Leaves from a Field Note-Book | Page 5

their rifles on to their right
hips and pointed with their left feet forward at the breasts of the men
opposite. "Rest!" The rifles were brought to earth between twelve pairs
of feet. "Point! Withdraw! On guard!" They pointed, withdrew, and
were on guard again with the precision of piston-rods.
"Now watch me, for your life may depend upon it," and the corporal
proceeded to give them the low parry which is useful when you are
taking trenches and find a chevaux-de-frise of the enemy's bayonets
confronting you. Each rank knocked an imaginary bayonet aside and
pointed at invisible feet. The high parry followed. So far the men had
been merely nodding at each other across a space of some twelve yards,
and it was hot work and tedious. The sweat ran down their faces, which
glistened in the sun. "Now I'm going to give you the butt exercises";
they brightened visibly.
"I am pointing--so!--and 'ave been parried. I bring the butt round on 'is
shoulder, using my weight on it. I bring my left leg behind 'is left leg. I
throw 'im over. Then I give the beggar what for. So!" The words were
hardly out of his mouth before he had thrown himself upon the nearest
private and laid him prostrate. The others smiled faintly as No. 98678
picked himself up and nonchalantly returned to his old position as if
this were a banal compliment. "Now then. First butt exercise." One
rank advanced upon the other, and the two ranks were locked in a close
embrace. They remained thus with muscles strung like bowstrings,
immobile as a group of statuary.
"That'll do. Now I'll give you the second butt exercise. You bring the
butt round on 'is jaw--so!--and then kick 'im in the guts with your
knee." Perhaps the section, which stood like a wall of masonry, looked
surprised; more probably the surprise was mine. But the corporal
explained. "Don't think you're Tottenham Hotspur in the Cup Final.
Never mind giving 'im a foul. You've got to 'urt 'im or 'e'll 'urt you.
Kick 'im anywhere with your knees or your feet. Your ammunition
boots will make 'im feel it. No!"--he turned to a young private whose
left hand was grasping his rifle high up between the fore-sight and the
indicator--"You mustn't do that. Always get your 'and between the

back-sight and the breech. So! The back-sight will protect your fingers
from being cut by the other fellow. Now the third butt exercise."
As we turned away the Major thoughtfully remarked to me, "There isn't
much of that in the Infantry Manual. But the corporal knows his job.
When you're in a scrap you haven't time to think about the rules of the
game; the automatic movements come all right, but in a clinch you've
got to fight like a cat with tooth and claw, use your boots, your knee, or
anything that comes handy. Perhaps that's why your lithe little Cockney
is such a useful man with the bayonet. Now the Hun is a hefty beggar,
and he isn't hampered by any ideas of playing the game, but he's as
mechanical as a vacuum brake, and he's no good in a scrap."
We returned to the orderly room. The orderly officer had a pile of
letters on his right impressed with a red triangle, and contemplated the
completion of his labours with gloomy satisfaction. "But it's very
interesting--such a revelation of the emotions of battle and all that," I
incautiously remarked. "Oh yes, very revealing," he yawned. "Look at
that"; and he held out a letter. It ran:
DEAR MOTHER--I'm reported fit for duty and am going back to the
Front with the new drafts. I forgot to tell you we were in a bit of a scrap
before I came here. We outed a lot of Huns. How is old Alf?--
Your loving son, JIM.
The "bit of a scrap" was the battle of Neuve Chapelle. The British
soldier is an artist with the bayonet. But he is no great man with the pen.
Which is as it should be.

III
THE WILTSHIRES
"You talk to him, sir. He zeed a lot though he be kind o' mazed like
now; he be mortal bad, I do think. But such a cheerful chap he be. I
mind he used to say to us in the trenches: 'It bain't no use grousing.

What mun be, mun be.' Terrible strong he were, too. One of our
officers wur hit in front of the parapet and we coulden get 'n in
nohow--'twere too hot; and Hunt, he unrolled his puttees and made a
girt rope of 'em and threw 'em over the parapet and draw'd en in. Ah!
that a did."
It was in one of the surgical tents of "No.