Leaves from a Field Note-Book | Page 4

slowly
carried across the gangway of the leave-boat; a little group of officers
followed it. In a few moments the leave-boat, after a premonitory blast
from the siren which woke the sleeping echoes among the cliffs, cast
off her moorings and slowly gathered way. Soon she had cleared the
harbour mouth and was out upon the open sea. The colonel watched her
with straining eyes till she sank beneath the horizon. Then he turned
and went below.[5]
FOOTNOTES:
[1] A jolly fine show.
[2] The English soldiers.
[3] Spice.
[4] King George the Fifth.
[5] The writer can vouch for the truth of this narrative. He owes his

knowledge of what passed to the hospitality on board of his friend the
O.C. the Indian hospital ship in question.

II
AT THE BASE DEPÔT
Any enunciation by officers responsible for training of principles other
than those contained in this Manual or any practice of methods not
based on those principles is forbidden.--_Infantry Training Manual._
The officers in charge of details at No. 19 Infantry Base Depôt had
made their morning inspections of the lines. They had seen that
blankets were folded and tent flies rolled up, had glanced at rifles, and
had inspected the men's kits with the pensive air of an intending
purchaser. Having done which, they proceeded to take an
unsympathetic farewell of the orderly officer whom they found in the
orderly room engaged in reading character by handwriting with the aid
of the office stamp.
"I never knew there was so much individuality in the British Army,"
the orderly officer dolefully exclaimed as he contemplated a pile of
letters waiting to be franked and betraying marked originality in their
penmanship.
"You're too fond of opening other people's letters," the subaltern
remarked pleasantly. "It's a bad habit and will grow on you. When you
go home you'll never be able to resist it. You'll be unfit for decent
society."
"Go away, War Baby," retorted the orderly officer, as he turned aside
from the subaltern, who has a beautiful pink and white complexion, and
was at Rugby rather less than a year ago.
The War Baby smiled wearily. "Let's go and see the men at drill," he
remarked. "We've got a corporal here who's A1 at instruction." As we
passed, the sentry brought his right hand smartly across the small of the

butt of his rifle, and, seeing the Major behind us, brought the rifle to the
present.
We came out on a field sprinkled with little groups of men in charge of
their N.C.O.'s. They were the "details." These were drafts for the Front,
and every regiment of the Division had sent a deputation. Two or three
hundred yards away a platoon was marching with a short quick trot,
carrying their rifles at the trail, and I knew them for Light Infantry, for
such are their prerogatives. Concerning Light Infantry much might be
written that is not to be found in the regimental records. As, for
example, the reason why the whole Army shouts "H.L.I." whenever the
ball is kicked into touch; also why the Oxford L.I. always put out their
tongues when they meet the Durhams. Some day some one will write
the legendary history of the British Army, its myth, custom, and
folklore, and will explain how the Welsh Fusiliers got their black
"flash" (with a digression on the natural history of antimacassars), why
the 7th Hussars are called the "White Shirts," why the old 95th will
despitefully use you if you cry, "Who stole the grog?" and what
happens on Albuera day in the mess of the Die Hards. But that is by the
way.
The drafts at No. 19, having done a route march the day before, had
been turned out this morning to do a little musketry drill by way of
keeping them fit. A platoon lay flat on their stomachs in the long grass,
the burnished nails on the soles of their boots twinkling in the sun like
miniature heliographs. From all quarters of the field sharp words of
command rang out like pistol shots. "Three hundred. Five rounds.
Fire." As the men obeyed the sergeant's word of command, the air
resounded with the clicking of bolts like a chorus of grasshoppers. We
pursued a section of the Royal Fusiliers in command of a corporal until
he halted his men for bayonet exercise. He drew them up in two ranks
facing each other, and began very deliberately with an allocution on the
art of the bayonet.
"There ain't much drill about the bayonet," he said encouragingly.
"What you've got to do is to get the other fellow, and I don't care how
you get 'im as long as you knock 'im out of time. On guard!"

The men in each rank brought the butts of