"Take the name of the fat, red-headed man—third from the right of Number Eight. Give him marked drill. That will teach him."
"Battalion—'Shun. Slope—arms. By the right, quick—march." Any man who quivered an eyelid or turned his eyes the eighth of an inch was promptly collared and marked for drill. Up and down they went, neither looking to the left nor to the right, as if in terror of their lives. The bailies of a hundred towns, with all the men in blue, had tried to quell and train this same material, but it had been left to Colonel [pg 150] Corkleg to instil into them that orders were orders. Discipline—discipline, and obedience, the holy watchword of His Majesty's men. From a sullen, slovenly, careless gang of devil-may-care cut-throats and vagabonds, he whacked them into a regiment of steady, proud, and sterling men. And he did not hesitate to curse them. He knew his men. There was not a sense of cruelty or spite in Colonel Corkleg's soul. He was a gentleman, but he knew that these men were the victims of environment. In their dreary crime-and drink-sodden homes they had learned to emulate the law-breaker, to idolise the criminal, and applaud the football god. Their philosophy was material—necessarily so: for poverty made them steal; environment sent them out to seek the heat of the ale-house and the shelter of the jail. Brutes, some people would call them. But they had never seen these men dying on the sands of Egypt or on the plains of Hindostan. Colonel Corkleg had. While he cursed them in his stern way, that was simply because these men knew no other tongue. In his heart he loved them as his own children. They had stuck to him in many a bloody combat. He knew this same type would [pg 151] stick to him again. Yes, and the men loved him, too. They were shrewd. A cruel world had given them a keen perception. One look at a man and they knew him to be friend or foe. Many a time old Corkleg had met them on the open road and stopped his high-stepping mare to give them a lift and the price of their doss. Often had Colonel Corkleg amazed his guests at his country-seat by hauling a dirty old blackguard off the highway and introducing him as "one of his boys."
Having steadied them up at drill, the regiment was then initiated into the wonders of modern war. First came musketry. Musketry was never good in the British Army till the War Office made a soldier shoot for his pay. This truly brilliant thought made Thomas Atkins spot the bull as he never did before. Those who hitherto spent their lives in tasting ale realised that during musketry they had to study abstinence and do with a pint a day—a great sacrifice on the part of such men. Next they discovered the difference between the line of sight and the trajectory. This kept them low—dead on at six o'clock. The ribbons on their caps, or the fluttering flags [pg 152] on the range, gave all the tip of the wind; while the wonders of the wind-gauge aided in getting the bullets into the best billets every time. All of these theories were amply explained by the N.C.O.'s, who had learned the latest crazes from "The madmen of Hythe." Those queer professors of the art of shooting went to bed with their rifles. They wallowed in cartridges, and prayed for new ideas to get the British Army bulls. And to the horror of all thirsty privates they invented green-and khaki-coloured targets at which the soldier had to pop to qualify for his pay. Standing, kneeling, lying, and sitting, the Tommy was expected to hit the khaki specks on the landscape. Rapid fire was another theme, while grouping, and cones of fire, they argued, were the theories to win a modern war. Very excellent, but, at first, annoying to those who had been used to firing volleys and keeping their cartridges still till they saw "the whites of the enemy's eyes." Yet, in time, all realised that the madmen of Hythe were right, and so the British Army has become the finest shooting force in the world.
Of course, the best-regulated systems are [pg 153] liable to fraud. Spud Tamson proved that. While marking at the butts, under the officer of the day, he found that a pencil pushed sharply through the target resembled the puncture of a bullet. Now this was a great discovery. It meant salvation to many of his pals who were third-class shots. It also indicated to Tamson the road to a lucrative income by charging so much per head for every bull that he secured by the aid of his pencil. Naturally there were risks, but Tamson was willing to take them. To ensure success, he squared his orderly sergeant to get him the job of permanent marker at the butts. Having accomplished that, Spud intimated to many hopeless aspirants for first-class shot that he could pull them through, and thus secure them the threepence a day which is the reward for musketry efficiency. He put dozens through his hands; indeed, he was so zealous that not a third-class shot was found in many of the companies.
"This is really marvellous shooting, sir," said the A.A.G. to the G.O.C. one day during this regiment's course. "Not a third-class shot, so far."
"Don't believe it. There's something [pg 154] wrong there," quickly observed the general, who knew the rifle upside down. "I'll test this regiment to-day," he concluded, putting on his cap and making for the range. There he found a company doing great things at the game. Bull after bull was going up to the delight of all, especially Colonel Corkleg, who was proud of his men's achievement.
"Here, my lad," said the G.O.C. to a blind-looking man firing at a target, "give me your rifle." Lying down, the general fired two shots.
"What's that?" he inquired casually.
"Two bulls, sir," answered the colonel.
"Bulls, eh?"