were
marching in triumph through their own
lines.

"Two prisoners, sir," said Spud, jumping
into Colonel Corkleg's dug-out.

"Oh! How did you get them, Tamson?"

"Wi' a bit o' breid, sir."

"Bread!"

"Ay, sir. Ye could catch a regiment wi'
a twa-pun' loaf."

"Well, that's the limit. Where did you
learn that?"

"The Gallowgate, sir."

"Ah! Tell me how you did it."

Spud quickly told of his adventure, and
also imparted the useful information he had
received.

"That's good, sergeant. Do you think
we could capture the redoubt and the guns?"

"Ay, sir—easy."

[pg 258]
"How?"

"A night attack, sir."

"Sound, very sound, sergeant. I'll put
your captain on to it. Thank you, Tamson."

Spud saluted and jumped out. His company
gave him a warm welcome on entering
their dug-outs; indeed, Captain Coronet
called him in for a tot of service rum.
After this warm beverage had been devoured,
Spud elaborated his own ideas about
the capturing of the enemy's Maxims. The
captain listened attentively and then dismissed
him to have a rest preparatory to
the projected assault.

The night affair was arranged by the
colonel during the day. Captain Coronet
was to make the attack, supported by another
company. The whole thing was to be led
by the now famous sergeant. It was a
daring adventure; but if successful it was
worth the risk. Machine guns are annoying
at all times. These would be better out of
the way. The position, too, was desirable.
Its capture would allow the Mixed Division
an opportunity to clear the wood of objectionable
snipers.

At dusk Coronet and his men sallied out.
Spud headed the column, and from front to
[pg 259]
rear all were guided by a great, long rope
held by each man so as to ensure direction
and avoid straggling. At first they marched,
but on nearing the enemy's line all fell on
their knees and commenced to crawl. This
was continued for half an hour, when a
whispered "Halt!" made them lie low.

"It's owre there, sir," said Spud, pointing
in the direction of the redoubt.

"Not much to be seen, Tamson," remarked
the captain, placing his monocle in
his eye.

"Listen, sir."

Both lay still, and eventually analysed
the many sounds. Some men were coughing,
others appeared to be singing, while
here and there "All's well" rang out in
German. During this wait for the light of
dawn the company was surprised by the
tramp of a small patrol. On they came
straight towards Coronet's men. It was an
anxious moment for all. To fire would have
been madness, revealing the whole plan.
The captain held his breath, uncertain how
to act. It was one of those awkward incidents
for which no remedy can be found
in infantry training, new or revised. Captain
Coronet could handle a division in a war
[pg 260]
game and win many a brilliant battle on
regimental staff rides, but this situation was
beyond him, and like a simple British gentleman
he whipped out his sword.

"Na, sir, no' that," whispered Tamson.
The flush which suffused Coronet's cheek
could not be seen in the dark. Spud
Tamson had presumed to override the
officer class. For a second the captain
almost lost his temper. Another second's
reflection, however, told him that this sergeant
from the slums was right.

"Let them come right up, sir, then grab
their legs, drap them, and choke them."

"Very sound—tell the men what's on,"
commanded the captain, well pleased to
have found a solution to the problem. A
few more minutes brought three figures
within view of the attackers' eyes. They
tramped and stumbled forward right into the
waiting men. The captain, Tamson, and
Sergeant Killem grabbed the legs of the
Germans, and with a jerk heaved the surprised
men to the ground. Only one shout
was heard, for, like a flash, strong hands
pounced on to their throats. A spluttering
and low choking broke the stillness of the
night.

[pg 261]
"Don't kill them—tie them up," whispered
the commander. Some mufflers were quickly
produced, and with the aid of rifle-slings, rope,
and spare equipment straps, the German
patrol was bound and gagged.

"I wonder if they heard that beggar
shout?" whispered the captain.

"Na, sir. Ye wid hae soon heard the
bullets if they had."

"I'm glad—it's getting light," said the
captain, looking up to the sky.

"Ay, sir,—yonder's the gun pits," said
Tamson, pointing to a redoubt about two
hundred and fifty yards away.

"Pretty tough job, Tamson," mused the
captain, studying closely the flanking trenches
and some objectionable barbed wire.

"The barbed wire's no' very high, sir."

"High enough for trouble."

"If they tak' aff their coats an' fling them
owre the wire it'll no hurt them sae much."

"Good idea,—tell them to carry their
coats in their hands, and get ready."

