The First Hundred Thousand | Page 4

rendered as encores.
Then presently come snatches of a humorously amorous nature--"Hallo,
Hallo, Who's Your Lady Friend?"; "You're my Baby"; and the
ungrammatical "Who Were You With Last Night?" Another great
favourite is an involved composition which always appears to begin in
the middle. It deals severely with the precocity of a youthful lover who
has been detected wooing his lady in the Park. Each verse ends, with
enormous gusto--
"Hold your haand oot, you naughty boy!"

Tramp, tramp, tramp. Now we are passing through a village. The
inhabitants line the pavement and smile cheerfully upon us--they are
always kindly disposed toward "Scotchies"--but the united gaze of the
rank and file wanders instinctively from the pavement towards upper
windows and kitchen entrances, where the domestic staff may be
discerned, bunched together and giggling. Now we are out on the road
again, silent and dusty. Suddenly, far in the rear, a voice of singular
sweetness strikes up "The Banks of Loch Lomond." Man after man
joins in, until the swelling chorus runs from end to end of the long
column. Half the battalion hail from the Loch Lomond district, and of
the rest there is hardly a man who has not indulged, during some
Trades' Holiday or other, in "a pleesure trup" upon its historic but
inexpensive waters.
"You'll tak' the high road and I'll tak' the low road--"
On we swing, full-throated. An English battalion, halted at a cross-road
to let us go by, gazes curiously upon us. "Tipperary" they know, Harry
Lauder they have heard of; but this song has no meaning for them. It is
ours, ours, ours. So we march on. The feet of Bobby Little, as he
tramps at the head of his platoon, hardly touch the ground. His head is
in the air. One day, he feels instinctively, he will hear that song again,
amid sterner surroundings. When that day comes, the song, please God,
for all its sorrowful wording, will reflect no sorrow from the hearts of
those who sing it--only courage, and the joy of battle, and the
knowledge of victory.
"--And I'll be in Scotland before ye. But me and my true love will never
meet again On the bonny, bonny baanks--"
A shrill whistle sounds far ahead. It means "March at Attention." "Loch
Lomond" dies away with uncanny suddenness--discipline is waxing
stronger every day--and tunics are buttoned and rifles unslung. Three
minutes later we swing demurely on to the barrack-square, across
which a pleasant aroma of stewed onions is wafting, and deploy with
creditable precision into the formation known as "mass." Then comes
much dressing of ranks and adjusting of distances. The Colonel is very
particular about a clean finish to any piece of work.

Presently the four companies are aligned: the N.C.O.'s retire to the
supernumerary ranks. The battalion stands rigid, facing a motionless
figure upon horseback. The figure stirs.
"Fall out, the officers!"
They come trooping, stand fast, and salute--very smartly. We must set
an example to the men. Besides, we are hungry too.
"Battalion, slope arms! Dis-miss!"
Every man, with one or two incurable exceptions, turns sharply to his
right and cheerfully smacks the butt of his rifle with his disengaged
hand. The Colonel gravely returns the salute; and we stream away, all
the thousand of us, in the direction of the savoury smell. Two o'clock
will come round all too soon, and with it company drill and tiresome
musketry exercises; but by that time we shall have dined, and Fate
cannot touch us for another twenty-four hours.

III
GROWING PAINS
We have our little worries, of course.
Last week we were all vaccinated, and we did not like it. Most of us
have "taken" very severely, which is a sign that we badly needed
vaccinating, but makes the discomfort no easier to endure. It is no joke
handling a rifle when your left arm is swelled to the full compass of
your sleeve; and the personal contact of your neighbour in the ranks is
sheer agony. However, officers are considerate, and the work is made
as light as possible. The faint-hearted report themselves sick; but the
Medical Officer, an unsentimental man of coarse mental fibre, who was
on a panel before he heard his country calling, merely recommends
them to get well as soon as possible, as they are going to be inoculated
for enteric next week. So we grouse--and bear it.

There are other rifts within the military lute. At home we are persons of
some consequence, with very definite notions about the dignity of
labour. We have employers who tremble at our frown; we have Trades
Union officials who are at constant pains to impress upon us our own
omnipotence in the industrial world in which we live. We have at our
beck and call a Radical