A huge touring-car rounded the road and stopped. The company commander, in magnificent tones, commanded them: “Company at-ten-shun. Open ranks. March.... Steady.... Front.”
He saluted Major-General Bumble, who had stepped out of the touring-car.
“How do you do, captain.”
The major-general, followed by his lieutenant, followed by another, followed by the company commander, followed by the first sergeant, walked pompously along the line of the front rank. The driver of the touring-car sent his car smoothly between the ranks. At the other end of the company the car stopped. The major-general, the lieutenant with the curled mustache, and another officer, climbed in and the car spurted away.
The ranks were closed, the company was reprimanded for its slovenly appearance and dismissed.
Instead of measuring up to the platoon’s conception of a rest camp, the routine was more like that of an intensive training camp. Each morning there were close-order drills, at which Sergeant Harriman would distinguish himself by giving the platoon a difficult command: “To the rear, squads right about, right by squads, on right into line,” he would proudly call off, ending with a very sharp “March!” For a while the platoon obeyed, and in an orderly manner carried out the command. One day, after Sergeant Harriman had given the command of execution, the right guide of the platoon continued to march forward.
“What’s the matter there, right guide? Can’t you hear? Platoon, halt!”
Sergeant Harriman hurried forward and stood before the guide. “What the devil is the matter? You ought to know that command by this time.”
The right guide spoke: “There is no such command any more.”
“What do you mean? How dare you!” Sergeant Harriman was exasperated. The guide was calm.