Tamson turned and whispered the order.
In a few minutes the whole company was
eager for the fray.

"Prepare to charge," whispered the captain,
putting his monocle into his eye.
[pg 262]
Leaving his sword on the ground he picked
up one of the German rifles and jumped to
his feet. The company followed suit, and
with a thundering cheer charged forward
towards the German lines.

A sentry outside the barbed wire dropped
his rifle and ran towards a little gateway in
the entanglements. Unhooking some loose
strands he dashed through, followed by
Coronet, who pinned him with his bayonet
in the back. About twenty more squeezed
through this gap. The remainder flung
their coats across the wires and floundered
over into the German trenches. Then the
butchery began. Half-sleeping Germans
found themselves face to face with cursing,
yelling scions of the Glesca Mileeshy.
These old toughs from the "Model"
plugged, stabbed, jabbed, hacked, and butted
the life out of the defenders in the flanking
trenches. Those who tried to escape by
jumping out were clubbed to death. Coronet
and Spud were everywhere, and, like others,
quickly covered themselves with German
blood. Things went well till a Maxim
gun started its nonsense. A clever gunner
opened a traversing fire on the daring band.

"Lie down, men," roared Coronet. They
[pg 263]
obeyed, but not before twenty men had been
killed or wounded. It was an anxious moment
for the company commander. The
check was serious, and, like a true British
officer, he looked round for his sergeant.
He saw Tamson at the far end of a trench
coolly aiming at the German gunner.

Bang! went Spud's rifle. He missed.
Muttering an oath, he quickly fired again.
The man dropped back dead. Another
sprang to his seat, but before he could
touch the handles Spud despatched him to
the Happy Land. This was good, but not
altogether useful, for a host of Germans
were sallying out of their dug-outs and
rushing to avenge their dead.

"Rapid fire!" roared the captain.

Click! click! went the bolts, and next a
fearful crash, but our musketry cannot always
stem a wild German rush. Remembering
he had a company in support, Coronet signalled
them up. Recollecting, too, that he
had read somewhere in Haking's text-book
on company training that an assault should
be met by a counter-assault, he ordered
his men to charge.

"I'll see tae the guns, sir," shouted Spud
to his captain above the din.

[pg 264]
"Right, sergeant," answered Coronet, looking
back.

"This way for the Gallowgate, lads," was
Tamson's order to a few of his cronies.
They followed at his heels, and dashed towards
the first gun. A young German
officer met Tamson with his sword. The
Teuton made a furious swipe at his red-coloured
head.

"Missed it, young fellow me lad," shouted
Tamson, parrying. Still the point hooked
an ounce of good flesh out of the sergeant's
arm.

"Got ye," yelled Spud, lunging forward
with his bayonet. The officer writhed in a
horrible way at the other end of his rifle.
With difficulty he disengaged, but rather
late, for a powerful Teuton made a terrible
blow with his butt. Tamson was struck on
the side of the head and stunned. He fell
to the ground. Pat Muldoon saw it all and
jumped forward to guard him from further
injury. Standing astride over his prostrate
form this great Irishman faced all odds. He
wielded his rifle in the same easy manner as
he had formerly handled his pick. An Irishman
in a fight is a sight for the gods. He
is a mixture of the dervish and the devil.
[pg 265]
And a strange charm hung over the life of
this son of Erin. Man after man he felled
like a woodman cutting pine. As the neighbouring
gun team had no desire to earn such
a hurried despatch, they bolted to a more
safe and pleasant region in the dim beyond.

Meantime, Captain Coronet had been getting
on with his job. His counter-attack
crushed the first impact of the German host,
but at a terrible cost. Seventy men had
bitten the dust, while he himself had been
prodded like a prize pig with German
bayonets. Fortunately none of his gashes
were serious. Still, he and his men were
about worn out when a thundering cheer
told them that the supporting company had
arrived. Into the fray dashed the eager
avengers. Their enthusiasm turned the tide.
Away ran the Germans; the position was
won.

Out of the shambles rose Spud Tamson,
somewhat dazed with the blow.

"Cheer up, ould pal,—are yis better?"
queried Muldoon.

"What wis it?" asked Tamson.

"Begorra, it's the stars ye've been seein'."

"Three star brandy wisnae in it, Pat. It's
worse than the D.T.'s."

[pg 266]
"Never mind, me bhoy, we've got their
ould bullet engines," said Pat, pointing to the
machine guns with the gun team lying round.
"But I say, Spud, have a nip."

