Talking of civilian hats, by the way, my particular class of soldier, never spoilt by over-fussing, has dismal expectations as to the finale. We feel that, when the other side sees light and is prepared to submit to judgment, with costs, we shall be the last to leave for home, and when we get there all the beer will be sold out.
Meanwhile I'm going along nicely, and by saying nothing but looking a lot I've created quite an air of importance around me, which induces all sorts of regimental officers to salute me at first sight and to wish they hadn't on further acquaintance. It's an ever-increasing difficulty, this matter of saluting: in a part of the world where there's a General round every other corner I can never make up my mind on the spur of the moment what to do about Majors and suchlike. Some like a salute, others don't. I have invented a gesture of my own which is entirely non-committal and gives satisfaction to both. Those who don't look for a salute put it down to an excess of geniality; those who do expect one put it down to ignorance combined with anxiety to please.
Only once has it got me into trouble so far. The occasion is worth mentioning, since I was at the time talking to a General in a public place. (Yes, there we were, talking away about nothing in particular, "conversing," I might say, just as it might have been you and myself passing the time of day. Very impressive). A Major, one of the expectant sort, came up from behind the General; when he was within distance of the august back he saluted it. It was one of those salutes which could be felt, but, as it happened, the General didn't feel it. The problem at once arose, what was I to do, with the Major's stony eye full upon me? The waggle, obviously, but in a modified degree, since it doesn't do to be fidgetting with your hands when you're being talked to by your elders and betters. I went through the motions, therefore, meaning them to mean that, though I was chatting with a General, yet I wasn't above saluting a Major. He mistook the movement, however, and thought that I thought that, because I was chatting with a General, therefore he'd saluted me! My goodness, we nearly lost the War that time!
But don't you believe all this talk about military discipline. Take the case of my own Colonel, for instance, a man who, before he took to staff work, had probably dug enough trenches, put out enough barbed wire and, generally, made enough mess of respectable agricultural land to earn for himself a special vote of censure from the United Association of French and Belgian Farmers. Now, there's a soldier, if ever there was one; but are his orders obeyed when they don't fit in with the convenience of his subordinates?
You shall judge for yourself. The other day he made up his mind, not casually or by the way, but in writing, duly signed, sealed and circulated, that "The moon will rise to-morrow at 4.43 A.M." Did the moon comply? No, Sir, it did not; I'm told it was absent from parade altogether. Did my Colonel put it under arrest? Did he even call for its reasons in writing? Again, no. On the contrary, he weakly gave in, saying that he'd got the time out of an almanack supplied by his Insurance Company, and that "the man from the Insurance" was to blame for sticking the pages together and getting him into an inappropriate month. What I say is an order's an order, and it is nothing to do with the moon where the Colonel gets his ideas from.
Call it fear or favour, I only know that when I'm informed that I am to rise at 5 A.M. to-morrow morning, and, with no intention of disobeying, I ask very quietly and very politely if they remember that this is March and not July, at the very least I shall be told that I ought to be ashamed of being a civilian instead of openly behaving as such. Yours ever, Henry.
ANOTHER INDISPENSABLE.
The war artist's model.