"Very good, sir," replied Grain, disappearing with the transport sergeant. He returned two days later with 107 thoroughbred hunters, Clydesdales, and roadsters. The colonel gasped when he [pg 92] saw them on the square, and promptly stood the subaltern a drink.
"Useful man, that Grain," he said to the adjutant that night. "The O.T.C. has been kind to us, if they've been unkind to other regiments. Get him gazetted lieutenant."
This was one instance of the work of mobilisation. And mobilisation, I can assure you, is enough to send men to the grave. Think of gathering 1200 men, then fitting them out for war. Trousers came from Pimlico, buttons from Birmingham, thread from Timbuctoo, jackets from the sewing-rooms of the Hebrews, while rifles came in instalments from Woolwich, Stirling, Ashanti, and Lahore. Shovels were found in the ironmongers next the barracks; shirts were collared in the nearest emporium; plates, basins, knives, forks, and spoons were found in the fish and chip bazaars of the town. "Buy locally," was the order from the C.O.O.—(the Chief Ordnance Officer)—a very important personage, whose duty is to supply everything, from siege guns to bed pans. Imagine the worry! The Quartermaster took heart disease and died; the Quartermaster-Sergeant got drunk and [pg 93] was reduced, and so the work devolved upon a faithful corporal and a few intelligent aides. But the work went on, for Colonel Corkleg was a soldier. He might easily have given Napoleon points in organisation for war.
Accommodation was also difficult. No more tents could be had. Twenty men were therefore crammed into these little canvas homes. To avoid a plague and prevent bloodshed, the colonel ordered all men to place their socks outside the tents. If you know the Militia you will understand. But even tents have their limits. The newer arrivals had to be billeted in the homes of the citizens near by. These Weary Willies lolled in their feather beds like princes. It was a hustling time. The colonel cursed from reveille till tattoo. Still, in seven days he had the job done, and wired to the War Office—"Ready."
Back came the reply, "Proceed at once to Mudtown, for Coast Defence."
"Coast Defence!" muttered the old colonel, purple with rage. "Coast Defence!...!...?..."
His after-remarks cannot be printed, for he was a true soldier. He wanted to see Red [pg 94] Blood—not the billets of a seaside town. He could handle his men in a battle like a boy playing "bools," but billets, he knew, meant worry, trouble, and crime. Still, orders were orders, and he at once obeyed. In three hours the regiment stood in marching order, and to the tune of "Hielan' Laddie" blithely marched to the train. It was followed by thousands—wives, sweethearts, mothers, and friends. There were tears, cheers, and jeers.
"Here's a scone, Jimmy, keep up yer heirt," said an old budie, throwing a tartan-coloured scone to her son.
"Hie, you!" shouted a woman in a shawl to a roguish-looking private with an amorous leer in his eye.
"Me!" he answered mockingly.