“It ought to be five eight, height, thirty-eight, chest, and twenty-four years, age. What is it?” Bayley asked of a Private.
“Five nine and half, Sir, thirty-nine, twenty-four and a half,” was the reply, and he added insolently, “En état de partir.” Evidently that F.S. corps was on its mettle ready for the worst.
“What about their musketry average?” I went on.
“Not my pidgin,” said Bayley. “But they wouldn’t be in the corps a day if they couldn’t shoot; I know that much. Now I’m going to go through ’em for socks and slippers.”
The kit-inspection exceeded anything I had ever dreamed. I drifted from company to company while the Guard officers oppressed them. Twenty per cent, at least, of the kits were shovelled out on the grass and gone through in detail.
“What have they got jumpers and ducks for?” I asked of Harrison.
“For Fleet work, of course. En état de partir with an F. S. corps means they are amphibious.”
“Who gives ’em their kit—Government?”
“There is a Government allowance, but no C. O. sticks to it. It’s the same as paint and gold-leaf in the Navy. It comes out of some one’s pockets. How much does your kit cost you?”—this to the private in front of us.
“About ten or fifteen quid every other year, I suppose,” was the answer.