"Sure, Pat, whaur is it?"

"Here," he said, drawing a beautiful silver
brandy-flask out of his pocket.

"Whaur did ye get this?"

"In that German officer's pocket."

"Man, it's the rale thing. Did ye get
onything else?"

"I did that,—a purse of gould German
quids."

"I get hauf o' that. It wis me that kill't
him."

"Roight, we'll share it out by-and-by."

"Nae fear. Hauf it the noo."

"Why?"

"A bird in the haun's worth twa in the
bush."

"That's what the ould judge said when
he gave me thirty days for stealin' Mike
Docherty's pigs," concluded Pat, as he ruefully
parted with half of his bag of gold.

Spud also got his D.C.M.

[pg 267]

.. clearpage::

CHAPTER XIX. |nl| AN IMPERIAL AFFAIR.
=====================================

":small-caps:`I see` Sergeant Tamson is in divisional
orders to-day," said Colonel Corkleg to
Lieutenant Greens during breakfast in the
dug-out.

"What for, sir?"

"Oh, his leading of that attack the other
night. He's been awarded the Distinguished
Conduct Medal. Useful man. Useful man."

"Yes, sir. Isn't it wonderful how a man
like that, born in the slums, has all the
instinct of a leader, as well as the pluck of
a dozen ordinary men."

"They're all the same, Greens," said the
colonel, laying down his knife. "You
know, I have always commanded that type
of man. In peace times you find him convicted
daily for drunkenness, absence, insolence,
and a hundred other things, yet in
war he is always a hero."

[pg 268]
"I think, sir, the reason of that is that
they are nearer to the brute creation, and
better able to stand the shocks of war."

"Well—yes. Those fancy corps composed
of gilded youths haven't much stomach for a
long campaign. They're bothered with
brains. They think too much. A man who
thinks deeply isn't much use in the ranks.
An officer can do the thinking, the man
must go to the cannon's mouth without
asking the reason why. It wouldn't do to
have three million generals in an army."

"Another point, sir, that I have often
thought of; that is, how these men from
the slums have always fought Britain's
battles. Up till a few years ago it could
be said that Britain's battles were won by
aristocrats and paupers."

"I never thought of that, Greens, but it's
quite true, only the word 'pauper' might be
interpreted in a broader sense. What I mean
is, that the very poor—honest poor in many
cases—have always been in the ranks.
There are many reasons. First, since the
feudal days, it has been their lot to serve.
Traditions have been passed down, even into
such a place as the Gallowgate. And tradition,
as you know, is a wonderful incentive."

[pg 269]
"But hasn't poverty got something to do
with it, sir?"

"Yes. Forty per cent enlist for the thrills
of the business, another forty per cent come
in because of an empty stomach; the remainder
have probably been inspired to
clear from their haunts through an energetic
policeman or an unfortunate affair of the
heart. Still, poverty's no crime, and a Don
Juan is usually a gallant soldier. And, after
all, every one is a volunteer."

"True. And yet I think this class of man
will eventually pass out, sir. Look at the
hovels they live in,—the awful lives they're
compelled to lead. That, in time, will
debilitate this class. Worse than that, I'm
afraid that Socialism is rapidly spreading.
In fifty years these men from the backlands
of our cities will be anarchists and revolutionaries."

"You're wrong, Greens. These men are
instinctively conservative; they will remain
conservative to the end. Every Britisher
is at heart a Tory. Look at Blatchford and
Lloyd George. They used to wave the red
flag, but now they're ranting Imperialists—quite
on a par with Salisbury or Kipling.
It's in the blood, my boy. They can't help
[pg 270]
it. Mark you, Greens, I'm not arguing that
there is no discontent in the slums. That is
partly the fault of the ruling caste, and
partly the result of our industrial system.
We have been much too selfish in the past,
and these great factories are sweating the life-blood
out of our city people. I wish to God
we could get them back to the land. The
old, old days were best. Then a man was
'passing rich with forty pounds a year.'"

"I'm afraid, sir, that 'back to the land' is
only a play term—nothing more."

"In our country—certainly. But we have
a solution in our oversea dominions. Why, I
have seen boys from the slums of our country
sent to Canada, New Zealand, and Australia;
now they are prosperous farmers. If we
cannot save our men in the ranks from the
pauper's roll, I certainly think we ought to
get at their children. It is our duty. Their
blood has sealed the bonds of Empire. Let
us give their children a share of the Empire's
treasure. If we don't, Greens, disease, as
you say, will kill these people, and then the
vulgar rich will have to work their own mills
and defend their money-bags."

