XIII
GUNS AND CARRIAGES
Bethlehem, U. S. A., October 30, 1917.
I want to tell you about an interesting race of people called "inspectors." If you are merely a footslogger, and know nothing about guns and carriages, I had better give you a slight idea of the things that happen to a simple gun and carriage before it reaches the comparative rest of the battlefield.
Now the word "inspector" at once suggests someone who inspects. I've had to inspect my men in order to prepare myself and them for the visitation of the major, who in turn awaits the colonel. But the inspection of a gun is a very different matter. As a mere person who is responsible for the firing of the thing, and also the unwilling target of the people who desire to destroy the gun and its servants, I was always wont to call the whole thing, including the wheels and all the mechanism, a "gun." But this showed remarkable inaccuracy. The gun is just the tubes of steel, with the top or outside one termed the jacket, that form what a layman would call the barrel, and a properly trained recruit "the piece." All the rest is the carriage. If you are dealing with inspectors be very careful about this. They are generally awfully good at mathematics, and can dictate letters by the yard without winking. They can work out fearful things called curves. I believe this has something to do with strain, and suggests to my unmathematical mind the dreadful thing I had to draw in order to get through my "little go."
Now the manufacturer of a gun and carriage doesn't just make the thing, and then after a few trial shots hand it over to the inspector saying: "Here's your gun. Now go and shoot the Germans, I don't think it will burst during the first preliminary bombardment and kill a few men." No sir! The inspector is responsible to his government, that every inch of that gun and carriage is according to specification. I should think that on an average each complete gun and carriage requires at least five pounds of correspondence, three lesser arguments, four greater arguments, two heated discussions and one decent fight. I have been present at a fight or two and have come to the wholesome conclusion that both sides were right—so what can you do?
Now inspectors can be easily divided into two classes—the thorough mechanic who knows more than the manufacturer about the production of the piece he is inspecting, and the other. The first chap only requires to use the five pounds of paper, and seldom or never has the arguments, unless he lacks a sense of humour. I know an inspector of whom a shop foreman boasted: "That ther koirnel could condemn every bit of woirk in the shop without making a single enemy." Now in these times of stress the fellow above described is a rare blessing, so the men on the job have got to do their very best. Still inspectors are strange and interesting people.
Before I came out here, I toured all the great munition factories in England. I had a wonderful time, but never met an inspector. Now that I come to think of it, I do remember having seen sitting at the table at lunch one day some gunner officers, but I thought that they were anti-aircraft fellows. They must have been inspectors.
In peace time, I suppose the job is an entirely different proposition. The firm that manufactures artillery and shells probably gets an order for half a dozen equipments and I suppose the contract time is liberal. Then the inspector's job and the manufacturer's is simple. The inspector must have rigid attention to specifications, and the manufacturer, possibly, only has his best men doing the work. I should think then that things would run smoothly.
In these days of stress the contract time is cut down to the shortest possible, and instead of getting orders by the dozen, a manufacturer gets them by the hundred, sometimes by the thousand. The result is that all his men are on the job. Also many other munition firms are doing the same sort of work and really good workmen become scarce. Then again the inspection staff is multiplied tremendously, and it naturally takes years to make a really good inspector. Still the fellows I know do their very utmost to make things go smoothly. But let me tell you just a little about things as I see them, and of course I see them through inexperienced eyes.
A manufacturer decides to make a gun and some money, thereby proving himself to be an optimist. Of course, he may succeed in making the gun. Poor fellow! He ought to be allowed to make the inspector, too. But he cannot, and so commences a strife in comparison to which the great war is a mild performance.
An inspector is ordered to inspect the production of guns at a given munition plant. He arrives, and meets the officials of the company, and the first hour is spent in social amenities. But the inspector is not deceived. He knows that all manufacturers are nice villains, so he must be on his guard. If, however, he is a villain himself, and I deny, of course, the existence of villainous inspectors, the matter should be easy and simple; the whole process is delightful and the manufacturer will make much money and his optimism will be justified. If the manufacturer is an honest gentleman and, strangely enough, all the manufacturers I have met are honest gentlemen, a villainous inspector will have a hectic time. Some honest manufacturers are comparatively intelligent, and of course the villainous inspector, if he existed, would soon leave a rope behind him upon which he could be safely hanged. Upon an occasion like this if it should happen, I, as a Briton, would sing "God Save Our Gracious King," and an American would doubtlessly sing "The Star Spangled Banner," if he could only remember the words and had a voice of sufficient mobility. However, the whole position is difficult. There are boundless opportunities for an inspector to develop "frightfulness."
