The First Hundred Thousand | Page 3

a man out of the ranks and christen him
sergeant, whereas there is no available source of Second Lieutenants
save capricious Whitehall.) Consequently, three platoons out of four in
our company are at present commanded by N.C.O.'s, two of whom
appear to have retired from active service about the time that bows and
arrows began to yield place to the arquebus, while the third has been
picked out of the ranks simply because he possesses a loud voice and a
cake of soap. None of them has yet mastered the new drill--it was all
changed at the beginning of this year--and the majority of the officers
are in no position to correct their anachronisms.
Still, we are getting on. Number Three Platoon (which boasts a
subaltern) has just marched right round the barrack square, without--
(1) Marching through another platoon.
(2) Losing any part or parts of itself.
(3) Adopting a formation which brings it face to face with a blank wall,
or piles it up in a tidal wave upon the verandah, of the married quarters.
They could not have done that a week ago.

But stay, what is this disturbance on the extreme left? The command
"Right form" has been given, but six files on the outside flank have
ignored the suggestion, and are now advancing (in skirmishing order)
straight for the ashbin outside the cookhouse door, looking piteously
round over their shoulders for some responsible person to give them an
order which will turn them about and bring them back to the fold.
Finally they are rounded up by the platoon sergeant, and restored to the
strength.
"What went wrong, Sergeant?" inquires Second Lieutenant Bobby
Little. He is a fresh-faced youth, with an engaging smile. Three months
ago he was keeping wicket for his school eleven.
The sergeant comes briskly to attention.
"The order was not distinctly heard by the men, sir," he explains,
"owing to the corporal that passed it on wanting a tooth. Corporal Blain,
three paces forward--march!"
Corporal Blain steps forward, and after remembering to slap the small
of his butt with his right hand, takes up his parable--
"I was sittin' doon tae ma dinner on Sabbath, sir, when my front teeth
met upon a small piece bone that was stickit' in--"
Further details of this gastronomic tragedy are cut short by the blast of
a whistle. The Colonel, at the other side of the square, has given the
signal for the end of parade. Simultaneously a bugle rings out
cheerfully from the direction of the orderly-room. Breakfast, blessed
breakfast, is in sight. It is nearly eight, and we have been as busy as
bees since six.
At a quarter to nine the battalion parades for a route-march. This,
strange as it may appear, is a comparative rest. Once you have got your
company safely decanted from column of platoons into column of route,
your labours are at an end. All you have to do is to march; and that is
no great hardship when you are as hard as nails, as we are fast
becoming. On the march the mental gymnastics involved by the

formation of an advanced guard or the disposition of a piquet line are
removed to a safe distance. There is no need to wonder guiltily whether
you have sent out a connecting-file between the vanguard and the
main-guard, or if you remembered to instruct your sentry groups as to
the position of the enemy and the extent of their own front.
Second Lieutenant Little heaves a contented sigh, and steps out
manfully along the dusty road. Behind him tramp his men. We have no
pipers as yet, but melody is supplied by "Tipperary," sung in ragged
chorus, varied by martial interludes upon the mouth-organ. Despise not
the mouth-organ. Ours has been a constant boon. It has kept sixty men
in step for miles on end.
Fortunately the weather is glorious. Day after day, after a sharp and
frosty dawn, the sun swings up into a cloudless sky; and the hundred
thousand troops that swarm like ants upon, the undulating plains of
Hampshire can march, sit, lie, or sleep on hard, sun-baked earth. A wet
autumn would have thrown our training back months. The men, as yet,
possess nothing but the fatigue uniforms they stand up in, so it is
imperative to keep them dry.
Tramp, tramp, tramp. "Tipperary" has died away. The owner of the
mouth-organ is temporarily deflated. Here is an opportunity for
individual enterprise. It is soon seized. A husky soloist breaks into one
of the deathless ditties of the new Scottish Laureate; his comrades take
up the air with ready response; and presently we are all swinging along
to the strains of "I Love a Lassie,"--"Roaming in the Gloaming" and
"It's Just Like Being at Hame" being