A DEMOBILISATION DISASTER.
Private Randle Janvers Binderbeck and Private John Hodge (of No. 12 Platoon) both enlisted in 1914. Previously Handle wrote articles, mostly denunciatory. He denounced the Government of the day, tight skirts, Christian Science, scorching on scooters, the foreign policy of Patagonia and many other things. John, on the other hand, had not an agile brain. He worked on a farm in some incredibly primitive capacity, and the only thing that he denounced was the quality of the beer at the "Waggon and Horses." It certainly was bad.
In the Army Randle had no ambition except to get out of it and to remain a private while in it. His ambition for his civil career was tremendous. He tried to prod the placid John (his neighbour in their hut) into an equal ambition.
"My poor Hodge," said Randle to John, "you must cultivate a soul above manure. Does it satisfy you, as a man made in the image of God, to be able to distinguish between a mangold and a swede? Think of the glory of literature, the power of the writer to send forth his burning words to millions and sway public opinion as the west wind sways the pliant willow."
"I dunno as I'd prefer that to bird-scaring or suchlike," murmured John.
Goaded by such beast-like placidity, Randle would forget all restraint in trying to lash John into a worthy ambition.
It was for talking after "Lights out" that Randle and John were given a punishment of three days' confinement to barracks. Randle, pouring out a devastating torrent of words in the manner of a public orator, bitterly denounced the punishment; John, who had merely snored (the Captain said it took two to make a conversation), bore it with the stoicism of ignorance.
Randle used to dream of Peace Day. He heard Sir DOUGLAS HAIG order his Chief-of-Staff to summon Private Randle Janvers Binderbeck. "Release him at once," said HAIG, in Randle's dream, "to resume his colossal mission as leader and director of public opinion."
If John dreamed, it was of messy farmyards and draughty fields; but it is improbable that he dreamed at all.
They both went to the War and faced the Hun. Randle thought of the Hun only as a possible wrecker of his career, therefore as a foe of mankind. John hardly thought of the Hun except in the course of coming into contact with him, and then he used his bayonet with careless zeal.
Randle steeled himself against the rough edges of soldiering. He allowed neither the curses of corporals nor the familiarities of second-lieutenants to affect his dreams of the future. Always, even sotto voce in the last five minutes before going over the top, he kept before John his vision splendid.
It was thoir luck to remain together and unhurt. Then arrived the great day when the Hun confessed defeat. Randle vainly awaited a sign from the Commander-in-Chief.
There came, however, a moment when No. 12 Platoon was paraded at the Company Orderly-room. Particulars were to be taken before filling up demobilisation forms. Men were to be grouped, on paper, according to the nation's demand for their return to civil life.
Randle Janvers Binderbeck knew this was der Tag. Magnanimously he overlooked the delay and felt that HAIG might, after all, have an excuse. John Hodge remained placid. He had long ago classed Randle's goadings with heavies and machine-guns, as unavoidable incidents of warfare.
Randle and John were called into the orderly-room together. By an obvious error John was first summoned to the table.
"Well, Hodge," said the Company Sergeant-Major, "what's your job in civil life?"
"I dunno as I got any special job," said John. "I just sort o' helped on the farm."
"You must have a group," said the C.S.M. "What did you mostly do before the War?"
"S' far as that do go," said John, "I were mostly a bird-scarer."
"'Bird-scarer,'" said the C.S.M. "I know there's a heading for that somewhere. Agricultural, ain't it? 'Bird-scarer.' Ah, here we are. 'Group 1.' You'll be one of the first for release."
The Company Clerk noted the fact, and the C.S.M. called "Next man."
Randle Janvers Binderbeck stepped forward.
"What's your job, Binderbeck?" said the C.S.M.
(To ask Lord NORTHCLIFFE, "Do you sell newspapers'\?" To ask BOSWELL, "Have you heard of a man named JOHNSON?" TO ask HENRY VIII, "Were you ever married?")
The futility of the question flabbergasted Randle.
"Come on, man," said the C.S.M.
Randle made an effort. "Journalist," he said.
"'Journalist,'" said the C.S.M., "'Journalist.' Yes, I thought so. 'Group 41.' You've got a long way to go, my lad. You 'd have done better if you was a bird-scarer, like Hodge. Them's the boys the nation wants—Group 1 boys. You sticks in the Army for another six months' fatigue. Next man."
That was all.
John Hodge is now soberly awaiting demobilisation, and will not have to wait long.
Randle Janvers Binderbeck is secretly consoling himself by writing the most denunciatory articles. They will never be published, but they afford an alternative to cocaine.
He feels that he can never again consent to sway public opinion as the west wind, etc., in the interests of a nation which rates him forty groups lower than an animated scarecrow.
It is the nation's own fault, Randle is blameless.