But let us trace the history of a simple gun and carriage. Its opportunities for frightfulness and a frightful mess end only when it reaches the firing line. It has really reached paradise or Nirvana when it is issued to the battery.
The manufacturer gives orders to the steel mill to make certain steel ingots. The inspectorial eye watches the billets. They must be of sufficient length so that the frothy part of the ingot at the top will not form a vital part of the forging. Generally speaking, the intelligence of the steel man prevents this from happening so that the inspector merely gives this a little attention.
The steel is then forged into what eventually will be tubes, breech rings, and jackets. You see a gun is generally made in at least two parts unless it is a very small one. They are shrunk together. The inspector ignores these forgings until they have been "heat-treated." It is sufficient to say that the forgings are placed in the hands of the gentleman in charge of the treatment department. After treatment, a portion of the steel is cut off. This portion enters the laboratory and here it is placed in a machine which pulls it apart. The machine displays a sort of tug of war and the inspectors watch. The steel has got to stand a certain strain. At a certain strain it should stretch; this is called the elastic limit. At a greater strain it should break, this is called the ultimate limit. If the steel fails to pass, the gentleman in charge of the treatment department has failed us all, and a feeling of exhaustion creeps over the man in charge of production, for he knows that he must worry the life out of the fellow until he gets it through again. In these times of stress when all munition factories in America are endeavouring to work above their capacity the man in charge of production has a rotten time of it.
However, the steel sometimes gets through and finally reaches a machine shop. Generally speaking, the foreign inspector doesn't worry very much about the actual gun until it has been proof-fired. If the manufacturer has been clever he will have caused his own inspection staff to watch closely every inch of the steel as the machine work gradually exposes the metal. If he is wise he will immediately condemn the whole thing if it is very bad. If the fault is trifling he will have several arguments and a heated discussion including an appeal to the production man, who will sympathize but do very little. Perhaps the inspector will decide to let the work go on. Inspectors are sometimes bad at deciding. They ponder and ponder and ponder until the production man decides that they are fools and the manufacturer's man decides that they are villainous and officious, and possess any amount of damnable qualities. It is all very difficult. I seem to be wandering on and on about inspectors, but it is interesting when you think that in a comparatively simple gun and carriage there are at least three thousand parts, and every part contains the possibility of an argument.
Why doesn't this wonderful country give titles to its kings of manufacture? It would simplify matters considerably. You see Mr. Jones in the position of an inspector, or even Lieutenant Jones, or possibly Major Jones of the Terriers regards himself as much superior to any "damned Yankee," and takes a vastly superior attitude. This can be displayed in an argument. Now if Mr. Beetles, president of the Jerusalem Steel Company, could only be Lord Rekamnug or the Duke of Baws, believe me, our national snobbishness would prevent Mr. Jones in the position of an inspector, or even Lieutenant Jones, or possibly Major Jones of the Terriers minus a sense of humour, from taking the futile attitude of superiority which could only be displayed by the wives and daughters of the more elegant clergy and smaller country gentlemen in "Blighty."
Of course, as a production man, it is my duty to regard inspectors as effete. Still I will be a traitor and say that a certain inspector who was at one time the manager of a large ordnance factory not many miles from Leamington did a great deal for our country over here during this time of trouble. I wish I could mention his name, but I fear the censor. He was the "koirnal who could condemn any amount of work without making a single enemy." He had personality—that colonel.
An inspector obviously should be a specialist. He must know his job thoroughly. He must know as much about manufacture and metallurgy as the average officer in a mounted regiment thinks he knows about horses. As I said before, the whole matter was perfectly simple in the days of peace. Now it is different. It is impossible to get sufficient men in these days for the job, so we have got to take what we can get. The most dangerous form of inspector is the fellow that knows just a little and pretends that he knows an awful lot. His very ignorance allied to his sense of duty will make it impossible for him to decide when a part is serviceable, although not absolutely up to specifications. This man causes delays and trouble.
Then there is the chap who knows quite a lot, but alas, possesses no sense of humour! This type is called an obstructionist. He is very difficult, well nigh impossible. He has much fighting spirit and thoroughly enjoys a dispute with the manufacturer. He also enjoys his autocratic position. Quite often he gives in all right, but he lacks "sweet reasonableness." The longer one lives, the more one sees the value of personality in every branch of life.
An essential quality in a good inspector is personality. This never exists minus a sense of humour. An inspector has to condemn masses of work—work that has had hours and hours of patient machining and fitting. If he could only do it nicely! Quite often, he uses a large axe when a fine surgical instrument would save a lot of trouble. In America it ought not to be difficult, for in my humble opinion the American manufacturer is generally "sweetly reasonable." It always seems to me a good thing if you honestly disapprove of a man or a nation, moreover, in dealing with that man or nation to hide your thoughts, or forget them, if possible. Take the "wisest fool" in Christendom's advice to the Presbyterians at the Hampton Court conference—"Pray, gentlemen, consider that perhaps you may be wrong."
