At Suvla Bay | Page 7

that, having been a scout,
I was able to instruct the signalling squad.
Route marches and field-days were a relief from the drill square. For
five months we got no issue of khaki. Many of the men were through at
the knees, and tattered at the elbows. Some were buttonless and patched.
I had to put a patch in my shorts. Our civilian boots were wearing
out--some were right through. Heels came off when they "right turned,"
others had their soles flapping as they marched.
My "batman," who cleaned my boots and swept out the bunk, had his
trousers held together with a huge safety-pin. The people called us
"Kitchener's Rag-time Army." We became so torn, and worn, and
ragged, that it was impossible to go out in the town. Being the only one
in scout rig-out I drew much attention.
"'Ere 'e comes, Moik-ell!"
"Kitchener's cowboy! Isn't he lovely!"
"Bejazus! so-it-is!"
"Come an' see Path-rick--Kitchener's cowboy!--by-the-holy-sufferin'-
jazus!"
I found an old curio-shop down near the docks, and here I used to
rummage among the gilded Siamese idols, and the painted African
gods and drums. I discovered some odd parts of A Thousand-and-One
Arabian Nights, which I bought for a penny or two, and took back to
my barrack-room to read. By this means I forgot the gray square, and
the gray line of the barracks outside, and the bare boards and yellow-
washed walls within.
I used to practise "slipping" the guard at the guard-room gate. This
form of amusement became quite exciting, and I was never caught at it.
Next I got a very old and worn copy of the Koran.

By this time I was a full-blown sergeant. I made a mistake in walking
into the sergeants' mess with the Koran under my arm. It was difficult
to explain what sort of book it was. One day the regimental sergeant-
major said--
"You know, Hargrave, I can't make you out."
"No, sir?"
"No;--you're not a soldier, you never will be--you act the part pretty
well. But you don't take things seriously enough."
We were often out on the Clare Mountains for field-days with the
stretcher-squads. Coming back one day, I spotted two herons wading
among some yellow-ochre sedges in a swampy field. I determined there
and then to come back and stalk them. The following Saturday I set out
with a fellow we called "Cherry Blossom," because he never cleaned
his boots. I took a pair of field-glasses, and "Cherry" had a bag of
pastries, which we bought on the way. We stalked those herons for
hours and hours. We crept through the reeds, hid behind trees, and
crawled into bushes, but the herons were better scouts. We only got
about fifty yards up to one. For all that, it was like my old scout
life--and we had had a break from the gray walls and the everlasting
saluting of officers.
There were rumours of war, and that's all we knew of it. There were
fresh rumours each day. We were going to Egypt. We were to be sent
to the East Coast for "home defence." That offended our martial ardour.
When were we going out? Should we ever get out? Had we got to do
squad drill for "duration"? Had Kitchener forgotten the Xth Division?
Now and then a batch of men were put into khaki which arrived at the
quartermaster's stores in driblets. Some had greeny puttees and sandy
slacks, a "civvy" coat and a khaki cap. Others were rigged out in
"Kitchener's workhouse blue," with little forage caps on one side. The
sprinkling of khaki and khaki-browns and greens increased every time
we came on parade: until one day the whole of the three field
ambulances were fitted out.

The drill went on like clockwork. It was as if some curse had fallen
upon us. The officers were "fed up" you could see.
And now, just a word as to army methods. Immediately opposite the
barracks was a cloth factory, which was turning out khaki uniforms for
the Government every day.
For five months we went about in civilian clothes. We were a disgrace
as we marched along. Yet because no order had been given to that
factory to supply us with uniforms, we had to wait till the uniforms had
been shipped to England, and then sent back to Ireland for us to wear!
The spark of patriotism which was in each man when he enlisted was
dead. We detested the army, we hated the routine, we were sickened
and dulled and crushed by drill.
The old habit of being always on the alert for anything picturesque
saved me from idiotcy. Whenever opportunity offered, or whenever I
could take French leave, I went off with sketchbook and pencil, and
forgot for a time the horror