Kitcheners Mob | Page 3

the army because they can do
nothing else. There were, in fact, a good many of these. I soon learned,
however, that the general out-at-elbows appearance was due to another
cause. A genial Cockney gave me the hint.
"'Ave you joined up, matey?" he asked.
I told him that I had.
"Well, 'ere's a friendly tip for you. Don't wear them good clo'es w'en
you goes to the depot. You won't see 'em again likely, an' if you gets
through the war you might be a-wantin' of 'em. Wear the worst rags you
got."
I profited by the advice, and when I fell in, with the other recruits for
the Royal Fusiliers, I felt much more at my ease.
CHAPTER II
ROOKIES
"A mob" is genuinely descriptive of the array of would-be soldiers
which crowded the long parade-ground at Hounslow Barracks during
that memorable last week in August. We herded together like so many
sheep. We had lost our individuality, and it was to be months before we
regained it in a new aspect, a collective individuality of which we
became increasingly proud. We squeak-squawked across the barrack
square in boots which felt large enough for an entire family of feet. Our
khaki service dress uniforms were strange and uncomfortable. Our

hands hung limply along the seams of our pocketless trousers. Having
no place in which to conceal them, and nothing for them to do, we tried
to ignore them. Many a Tommy, in a moment of forgetfulness, would
make a dive for the friendly pockets which were no longer there. The
look of sheepish disappointment, as his hands slid limply down his
trouser-legs, was most comical to see. Before many days we learned the
uses to which soldiers' hands are put. But for the moment they seemed
absurdly unnecessary.
We must have been unpromising material from the military point of
view. That was evidently the opinion of my own platoon sergeant. I
remember, word for word, his address of welcome, one of soldier-like
brevity and pointedness, delivered while we stood awkwardly at
attention on the barrack square.
"Lissen 'ere, you men! I've never saw such a raw, roun'-shouldered
batch o' rookies in fifteen years' service. Yer pasty-faced an' yer
thin-chested. Gawd 'elp 'Is Majesty if it ever lays with you to save 'im!
'Owever, we're 'ere to do wot we can with wot we got. Now, then, upon
the command, 'Form Fours,' I wanna see the even numbers tyke a pace
to the rear with the left foot, an' one to the right with the right foot. Like
so: 'One-one-two!' Platoon! Form Fours! Oh! Orful! Orful! As y' were!
As y' were!"
If there was doubt in the minds of any of us as to our rawness, it was
quickly dispelled by our platoon sergeants, regulars of long standing,
who had been left in England to assist in whipping the new armies into
shape. Naturally, they were disgruntled at this, and we offered them
such splendid opportunities for working off overcharges of spleen. We
had come to Hounslow, believing that, within a few weeks' time, we
should be fighting in France, side by side with the men of the first
British expeditionary force. Lord Kitchener had said that six months of
training, at the least, was essential. This statement we regarded as
intentionally misleading. Lord Kitchener was too shrewd a soldier to
announce his plans; but England needed men badly, immediately. After
a week of training, we should be proficient in the use of our rifles. In
addition to this, all that was needed was the ability to form fours and

march, in column of route, to the station where we should entrain for
Folkestone or Southampton, and France.
As soon as the battalion was up to strength, we were given a day of
preliminary drill before proceeding to our future training area in Essex.
It was a disillusioning experience. Equally disappointing was the
undignified display of our little skill, at Charing Cross Station, where
we performed before a large and amused London audience. For my
own part, I could scarcely wait until we were safely hidden within the
train. During the journey to Colchester, a re-enlisted Boer War veteran,
from the inaccessible heights of South African experience, enfiladed us
with a fire of sarcastic comment.
"I'm a-go'n' to transfer out o' this 'ere mob, that's wot I'm a go'n' to do!
Soldiers! S'y! I'll bet a quid they ain't a one of you ever saw a rifle
before! Soldiers? Strike me pink! Wot's Lord Kitchener a-doin' of,
that's wot I want to know!"
The rest of us smoked in wrathful silence, until one of the boys
demonstrated to the Boer War veteran that he knew, at least, how to use
his fists. There was some bloodshed, followed by reluctant apologies