Ormy was a great fellow. The less he knew about a subject, the more advice he would give and would argue the point ad nauseam. He was reading Law at the time—perhaps that is why.
Perhaps “Dinkum’s”[9] best bon mot was when he nicknamed M‘Dougal[10] the “Gallipoli Spider,” and Mac certainly had a wonderful knack of gathering all things into his web. Gallipoli gave him splendid opportunity for his Autolycus-like habits, and rumour has it that, though really ill with dysentery, he took off with him from Suvla seventeen ground sheets and nearly as many blankets. At Sherika, rather than lose his share of the ice, he took it with his tea.
Bombing was his strong point, and as an instructor in hand and rifle grenades he was first class. Routine he hated like poison. Mac is perhaps the only officer who was witty once—and only once—in his trench report. I don’t know if H.Q. see the point of his remarks to this day. He it was, who, having overshot the mark, and lost his way in Palestine, was shown back to our lines by a Turkish officer!
“George Washington,” Cummins,[11] “lost his nerve,” so he said, through being mauled by a lion in South Africa. This is purely supposition on his part, as he had no notion what nerves were. We sometimes wondered if he even knew what pain was. He was badly frost-bitten on Suvla, and had to be pushed off the Peninsula—at Sheria a bullet passed through his forearm and grazed his upper arm and ribs. He got it tied up, and continued with the advance, and then assisted wounded all night at the dressing-station. The C.O. ordered him to go to the Field Ambulance at once to have his wound seen to, but George put in four more hours before complying with the order.
At Fakenham an officer joined us from the Wild West—a cow-puncher and lassoo expert. The obvious name for him was Arizona;[12] and Arizona he remained. I have even heard him referred to as Captain Arizona. An enthusiast in whatever he took up, he was in turn scout officer, transport officer, Lewis gun officer, quartermaster and company commander. But it is as sports officer that he will be best remembered—training the football or running teams, coaching the tug-of-war, organising cricket or baseball, or arranging mule gymkhanas or swimming matches. One of his best efforts was coaching the tug-of-war team in the final against Lovats at Sohag. Only when his handkerchief was in his right hand were his instructions “genuine.”[13]—“Heave” with it in his left meant nothing, and completely mystified the opposing coach. Poor old Arizona! He went out with us to Gallipoli, and was with us to the very end. Shortly after coming home he had an operation on his broken nose, and everything seemed all right, but pleuritic pneumonia set in, and he died very suddenly in a nursing home in St Andrews in February of this year.
There is one officer about whom innumerable stories could be told—no need to mention his name. He, it was who, looking through a periscope, well below the parapet, waved to a Turkish deserter to come in, and could not understand how the Turk didn’t see him.
When he was mounting his horse one day it collapsed and died on the spot.
“That’s a funny thing, Sergeant Cooper; I’ve never known this horse do that before.”
“Will you take my punishment or go before a court-martial?” “Your award, Sir.”
“Well, go away, and don’t do it again!”