"Yes, sir," replied the adjutant.
The journey to Mudtown was a long one—sufficiently long to allow some of the inebriates time to soak into their bodies a few "hauf mutchkins" and some bottles of Bass. This refreshment, with the heat and roll of the train, quickly let loose the lung-power of the crowd. They sang, danced, and yelled with a devilish delight, and at times threatened disaster to every window and every N.C.O. in the carriages. Poor Spud Tamson shivered in his corner. He was in charge of eight tough-looking pirates, who knew neither fear nor pain. Fortunately they regarded Spud's stripe as a necessary evil, and eventually left him alone. And so pandemonium reigned till Mudtown came in sight. The fame of the Glesca Mileeshy had travelled before them. There was no [pg 99] civic welcome. The Provost had locked his chain and robes of office up in his safe; while his nervous citizens sat fearfully in their little suburban homes. In every manse the minister prayed for guidance in the coming trials; while every mother gathered her daughters round and told them that, on no account, must they go out at nights. They became still more alarmed when the news trickled round that the regiment was to be billeted in church halls, picture houses, and other public buildings near. It was monstrous, they argued. How dare the War Office do such a thing? They would protest. Poor ignorant souls, they did not know their danger. They never realised the perils of invasion; nor the fact that they had in their midst the toughest and finest bunch of fighters in the British Army. Drunkards and devils, may be, but soldiers to a man. Meantime, the tradesmen of Mudtown beamed with delight. They had no use or time for the men as men, but they were delighted with the prospect of a boom in trade. And, of course, the publicans were careful to hoist the Union Jack above their barrels, and put out the sign, "All Soldiers Welcome Here."
A bugle-call in Mudtown Station was the [pg 100] signal to get out of the train. The men rolled, jumped, and staggered down. The more merry chorused—
"I'm fu' the noo, I'm absolutely fu',
But I adore the country I was born in.
My name is Jock M'Craw,
But I dinnae care a straw,
For I've something in the bottle for the mornin'."
"Silence," roared the mountainous Sergeant-Major Fireworks. His voice made the station tremble, and the men gave a perceptible shiver as they fell into the ranks. Sergeant-Majors are wonderful men.
"Form fours—right," ordered the colonel, and into the town stepped the famous corps of Militiamen. They staggered bravely on till the halt was given in a sort of square. There the billeting officer met them, and issued the accommodation orders. The regiment then divided to the various halls and billets in the town. Spud Tamson found himself and his company in an old church, and, strange to say, he was allotted the pulpit as his doss. This was hardly in keeping with his theology, but such is the fortune of war. Another company was shoved into an old picture house, the platform of which was promptly captured as a [pg 101] rendezvous for card-playing and clog dancing. Barns, stables, and old manor-houses accommodated the remaining companies. Flower gardens were immediately converted into cook-houses; wash-houses became colour-sergeants' parlours, and old closets were cornered as the special quarters of such important people as the cooks and pioneers. A disused backyard with a tarpaulin over was transformed into the quartermaster's stores. This quickly became a centre of curiosity. Citizens were much interested and amused to observe ration parties coming out from this place, their loaves of bread in somewhat doubtful blankets, and great chunks of juicy red beef in their horny hands. Hunger, however, is "good sauce, while plain feeding means high thinking,"—so the philosophers say. Colonel Corkleg sometimes disagreed about the high thinking. In fact, he believed that the issue of one pound of beef per man was designed to give soldiers a primitive lust for blood.
It is easy to imagine the difficulties of training, organising, and disciplining a battalion in billets. It is like trying to make alligators out of snakes. Men get into all sorts of corners when they ought to be on [pg 102] parade. Visitors are also a nuisance. Maiden ladies will insist on entering to read the New Testament while the men are careering round in their somewhat spare night attire. Deputations frequently arrive with shortbread and liquid refreshments for their pals just as the colonel is making his inspection. And the night-birds find the windows a convenient exit into the darkness where they may pursue the antics of the owl. Can you wonder, then, that the officers felt depressed? Still, difficulties are made to be conquered, and Colonel Corkleg determined to conquer them. Sergeant-Major Fireworks and Sergeant Bludgeon would see to that.
Meantime the regiment, like the civil population of the country, was most excited about the German advance. Belgium was to be invaded, Paris taken, next London, and then—Mudtown. So there was really a chance of seeing service in their own native land. That was a solace to the bloodthirsty warriors. During many of these discussions in the billets some wag incidentally remarked that Mudtown was crammed full of German waiters.
"Germans! Whaur?" queried the patriotic Spud.
[pg 103] "In a' the hotels," replied the informer, Micky Cameron by name.