These Colonials in our Division are certainly
an excellent advertisement for the
[pg 271]
Colonies. If their discipline is weak, their
physique and pluck leave nothing to be
desired. It makes one feel awfully proud
to see them doing their bit. And the sight
must annoy the Kaiser very much."

"Ah, yes," said the old colonel with a fine
gleam in his eyes, "we have the right to
feel proud. These men represent the finest
Empire the world has ever seen. No
wonder they fight well. They've got something
worth fighting for. Of course, you
know the Colonies well."

"Yes, sir. Canada, Australia, and New
Zealand are fine countries. And I can
understand why these men find discipline
irksome. They are pioneers. Every man
has had to cut his way. They have pushed
the plough and the cash-desk over the
prairies and on to the hills. They have
sustained civilisation and culture at the
point of their rifles. Indians, Maoris, and
aborigines have been overawed by them
and gathered into their keeping. It's really
wonderful what these young nations have
done. Do you know, colonel, I believe our
colonial cousins will eventually become so
powerful that no hostile Alliance will be able
to tackle us."

[pg 272]
"Yes; but, hello, who's this?" concluded
the colonel, as a figure darkened the doorway
of the dug-out. It was the brigade-major.

"Good-morning, Jones—anything on?"

"Good-morning, sir, I've got some trouble
for you," remarked the major with a dry
smile.

"Oh!"

"The Kaiser's got another brain storm.
He has decided to lunch with the gay
madames of Calais. Our Division is, of
course, in the way, and the Brigade in
particular, so there's going to be some
fun."

"When?"

"Soon, sir. Our aeroplanes and agents
report a great concentration behind the
enemy's lines. As we hold them on the
most likely line of advance, you may expect
to be in the affair."

"Well, Jones, it's a case of us making our
wills. We hold the key of our whole line.
Their fury will be spent on that."

"Yes, sir; and the brigadier wishes you
to hold on at all costs. He will reinforce
you if things go badly. He said that he
was glad you were there."

[pg 273]
"Old toughs for a hard road, eh, Jones.
Now—any more orders?"

"Only one more, that is, to double your
sentries and reinforce your firing-line trench.
If you can make any obstacles or entanglement
tricks in front of your line, the brigadier
will be very glad."

"I'll see to that."

"Thank you, sir, good-morning."

"Good-morning, Jones," and out jumped
the brigade-major in continuance of his task.
When he had gone, the colonel sent for his
company commanders. The situation was
explained, and all were instructed to
strengthen the line, erect more entanglements,
and use every means in their power
to embarrass the enemy's advance. Nothing,
of course, could be done during the day.
The enemy was only three hundred yards
distant from the first line of trenches. But
for the next three nights all were busy.
Fifty yards in front of their trenches deep
pits were dug. The earth was removed, and
over the deep gaps thin sticks were laid or
wedged into the sides. Green sods, which
had been carefully cut, were neatly laid
across the sticks, so as to disguise the pits
and resemble the general lay of the ground.
[pg 274]
Behind these death-traps low barbed wire
entanglements were fixed. Some loose
brushwood and other green stuff aided in
the disguise of these lures. Finally, the
higher entanglements were strengthened in
such a way as to make the complete scheme
a death-making obstacle of no mean order.
Many of the trenches were also screened by
a few dummy earthworks to draw the enemy's
fire, and thus minimise the casualty roll.
Every man was given 250 rounds, all rifles
thoroughly cleaned, bayonets grimly sharpened
to a razor-like standard, and sentries
doubled. These preparations were continued
all along the line. Behind, in the reserve
area, reinforcements were prepared at a
central point to enable the G.O.C. to throw
them forward where required.

These arrangements, of course, were an
indication to the rank and file that something
was on. That was all they knew, for in
this war the Allies had learned the need of
secrecy and the folly of allowing war correspondents
to publish the orders of the day.
This system is wise, though annoying to the
soldier and civilian with an inquiring turn
of mind. It makes the soldier feel like a
chessman on a board—a mere atom to be
[pg 275]
moved forward to death, or back into cover
at the will of the master-hand. It is the
German system, and a splendid one, for
published orders and war correspondents are
the curse of an army. South Africa proved
that. Intelligence agents of the Boers used
to cable back the illuminating paragraphs
which had been sent by "Our Special Correspondent."
The new system naturally
upsets the podgy club critics, who like to
direct the affairs of Britain from behind the
cover of roast-beef and whisky. "K," however,
is a master-hand in dealing with this
type. He knows his job, and he has the
will to overrule the clubman and the crowing
cocks at our parish pumps. But we must
get on with the killing business.