In every organization there is always a definite procedure which has got to be adhered to. The big man and the fool will take a short cut sometimes and they often get away with it. Of course, they do not always and there is trouble, but the big man takes his punishment. The mediocre man will always stick to the beaten tracks, with the crowd.
It has always seemed to me that during these distressful times all short cuts should be taken. The guns have got to get to France and that is all about it. If they are thoroughly serviceable that is all that matters.
But talking about short cuts and fools, I remember an awful thing that happened to me once in the early days of the war while we were training in England. I, as a fellow from the cavalry, was given the charming job of teaching the N.C.O.'s of two brigades to ride. It had to be done quickly, of course, so instead of taking the men into the riding school I used to take them across country. Of course, they fell off by the dozens. I commanded them to follow me and dashed down narrow tracks in the forest at a good smart trot. It meant bending down to avoid branches or getting swept off. All kinds of things used to happen but they learnt to stick to their horses. Sometimes I had not enough horses, and I am ashamed to say that some of my fellows pinched all the mounts from another battery. Quite selfish this, and when the officer commanding the battery whose horses had been pinched asked where his gees were, he was told that they had been pinched "by that there lootenant who takes the sergeants out over the hills to see the German prison camps." Of course, it is well to say that I was ignorant of the whole proceeding and although all Battery D's horses had been taken they only numbered about twelve. Incidentally this officer said nothing to me about it, but he gave his own men hell for allowing the horses to be taken, showing himself thereby a clever man. However, I did not mind very much. My N.C.O.'s had to learn to ride and that was all about it.
One day I decided that as they had all attained a good seat it might be a good idea to put them through a short course in the riding school. It was important that I should get the riding school at the time I wanted it which was nine o'clock. I am ashamed to say that I had not read orders that morning otherwise I would have scented danger.
At 8.45 I sent three large Welsh miners up to the riding school to prevent others from getting there before me. I told them to hold the school against all comers. This thrilled them; our sentries were only armed with sticks in those days, so they procured large sticks and took up a position at the door of the riding school. I wish I had read orders that day.
At nine o'clock I advanced to the door of the school, and to my horror I saw a gentleman on a large horse with a red cap and many decorations being held at bay by my three Welshmen. I nearly beat a strategic retreat, but it was difficult so I advanced in much fear. He rode up to me looking purple and said: "Did you put these men here to hold the riding school?" I saluted and replied meekly: "Yes, sir!" "Why, may I ask?" "Well, sir," I replied, "I have never had a chance to use the riding school and every time I come I find it already full." He looked bitterly at me and said: "Boy, do you ever read orders?" This silenced me. Then he started to move off but turning round asked me my name, and then he said: "Never put sentries at the door of a riding school; it isn't soldiering."
It was all very terrible but Providence looks after fools and I had my hour in the riding school. When lunch time came I rushed to the mess and looked at orders. My heart sank. They showed that a staff officer had arranged to inspect a certain battery's equestrian powers that morning. The men under a sergeant had arrived, but being impressed by the formidable appearance of the Welshmen had decided to go somewhere else. The colonel then arrived and found my sentries. A staff colonel was nothing in their lives, but I as their "lootenant" was very much so, and they knew that they would get into trouble if they failed to do what I had ordered. I was very pleased with them, but knew there would be trouble for me. I had only been an officer three weeks and it looked very bad.
At lunch time I sat as far away as possible from the staff officer. My own colonel, a topping chap, who had left his charming old country house to help to make us all soldiers sat next to him. Elderly colonels are sometimes a little deaf and they shout as a rule. I was very worried until I saw my own colonel looking down at me with a grin. A moment after, he gave the staff colonel a smack on the back and said: "Timkins, you funny old top, fancy being kept out of the riding school by one of my subalterns!" I felt safe after that and looked for promotion.
Of course, I would not recommend that sort of thing to any one. After a time, I learnt better and discovered that at regular intervals during the week I had the right to use the riding school. It appeared in orders. However, I learnt a great lesson, i.e., that if you want a thing badly enough there are always ways of getting it if you are willing to take risks. However, it is a good idea to know the extent of the risk.
In this life you must be honest, of course, but there is nothing like a little wiliness to help out occasionally. My major was the wiliest person I have ever met, also the best officer. He knew more than most people did in the brigade because he had been wounded at the Marne, though slightly, so that in the early days of training he was the only officer of rank who had seen service.
