Cadet schools are not perfect military academies; nevertheless, they are interesting resorts. This school was not only a fount of learning, but a school for manners and—in a way—a minor university. Although, as I have said, I was a student of ‘osophies and ‘ologies before the war, the discovery that my knowledge was limited soon came to me. This is a happy condition, and the only basis whereon to achieve future success. For all that, I am no groveller at the feet of lecturers. An officer must form his own opinions, and if I am going to be of any use in this military business, I must riddle the wheat from the chaff, and gather the harvest into my store. To be independent in thought is not uppish. It is personality! Personality is the whole thing in war, but never despise—the other fellow.
Now I have to make a confession. Before the war, when I was blundering around with golf-clubs and feminine charmers, the Brigade of Guards often passed my way. This seemed a wonderful machine, officered by men whom I imagined to be Beau Brummells and Byrons. Well-drilled automatons was all I thought of them. To me they were just fancy soldiers and ornaments of the Court. But who would say that now? Think of Ypres! And remember Cambrai! When the line was broken and my brigade was ‘bu’st,’ they came up like Trojans. They crossed the lines of trenches almost dressing by the right. Their faces were set, their bayonets shone, and they dived into hell and destruction with a valour that was amazing. They saved the British Army—and fifty men on the General Staff their jobs.
Salute the Guards!
Now, at this school where I, John Brown, was sent to learn the arts of war, our sergeant-major was from the Scots Guards. He was a wonderful man! When he drilled us I hated him like the Kaiser, but when he had finished with us I felt a smarter man. Beefy Jones and I agreed that Sergeant-Major Kneesup was much too German, and yet, somehow, we wouldn’t have given him to the Germans for quids. Oh, he was a big fish on parade. In appearance he was like a well-cut statue. His eyes were of the X-ray kind. He could tell when there was a hole in your socks, or cotton-wool (instead of a heavy great-coat) in your pack. When he shouted he was like a fog-horn, and every command was finished with a click that gave you the jumps. Before we went on parade we cursed him, and vowed we would see him far enough before we jumped about like automatic toys; but when we got there he simply threw us about like kids. The man was a marvel.
That first parade! Oh, what a nightmare! Some of us were a bit late, for in the army you’ve got to be standing on parade five minutes before the hour allotted. The S.M. said nothing, but when the hour struck he bellowed ‘Shun!’ in a way that made half of us drop our rifles with fright.
‘Pick ‘em up! Pick ‘em up! Look sharp!’
I gripped my gun with a shiver, and knew the squad were about to enter Dante’s Inferno.
‘Squad!... Shun!... As you were!’ he roared. ‘When I say “Shun!” come up to it.... There’s cobwebs in your brains, and wax in your ears.... Stand still, that man with the egg on his mouth, and hair like Caruso.... I can see all of you.... I am a blankety octopus, I am.
‘Squad!... Shun!... Still!... Not a move!... There’s a long-nosed gentleman twiddling his little fingers as if he’s got St Vitus Dance.... This isn’t a home for epileptics or a sanatorium for delirium tremens.... It’s an officers’ school, and I belong to the Brigade of Guards.... Twenty-five years’ service, five medals, and the D.C.M.... I’ve drilled kings, princes, field-marshals, yokels, and hobos; and, by Gawd! I’ll drill you off the face of the earth.... By the right—quick march!’ And off we stepped.
‘He’s a bit thick,’ mumbled Beefy to me.