The First Hundred Thousand | Page 2

but makes no
attempt to comply with the speaker's request.
"Come away now, come away!" urges the instructor, mopping his brow.
"Mind me: on the command 'form fours,' odd numbers will stand fast;
even numbers tak' a shairp pace to the rear and anither to the right.
Now--forrm fourrs!"
The squad stands fast, to a man. Apparently--nay, verily--they are all
odd numbers.
The instructor addresses a gentleman in a decayed Homburg hat, who is
chewing tobacco in the front rank.
"Yous, what's your number?"
The ruminant ponders.
"Seeven fower ought seeven seeven," he announces, after a prolonged
mental effort.
The instructor raises clenched hands to heaven.
"Man, I'm no askin' you your regimental number! Never heed that. It's

your number in the squad I'm seeking. You numbered off frae the right
five minutes syne."
Ultimately it transpires that the culprit's number is ten. He is pushed
into his place, in company with the other even numbers, and the squad
finds itself approximately in fours.
"Forrm--two deep!" barks the instructor.
The fours disentangle themselves reluctantly, Number Ten being the
last to forsake his post.
"Now we'll dae it jist yince more, and have it right," announces the
instructor, with quite unjustifiable optimism. "Forrm--fourrs!"
This time the result is better, but there is confusion on the left flank.
"Yon man, oot there on the left," shouts the instructor, "what's your
number?"
Private Mucklewame, whose mind is slow but tenacious, answers--not
without pride at knowing--
"Nineteen!"
(Thank goodness, he reflects, odd numbers stand fast upon all
occasions.)
"Weel, mind this," says the sergeant--"Left files is always even
numbers, even though they are odd numbers."
This revelation naturally clouds Private Mucklewame's intellect for the
afternoon; and he wonders dimly, not for the first time, why he ever
abandoned his well-paid and well-fed job as a butcher's assistant in
distant Wishaw ten long days ago.
And so the drill goes on. All over the drab, dusty, gritty parade-ground,
under the warm September sun, similar squads are being pounded into
shape. They have no uniforms yet: even their instructors wear bowler

hats or cloth caps. Some of the faces under the brims of these hats are
not too prosperous. The junior officers are drilling squads too. They are
a little shaky in what an actor would call their "patter," and they are
inclined to lay stress on the wrong syllables; but they move their squads
about somehow. Their seniors are dotted about the square, vigilant and
helpful--here prompting a rusty sergeant instructor, there unravelling a
squad which, in a spirited but misguided endeavour to obey an
impossible order from Second Lieutenant Bobby Little, has wound
itself up into a formation closely resembling the third figure of the
Lancers.
Over there, by the officers' mess, stands the Colonel. He is in uniform,
with a streak of parti-coloured ribbon running across above his
left-hand breast-pocket. He is pleased to call himself a "dug-out." A
fortnight ago he was fishing in the Garry, his fighting days avowedly
behind him, and only the Special Reserve between him and embonpoint.
Now he finds himself pitchforked back into the Active List, at the head
of a battalion eleven hundred strong.
He surveys the scene. Well, his officers are all right. The Second in
Command has seen almost as much service as himself. Of the four
company commanders, two have been commandeered while home on
leave from India, and the other two have practised the art of war in
company with brother Boer. Of the rest, there are three subalterns from
the Second Battalion--left behind, to their unspeakable woe--and four
from the O.T.C. The juniors are very junior, but keen as mustard.
But the men! Is it possible? Can that awkward, shy, self-conscious mob,
with scarcely an old soldier in their ranks, be pounded, within the space
of a few months, into the Seventh (Service) Battalion of the Bruce and
Wallace Highlanders--one of the most famous regiments in the British
Army?
The Colonel's boyish figure stiffens.
"They're a rough crowd," he murmurs, "and a tough crowd: but they're
a stout crowd. By gad! we'll make them a credit to the Old Regiment
yet!"

II
THE DAILY GRIND
We have been in existence for more than three weeks now, and
occasionally we are conscious of a throb of real life. Squad drill is
almost a thing of the past, and we work by platoons of over fifty men.
To-day our platoon once marched, in perfect step, for seven complete
and giddy paces, before disintegrating into its usual formation--namely,
an advance in irregular échelon, by individuals.
Four platoons form a company, and each platoon is (or should be) led
by a subaltern, acting under his company commander. But we are very
short of subalterns at present. (We are equally short of N.C.O.'s; but
then you can always take