[pg 142]
CHAPTER XIII.
TRAINING FOR WAR.
The soldier of to-day is a very different person to the one of fifty years ago. In the past, all that was asked of a Tommy was clean buttons, a padded chest, and handling of arms. To-day, the soldier is equal to the officer of Wellington's time. His brain is a well-packed encyclopedia on everything from minor tactics to sanitary duties in war. In the past, he was a machine—a splendid machine; now he is an individualist, one trained to use his science in such a way that he feels that upon his conduct the fate of a battle depends. Many stripes have been lost, and many hearts broken, in the achievement of this necessary standard; but, thank Heaven, common-sense has come to stay. It is now practically impossible for an officer to hide his inefficiency [pg 143] under a mask of haughty reserve. Modern tactics demand that he shall teach his men the alphabet of military affairs, as well as those side-issues which count so much in the making of a soldier. Mental superiority and physical efficiency are the only qualities which can inspire loyalty, discipline, and confidence. Of course, the strain is hard, especially upon an officer. Too hard, perhaps, when one thinks of the niggardly pay and the chance of losing one's life in the tender and more useful years. Nevertheless, it is mighty interesting and equally amusing. Imagine a corps like the Glesca Mileeshy suddenly mobilised and ordered to train and become fit within three months. Fortunately Colonel Corkleg was a resourceful and a clever man. He commenced at the bottom—that is, on the square. It is there that obedience and discipline are developed and perfected. When a regiment can march and drill like the Guards' Brigade, there is no fear for its conduct in the sternest battle. This was the colonel's reasoning, and all agreed that he was correct. Each company then went out to march and drill. Let us study a sample. This was Captain Coronet's company. [pg 144] His colour-sergeant, known as Fiery Dick, was a regular terror. This valiant was supported by Sergeants Maloney, O'Dooley, M'Sappy, and Greegor. Very tough gents, I assure you. If they lacked a knowledge of the three R's and perfection in the King's English, they could bash their sections about in the most vigorous style. The preliminary address of Fiery Dick was interesting.
"Look 'ere, you funny bundles of humanity, you've got to drill like soldiers, not like fishermen. And when I says ''Shun,' I means ''Shun.' None of your hankey-pankey tricks, such as wiping your wet noses on your sleeve, or keeking round the corner for a smell of the canteen. Stand erect, head still, eyes to your front, and puff out your chest. Keep your thumbs in line with the seam of your trousers, not inside of the next man's pocket. Remember, pickpocketing's not allowed in His Majesty's Service. If you want a bob, I'll lend you one—and charge you interest. Now—'Shun!" This evidently was not perfect. "Here, O'Riley, don't squint at me like that. That's dumb insolence. Won't have it. None of your moonlighter tricks here."
[pg 145] "To the divil wid ye," muttered O'Riley, who was a bit of a hard case.
"Take his name, Sergeant Maloney. I'll teach him not to talk back in the ranks. Squad—'Shun!" There was now a stillness that pleased the professional eye.
"Not bad for Militiamen. Now we'll try the slope. Look slippy! Chuck it about. It won't bite you. And don't wobble your head like a looney in the asylum. Squad—Slope. Macsausage, wait for the last word—you're too slippy—expect you've been a bookie in civil life, always slipping the cops. Stand still, Private Rednose. Squad—Slope—arms!" There was a weird attempt at precision. Weird is the word, for Fiery Dick immediately bellowed, "As you were." They tumbled back to the order again. "You for soldiers—you're like a lot of monkeys gettin' up a pole. But I'll teach you—Double march." Off they galloped round the square, to the grim delight of Dick, who heaved his chest with martial pride, and followed their antics with his eyes. "Double," he roared, as they slacked a little. "Who told you to crawl like worms? Hi, M'Ginty, you're rolling like a bloomin' old fishwife. O'Riley, I'll get [pg 146] a stretcher for you, you lazy spud-eating Paddy."
"Ach, to H—— wid you," shouted back O'Riley.
"Halt!" roared Dick, aflame with military wrath. "What do you mean, talking back to a Non-Commissioned Officer?"
"Yis couldn't drill my ould cat," leered O'Riley in a fearless way.