‘But he always said, “Yes, sir.” He always smiled. His trust was embarrassing, and his docility staggering. To us, his masters, jailers, and martinets, he yielded a homage which made us feel like gods. His very willingness made us misjudge him and think him a fool. “No guts” was a term frequently on our lips. We, with the vanity of the old and tried, could not see that he was of our blood, our faith, our schooling, our patriotism, and our pride. Of these virtues we imagined we had the monopoly. What insolence! What fools we were!
‘But we were worried about the war.
‘In those anxious, awful days we had no rifles, no uniforms, no equipment to spare; no brass bands, no flashing swords or coloured fripperies of rank and standing. Yet this amazing youth was undaunted. He shoved dummy guns into the hands of his platoon, made trenches with fire-shovels and trowels, used living brigadiers for targets, and gave the command, “At the enemy—at four hundred—fire!” The brigadiers woke up and—smiled. The imagination of the New Officer was helpful. He could talk, for he was educated. And he pictured German armies on the move, German hordes at the double, and to meet them roused his civvy-clad platoon to the heights of devilry and daring, then charged with his little bamboo cane—to glory.
‘By Gad! he always won.
‘Even then we doubted him. We somehow felt he wouldn’t “pan out.” Most excellent for the Boys’ Brigade, or the like; but for a war—well, we should see! At last the uniforms came, the rifles too; but somebody forgot the ammunition. He said, “Oh, that’s the bally War Office again. Let’s carry on with these dummy clips.” Standing, lying, kneeling, and sitting, he taught the wonders of rapid fire, and how to make a “group” on the square head of the pimple-dotted Boche. Jules Verne wasn’t in it! His men made bull’s-eyes on the colonel’s tummy, and riddled the nether regions of the twenty-stone quartermaster.
‘Then we called him a ruddy swanker.
‘For all that, he went on. The fellow was clean mad to “get out.” We said, “Yes, when we’ve put you through the mill.” And we did! We froze him on the ranges; soaked him on parade; tore his feet on the route march; and almost broke the valves of his heart charging mountains, and doubling for miles in heavy marching order. But he stuck it, and when he came in, stood us a drink, and said, “D—— it all, do send us to the Front, sir!”
‘We commenced to think he wasn’t bad.
‘And then he started to think and to do things, for he felt his feet on firmer ground. Red tape he damned. For example, he got fed up ending his letters: “I have the honour to be, sir, your obedient servant, William Winkie.” And he introduced this reform: “Yours truly, W. Winkie.”
‘We were shocked, of course. The other had been done since the time of Moses. This was a most atrocious outrage against the all-holy conventions. An explanation was immediately demanded—in writing. He replied: “I’m a business man, and there’s a war on.”