One day he sent me off to the ordnance stores with about one hundred men, because he alleged that the "emergency caps" supplied to the men did not fit. They did fit all right, but the major had hopes. These emergency caps were made of nasty blue serge and were the variety that are placed on the side of the head and that are shaped like the boats you make for children out of a square of paper. They suggest a section of the bellows of a concertina.
Now the way to get stores from the ordnance depot is to write out a requisition. It is sent off by the Q.M.S., and returns in a day or two, because he has not filled out the form correctly. However, after many weeks the things arrive but half of them may not fit, and there is trouble and worry. Upon no consideration, do you send your men to the stores to have the caps and tunics fitted. This is obviously impossible. However, off I went with my hundred men to Aldershot, eight miles distant. They were a funny bunch, I will admit. We arrived at the department where caps were kept. We marched in fours, myself at the head, and then came into line in front of the building. It had never occurred before and astonishment was displayed on the faces of the sergeants and others, who wondered what should happen next. I sought the officer in charge and the sergeant took me to his office. On the way I took some shameless steps with the sergeant and made him my friend for life.
The officer in charge, a ranker captain, was not very pleased, but I talked a lot and made him regard himself as vital to my earthly happiness. I painted in vivid colours the smallness of my men's caps; how they fell off when they doubled, and what confusion ensued in the ranks as they all stooped to pick them up. He grew more friendly, and slightly amused, and said he would do what he could. We started to go out to the men, the sergeant helping me wonderfully, but, alas, we met an old man with a red cap and of furious mien who stood looking at my brave soldiers in the distance with much displeasure. He came to me and gave me blazes and ordered me to get out of it. He disliked intensely the fact that my major regarded him as a shop keeper, he, the "D.C.O.S." or something equally dreadful! I explained that the caps did not fit, and that we were desperate men. He said: "They do fit." "Well, sir, will you have a look?" We had to go round, in order to avoid a platform from which stores were loaded into wagons G. S. I jumped this place and quickly told the sergeant to make the men put their caps on the very tip of their heads, to change some, to do anything, but to do it quickly. The men were fools—they took the matter as a joke and commenced exchanging one anothers' caps, laughing and affecting a certain cunning which seemed fatal to me. The general, of course, caught them in the very act, appreciated the situation and roared with laughter. After that it was not difficult. All of my men were supplied, not with new emergency caps, but with beautiful field service khaki caps and they took away with them one hundred extra caps for the men at home. When this operation had finished the general said: "Now is there anything else that you want, for I'm damned if I will have you coming here again in this manner?" It was all wrong, hopelessly wrong, but we were proud soldiers as we marched back into the barracks at Deep Cut, each man wearing a perfect cap and carrying another. Of sixteen batteries, we were the only people who could boast of "caps, service field."
The major, of course, was pleased but if it had not come off I should have been the person to get strafed, and not he.
There are always short cuts, even in the inspection of guns and carriages.
I sometimes wonder how I have managed to get along out here possessing so much ignorance of business. It has been comparatively simple. I had no intention of being clever, even if it were possible, and from the start I took a perfectly honest line, and placed all my cards on the table. I found that this was a fairly unusual manner of doing business and it worked well. I also made the discovery that, instead of being cunning knaves, the American manufacturers of my experience were honest gentlemen. In any case, I decided that if they were cunning the heights of my cunning would never reach theirs, owing to my lack of experience. I also endeavoured to learn from them a "good approach." This helped. I just put it up to them. "Here am I out here to get work from you. We must have it. We've got to strafe the Germans somehow and it is up to you to help me." And they have, bless them, especially the big men. At any rate, I can safely say that anything I have wanted I have got.
I think that I realized the situation. Not only had they mostly "bitten off more than they could chew," but they had not realized the difficulties they were up against. Of course, one had to use a little common sense. During my time here in America one has learnt a great deal, and, indeed, one has met some villains. They were not "Yankee manufacturers."
Do you remember Lady Deadlock's lover in "Bleak House," and the street boy's eulogy after his death, "He was very good to me, he was"? That is how I feel towards the men I have met during my time here. They have been very good to me, all of them. I suppose that if I had been an inspector the matter would have been different. Perhaps I have laughed a little at inspectors, but my job has been child's play compared with theirs.
The average American, like other folk, enjoys a decent fight, but he dislikes killing people by machinery; hence the machinery of war has never been manufactured to any great extent over here. The American is impatient of delay. He wants to get going. When held up, he sometimes fails to see the inspector's point of view. He is an optimist, but optimism in gun and carriage manufacture will often bring some bitterness of heart, and when an optimist develops bitterness, it's awful.