‘Have you any papers dealing with Cadet John Brown?’
‘Yes, sir. Came a fortnight ago.’
‘Thank you. That’s all.’ The clerk went out.
‘Oh, it’s all right, Brown. Just go over to No. 1 Company. You’ll see Sergeant-Major Smartem there. He’ll fix you up. Good luck!’ he concluded with a genial smile.
I saluted and went out, marvelling at the methods of the British Army.
I dug out the sergeant-major, and again announced that I was John Brown.
‘That’s a fine name to go to bed with.’
‘It’s the one my mother gave me.’
‘Oh, well, you can’t help it. Here’s your blankets; there’s your bed. You’ll get your equipment to-morrow. Shove this white band on your cap. Tea’s at five o’clock. The lavatory’s down there. That’s the canteen over yonder. And when you want writing-paper, hymns, or free salvation, there’s a Y.M.C.A. down the road. Now, push off—John Brown.’
I was extremely grateful for all this information in tabloid form, but I had a lurking suspicion that my name was going to be a subject of rude jest. However, I am an optimist. I pitched my bag into a corner of the hut, pulled out a little book called The Pleasures of Hope, and commenced to read till tea-time. But I was disturbed. Cadet after cadet came filing in. They were all new and rather green, except one man, called Beefy Jones.