His language was pointed and all-embracing, and our ancestry and morals both seemed to meet with his disapproval. It is therefore impossible to give any anecdote about Mick. When the narrator’s opinion of Mick is added to Mick’s opinion of the narrator, the story could only be told in Russian. “Always have an answer ready,” was his advice, “even if it isn’t the truth—like Mr Sharp’s answer just now.”
Sharpie[3] and Ralph Stewart were quite the best at looking after themselves, and carried more gear than all the rest of us put together. At Syderstone Common an inquisitive general ordered the tarpaulin to be taken off the General Service wagon, and the first things which caught his eye were Sharpie’s tennis racket and golf clubs. At Gara munitions of war had to be left behind to find room on the truck for his patent washstand. By the time he got to Palestine Johnnie Smith really could not compete with his belongings, and had to “borrow” a donkey to carry what could not possibly be left at Cox’s Go-down—and it took eight months after the Armistice was signed before sufficient shipping could be collected at Alexandria to bring that home.
“Tukie”[4] and “Doctor” Ross[5] of course go together—I don’t know which had the more character.
“What’s the guid o’ gaen tae oor Doctor? He wadna believe yer ill till yer deid, and he wadna believe yer deid till yer stinkin.” Scrimshankers got little sympathy from either. “I’ve got awful pains in my back, Doctor,” said one man, and a knowing look passed between the Doctor and Ross. “Off with your shirt then.” A good old smack on his bare back and—“that’s all right, my man. A good dose of castor oil, Corporal Ross. Medicine and duty.”
Corporal Ross was a wonderful detective. He knew the past history and character of every man in the Regiment, I am sure. Though no two could have taken more care over you when you were really sick than Tukie and his corporal, no two were harder on anyone they knew was shamming. How these two worked on Gallipoli! Finally Tukie had to give in and was literally pushed on board a hospital ship, but he was as bad as a patient as he was good as a doctor, and they were glad to get rid of him at Malta after a short time and return him to his beloved Unit. Egypt, of course, afforded great scope for Tukie’s fly-extermination crusade, and I have already referred in the text to his extraordinary success in exterminating mosquitoes at Sherika.
In Palestine his sanitary schemes were almost universally adopted, and his award of a Military Cross hardly represents the great improvements he introduced into the sanitation and health of the Force. We were all very sorry to lose Tukie, but realised that his ability was wasted as a regimental doctor, and felt he was better employed at the citadel where he had more opportunity of using his great surgical powers. We only hope he didn’t drop cigarette ash into the interiors of his patients.
Others we lost far too soon were Ronnie Hutchison, O.C. Machine Gun Section, who went to the M.G.C. His favourite word of command was “Gallop,” and his joy to jump ditches and hedges with his carts; Pat Rigg and David Marshall, also Machine Gunners; Willie Don, who had to leave us in Egypt owing to heart trouble. His Grace of Canterbury himself could not have intoned words of command more melodiously than Willie did. Charlie Herdman, our finest exponent of horsemanship. He left us in Egypt to go to Remounts, and there he was absolutely in his element, horse, camel, and donkey-coping. Spreull the Vet., who went to the R.A.V.C. in France. Nor is anyone likely to forget “Daddy” Ricketts, the Q.M., if he ever tried to extract anything from his stores, or Gervase Babington (family motto “What is thine is mine”) if he happened to possess anything Gervase or his troop coveted.
“Ackety-ack”[6]—otherwise Willie Campbell—had one great failing. He could see no farther than A Squadron or A Company, and if anyone ran down “A” he foamed at the mouth. Ask him how many sergeants there were in No. 1 platoon—which won one of the inter-platoon football competitions—and he was abusive for a week! “Ackety” was perhaps seen at his best playing for the officers’ team. On the advice of the crowd, “Go for the man, sir, never mind the ball,” he invariably went for Collier or Herd or Dommett, the adjutant of the Somersets—each one quite two or more stone heavier than himself. He and “Aeroplane”[7] were well matched, nothing striking to look at but grand stayers. Willie was due for leave about the first week of January 1919, but as he had spent all his money, and about £200 of other people’s, on the men’s Christmas dinner, he had just to stay where he was from want of funds to take him home.
While at Sherika, Ross Robertson left us to join R.F.C. He was our first signal officer, and when he left was second in command B Squadron. We lost in Rossie a very capable and popular officer, and his death on his first solo over the German lines at Cambrai was keenly felt by the entire Regiment. Morning stables were of no interest to Rossie—all the energy he could raise was devoted to flicking the heads off the daisies in his lines, but give him a definite job to do and no one could do it better.
Unlike his successor, nothing could worry him—Bill Scott, on the other hand, took his telephones very seriously. Till the day he went home we pulled his leg about his ’phones. Ormy,[8] in particular, being lavish in advice as to what to do, and threatening to get Jock Clark if he (Scott) couldn’t do it.