Meantime the Germans had not been idle.
With that vigour and thoroughness so characteristic
of the nation, they prepared for "The
Day"—another of the :small-caps:`THE'S`, of course.
Victory was certain, for the Kaiser had
invoked the aid of his God. In a general
proclamation sprinkled with oaths, imbecile
pleas, and biblical embellishments, he called
on his generals and army to charge for the
Fatherland. He would be with them—miles
to the rear, of course—and he would
[pg 276]
stand waiting with thousands of iron crosses
to plaster round his soldiers' chests. God
was to be on the side of his big battalions.

The plan on this occasion was the old one—dense
masses of men. Line after line of
conscripts to be thrown to death and destruction.
But the preliminary bombardment
was a thing which they also relied on.
This commenced at the dawn of a cold and
drizzling day. The boom of the first shell
roused "Sunny Jim" and the Staff of the
Mixed Division. A tinkle of a telephone
bell stirred the British gunners to action.
Observers cunningly concealed in some haystacks
in the forward part of the line immediately
'phoned back the range of the
German batteries. The crash of our shells
'midst the guns of the enemy was a fitting
reply. The range was accurate and the toll
a deadly one. However, these German
gunners have a wonderful pluck and persistency.
Their observers saw many guns,
new trenches, and here and there fields
dotted with turbans, caps, and badly concealed
guns in the Allied lines. Eagerly
they worked out their range tables, and
crash went their guns again. One great
line of trenches with Indian turbans and
[pg 277]
Tommies' caps peeping over was bombarded
with three hundred powerful shells. The
parapets were wrecked, trenches burst, and
great craters made in the surrounding fields.
Deadly gunnery and deadly havoc. No
wonder Krupp's hirelings gained the iron
cross. The exposed guns were crushed to
smithereens, and the gunners near knocked
down like dollies in a fair. This made the
German observers glad. To them the
battle promised well. But one of the
German observers, stationed in an old windmill,
received sudden marching orders
through the agency of a powerful British
shell.

"Sunny Jim" was pleased to allow the
"hits" of the German batteries. His unorthodox
methods had proved supreme. With
his wonderful cunning he had prepared those
long and exposed lines of dummy trenches,
dotted with turbans and caps. The "guns"
which they had smashed were simply trees
resting on the wheels of old farm carts.
The "gunners" killed had been made out
of old khaki suits filled with straw. True,
the Germans had registered some good hits
on the real trenches and live men, while here
and there a gun had been knocked out of
[pg 278]
action. Yet the stagecraft of this clever
G.O.C. had lessened the casualty roll and
drawn the enemy's fire away from the hives
of our warriors. Britons are not so stupid
as they seem. As for our guns, they were a
match for Krupp's newest and latest. The
Mixed Division was armed with weapons of
a powerful range and a deadly type. There
was no useless aiming or extravagant shooting.
Almost every shell burst near a breech
block and mangled its defenders. For six
hours they pumped death and destruction
into the gun-pits, trenches, and masses of
grey-coated Germans waiting for the assault.
This was very annoying to Kaiser Bill,
sitting in his three-ply armour-plated travelling
booth. But it did not alter his decision.
"Forward" was his order after the bombardment.
As he himself was excused the honour
of advancing, he made certain of the fulfilment
of his commands.

There was an air of death and stillness in
those British lines towards which the deep
ranks of the Germans marched. The gunners
must have done well. A spirit of victory
filled them: more eagerly they marched to
Calais—the Kaiser's dream. But the reckoning
was to come. Deep in their burrows lay
[pg 279]
thousands of expectant British warriors.
Every magazine was charged, and every
sentry coolly watching the stern advance of
the German host. Nearer, still nearer they
came. At last they reached the deadly
zone—300 yards.

"Rapid fire," roared Colonel Corkleg, and
every other commander in that great, long
line. The crash was terrific, the surprise
amazing, and the shrieks of death and pain
alarming. The great line paused in terror,
but only for a moment. On they came
again, the living jumping over the dead. Do
not call them cowards. They can fight and
die. They faced their punishment nobly.
Maxims and rifles poured death into line
after line; still on they came. With a
devilish delight the Glesca Mileeshy watched
their advance.

