At present my poor friend Cook is sitting in the Company Mess with his thoughts all of the inside of Army prisons, instead of the glowing pictures he used to have of himself exchanging his battle-bowler for the headgear of civilisation. He says I'm responsible for his state of mind, because I first put the idea into his head. Well, I did; but I don't see how you can blame the fellow who filled the shell if some silly ass hits it on the nose-cap with a hammer.
It started like this. After the Demobilisation General Post had sounded Cook spent his time writing to everybody who did not know him well enough to down his chances, filled up all the forms in triplicate and packed his valise ready to start off any time of the day or night for England, home and wholesale hardware, which is his particular pivot. I may say here that nominally this business is run by him and his brother, and the fact that they are now both in the Army is probably the chief reason why the manager in charge is able to make the business pay. However, you know what people are; if they draw receipts from a business nothing will persuade them but that they must be there, "on the spot you know," to "look after it." So, seeing his face grow longer and longer as the days went by without the Quarter-Master coming round and handing him his ration trilby hat, civvy suit and the swagger cane he hopes for, I said, "Why don't you put in for two months' business leave?"
The air was at once rent with a fearful rush of leaves of his A.B. 153, and he ceased to take any interest in his platoon from that moment. In vain I urged upon him the consummate folly of neglecting to inquire more closely into the case of a reprobate in No. 11 Platoon who had so far forgotten all sense of discipline as to set out his kit with haversack on the left instead of the right (or vice-versâ, I forget which, but the Sergeant-Major spotted it.). He even went the length of saying he didn't care a cuss; and when I asked him sarcastically if he had forgotten the Platoon Commander's pamphlet-bible, "Am I offensive enough?" he said he thought he was, and I agreed with him.
When the whole mess-room was simply a-flutter with torn-out leaves from his A.B. 153, representing his abortive attempts to put down his application succinctly and plausibly, we all began to take an interest in his case. We crowded round and offered him most valuable hints. Together we got through two very pleasant evenings and three or four A.B.'s 153, and still the application remained in a tentative state. We got on all right to start with, but it was after the "I have the honour to submit for the approval and recommendation of the Commanding Officer this my application for two months' business leave" that we got stuck.
Of course I know it was no use, anyway. I have seen these things go forward before. They have no chance.
It was then that a stroke of genius (unfortunate, as it turned out, but a stroke of genius nevertheless) occurred to me. "Why not say that your manager is a complete fool and in his hands the business is going to rack and ruin?" I said. He bit at it like a tiger, and only the law of libel prevented him putting it into execution there and then; but all the same we had a jolly fine argument (six of us) about it for some three hours, and nobody got put out of the room for introducing acrimony into the discussion.
Finally, he said that he was sure his brother wouldn't mind his saying it about him, and the application went in as follows:—
To Adjutant, First Crackshire Regt.
Sir,—I have the honour to submit for the approval and recommendation of the Commanding Officer this my application for two months' business leave in the following special circumstances:—
The necessity of my presence in the business (wholesale hardware) has become more and more urgent of late. It is imperative that I should get home at once owing to the total incapability of my partner to carry out simple directions which are dictated by letters, and it is no exaggeration to say that the business, which has been built up almost entirely by my efforts, must inevitably collapse unless it receives my personal attention at once.