"They're near Bannockburn noo," said
Spud to his pals as the enemy ran towards
the pits.

"They're in! They're in!" he yelled as
the first line tumbled down into the death-traps.
Hundreds floundered to an awful
end in front of the British lines. The cries
of the struggling mass were even heard
above the din of shooting. The next line
[pg 280]
paused in horror, and many tried to run, but
the officers' swords and revolvers drove on
the men in rear and shoved still more into
the chambers of horror. At last they were
filled, and over the mangled and moaning
men the others charged to the trenches.

"Rapid fire!" ordered Spud, and every
other section commander all along the line.
The response was startling. Worse, something
caught the feet of the first line. It
was the low entanglements. The running
men were thrown forward on to the jagging
stakes and piercing wire. Again the advance
was stemmed, and again the British maxims
and rifles exacted a frightful toll. To the
sensitive soul such a sight is awful and
sickening. Brutality is triumphant, and war
shown in all its hellish aspects. There is
little culture in the business. It is simply
the awful expression of Hate. Nevertheless,
such men as the Glesca Mileeshy viewed
almost calmly the scene. They even joked
and laughed as they sent their bullets into
the reeling masses of men.

"They're comin' again—Rapid fire," commanded
Spud to his men once more. The
weight of numbers had pushed the living
over the maimed. They clambered across
[pg 281]
their bodies towards the high entanglements.
A crisis was near, and every man in the
Glesca Mileeshy fixed his bayonet, then
opened fire again. Dead men paved the
way to the higher entanglements.

Click! Click! Click! went the enemy's
wire-cutters all along the line. Some even
tore themselves over or through the barbed
wire. They had reached their goal.

"Gae them H——, boys," roared Spud
above the din. There was no need to command.
Out of the trenches leaped the front
line of the Glesca Mileeshy. The slaughter
was fierce. Blood spurted everywhere.
Germans and British struggled like Dervishes
for the mastery. Screams were mixed with
curses, moans drowned in the awful din.
Germans hate our British bayonets; in fact
they loathe cold steel at any time. Seldom
will they face such music, but this attack had
been driven on. To turn meant death from
the bayonets behind; even if they had
escaped from the crush a German officer's
revolver would have quickly ended their
flight. Brave as they are, when equal in
numbers against our arms the British assert
their superiority with natural ease. The
Glesca Mileeshy, like their co-partners, had
[pg 282]
centuries of tradition behind them. Germans,
after all, are young at the game of
war.

Colonel Corkleg viewed the awful struggle
from the supporting trenches. The condition
of affairs was uninspiring. He saw
more and more grey masses of the enemy
surging forward to swell the attacking line.

"Good God!" he exclaimed, as two great
columns burst through on the right and left
of his line. He also noticed that the regiments
on his flanks were retiring. Was it
panic? Were they complying with previous
orders? He did not know. All he knew
was that his regiment had been told to hold
on at all costs. He would do so, for, like a
true soldier, he had a firm sense of duty and
a belief in his general. As it was useless to
waste more men in his front line, he signalled
to them to retire through the communication
trench.

"Retire, man by man," ordered Lieutenant
Greens, waiting with Spud to see all the men
through. Perhaps the action of the officer
and sergeant was unnecessarily cautious and
daring; yet it is typical of the British officer
and N.C.O. Quickly the men jumped down
into the communication trench and ran on to
[pg 283]
the supports. Nearly all had gone, when
Spud was alarmed to hear some one say—

"Sergint—Spud—for the love of God,
don't lave me—I'm done in, bhoy." Spud
turned from his act of bayoneting a German
to see poor Muldoon lying half mangled
across the parapet.

"Get hold of him, sergeant—I'll keep
the devils off," roared Greens, smiting the
attackers with the butt-end of a rifle. Spud
jumped forward and grabbed the heavy
form of his faithful chum. He staggered
with the weight, but, with a superhuman
effort, half carried and dragged the wounded
man along the deep communicating trench.
Colonel Corkleg and his men had seen it all.
They even stopped for a second to cheer.
As Spud dropped his load he turned to look
for his officer. He saw him surrounded by
half a dozen wild Bavarians.

"Come on, three o' ye," he shouted to
the nearest men. They clattered down the
trench behind his nimble form. Into the
surging mob they dashed, gashing and hacking
as they went. Poor old Greens had
fallen. He seemed almost dead as Spud
jumped and pulled him out from beneath
the attackers' feet.

[pg 284]
"Haud them for a meenit," roared Spud,
"and I'll get him back."

"Richt ye are," was the willing response
of the three stalwarts. Nobly they tackled
their men, but, alas! two were killed in the
*mêlée*; the third man had to flee with a
terrible bayonet wound in his chest. Spud
pulled the lieutenant under cover of the
supporting trench, and then handed him
and the other wounded men over to the
stretcher-bearers.

"Things look bad," mused Colonel Corkleg,
viewing the surging horde of yelling
Bavarians, who were now advancing again.
He knew he was in a tight hole; he was
also aware that the eyes of his men were
on him. That is the Tommie's way. In
danger he looks to his officer. If the officer
is still the same cool gentleman who has
kindly but firmly guided him in the other
affairs of peace and war—all's well. But—if
there is a sense of despair, a touch of
pallor, a command given out in a nervous
way, then that wonderful confidence which
wins all battles dies out in a flash. Corkleg
knew the working of the soldier's mind.
This was an occasion to preserve to the
last the air of ease and the sense of hope.
[pg 285]
Between puffs of a cigarette he calmly issued
his orders, directed the fire, and occasionally
cursed a slacker who fiddled with his bolt.

"Thank Heaven for our Maxims," he remarked
to the adjutant, as he watched
Cocky Dan and his gunners sending death
and disorder into the German ranks. Then
jumping over the dead bodies of some of
his gallant men, he entered a little dug-out
where the telephone was. Turning the
handle, he waited. A faint tinkle quickly
echoed through the din.

"Hello—is that the brigadier?"

"Yes."

"We're in a tight fix here, sir. We've
lost the first line of trenches. The regiments
on my right and left have gone. It
looks as if we're going to be scuppered."

"Hold on, for God's sake, colonel. Yours
is the key of the whole line. They must
not get it. We'll reinforce you soon. Good-bye."

"I hope to God you will," he muttered,
dropping the 'phone. He was not afraid of
slaughter, but he was certainly afraid of the
enemy capturing this, the pivot of the defence.
The colonel, of course, was not aware
of the higher policy which had placed him
[pg 286]
there, for even commanding officers are seldom
informed of the inner secrets of attack
and defence. In this case the G.O.C. knew
the strength of the enemy and fully estimated
the deadly weight of their numbers.
Brave as his men were, it was impossible for
them to repel this great attack in its early
stages. Nor would it have been wise to do
so. He knew the enemy could break the
line. It was, therefore, essential to work
out his defence in such a way that he might
avoid needless casualties, gain time, inflict
a frightful slaughter, and then drive home
the counter-attack—the soundest maxim of
war. The point held by the Glesca Mileesha,
however, could not even be temporarily
surrendered. It was on a knoll commanding
the flat country round. If captured
by the enemy it would have been an easy
matter for them to gallop forward their light
field batteries under cover of this hill, and
then render to the attacking German infantry
a weighty co-operation which would
have been fatal to the British general's plan.
That was why this regiment was there, and
the presence of this regiment gave their
general the assurance that they would hold
out while he attempted a venture thrust
[pg 287]
upon him by the will and numbers of the
enemy. Colonel Corkleg, of course, may
have divined this thought of the G.O.C., but
he had not been informed of the fact. He
had been given a definite order—"To hold
out till the last," and in the British Army
orders are always obeyed. The orders to
the colonels of the regiments on his immediate
right and left were to promptly
retire when the enemy reached the first line
of their trenches. On arriving at two little
knolls covering the ground which they had
surrendered, they were instructed to immediately
reform behind them. There they
would find sixteen Maxim guns and fresh
troops to aid them. That was all they knew.
But behind a great earthwork screen, some
five hundred yards to the rear of this second
line, the Canadians, Australians, New Zealanders,
and Gurkhas lay under cover, ready,
if need be, to repulse a serious reverse, but
really destined to carry out the counter-assault.

Now, imagine the scene. The Glesca
Mileeshy fighting like Trojans against the
helmeted hordes who tried to envelop and
crush them. Their trenches were filled with
blood, and hundreds lay maimed and dead.
[pg 288]
Round their flanks swept rank after rank
of the Germans, in vigorous pursuit of the
little sections of retiring regiments who fired
a few rounds, then ran on to the next bit
of cover, where they repeated the same performance
with a coolness truly wonderful
and inspiring. Their volleys were deadly
enough, but feeble against such a mighty
deluge of men. Still, they lured them on,
then finally disappeared behind the flanks
of their second line of defence. Meantime,
the German reserves had arrived. Inspired
by the success of their first lines, they pressed
bravely forward to finish their job, leaving
the Glesca Mileeshy almost encircled by
their friends.

Z-r-r-p—Z-r-r-p—Z-r-r-p spat
the machine-gun batteries behind the little
knolls. This was accompanied by a terrific
explosion of land mines, which burst beneath
the feet of the enemy, as well as the rapid
fire of the infantry and the crashing bombs
from five aeroplanes above. Hundreds were
blown lifeless and mutilated into the air,
hundreds more were riddled with the traversing
fire of the Maxim guns, while many were
caught with the well-aimed musketry of the
eager Tommies. The great host reeled with
[pg 289]
the blow. Death and fumes, the smoke and
noise, stupefied them all. They were like
lost sheep in a wilderness. Indeed, the
enemy had reached that mental state when
a counter-attack will always win.

"Double forward the reserves, and, when
ready, charge," was the order flashed from
the G.O.C. of the Mixed Division. Out of
the earth rose the Indians and Colonials—brothers
in arms. Their advance was covered
by the men and Maxims on the knolls
in front of them. Gleefully they ran—Indians
mixed with Canadians, New Zealanders,
and Australians. They reached the
second line of defence and lay down for a
breath.

"Fix bayonets—prepare to charge," was
the next order flashed along the line. The
clicking of the steel rings on the bayonet
standards was a cheerful sound to all.

"Charge!" A wild hurrah was heard
from seven thousand men. Seven thousand
bayonets gleamed in the now sparkling sun.
And down like an avalanche swept the sons
of Empire. Words can never depict a
charge. It is wild, almost insane, yet glorious.
There is a thrill of pride in the veins
that kills all fear and makes even the fattest
[pg 290]
and laziest envious of the fleet-footed subalterns,
who always lead the way. And this
was an Imperial charge—a charge of willing
volunteers, who loved the Motherland.

The stupefied Germans were horror-struck.
Seven thousand fresh and lusty warriors
struck terror into their hearts. And those
bayonets! Well, who wouldn't run! They
fled like hares on a frosty morning, pursued
by the yelling and stabbing multitude. The
slow-footed fell in hundreds. But on pressed
the Mixed Division. Over their original
line they charged to a great and glorious
victory. The counter-attack had won the
day.

Just as the battle ended, "Sunny Jim"
dashed up in his motor-car. News of the
victory had cheered him, but he was anxious
to learn the fate of the Glesca Mileeshy.
As the car neared Colonel Corkleg's position,
he was received with a cheer from a
hundred men.

"Good God, colonel—is that all that's left
to you?" said the general quietly, looking on
the living, then at the piled-up dead.

"Yes, sir," said Corkleg, with a catch in
his voice, as he tried to salute. The strain
and an awful bayonet wound in the shoulder
[pg 291]
had drained much of his blood. He collapsed
at the general's feet.

"Never mind me, doctor," he whispered
in a weak voice to the surgeon who had
jumped to his side. "Look after Sergeant
Tamson."

"Who, sir?"

"The man who saved me," said the
colonel, trying to point to the prostrate form
of Spud, who lay almost lifeless on the top
of some dead Germans. Then closing his
eyes he swooned away, muttering, "Useful
man—useful man."

Spud Tamson was found living, yet seriously
wounded. He had been bayoneted
in the chest while gallantly rescuing his
colonel from a band of lusty Bavarians.

"Save him if you can, for he has earned
the V.C.," said the adjutant to the doctor
as Spud was lifted into the motor ambulance.

"Oh, he'll live all right," was the cheerful
reply as the motor started on its way. And
live he did. The whole Empire cried
"Well done," and all the world wondered
at this hero from the slums.

.. clearpage::

[pg 292]

A CONVENTIONAL FINISH. |nl| EXTRACT FROM THE PRESS.
===================================================

:small-caps:`Marriages`.—At the residence of Colonel
Corkleg, C.B., by the Rev. Father Murphy,
Sergeant Spud Tamson, V.C., The Glesca
Mileeshy, to Mary Ann M'Ginnes, daughter
of Patrick M'Ginnes, The Gallowgate, Glasgow.

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