All In It K(1) Carries On by John Hay Beith (AKA: Ian Hay)

J >> John Hay Beith (AKA: Ian Hay) >> All In It K(1) Carries On

Pages:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14

At present we are indulging in such a period of repose; and we venture
to think that on the whole we have earned it. Our last rest was in
high summer, when we lay about under an August sun in the district
round Bethune, and called down curses upon all flying and creeping
insects. Since then we have undergone certain so-called "operations"
in the neighbourhood of Loos, and have put in three months in the
Salient of Ypres. As that devout adherent of the Roman faith, Private
Reilly, of "B" Company, put it to his spiritual adviser--

"I doot we'll get excused a good slice of Purgatory for this, father!"

We came out of the Salient just before Christmas, in the midst of the
mutual unpleasantness arising out of the grand attack upon the British
line which was to have done so much to restore the waning confidence
of the Hun. It was meant to be a big affair--a most majestic victory,
in fact; but our new gas-helmets nullified the gas, and our new shells
paralysed the attack; so the Third Battle of Ypres was not yet. Still,
as I say, there was considerable unpleasantness all round; and we were
escorted upon our homeward way, from Sanctuary Wood to Zillebeke, and
from Zillebeke to Dickebusche, by a swarm of angry and disappointed
shells.

Next day we found ourselves many miles behind the firing-line, once
more in France, with a whole month's holiday in prospect, comfortably
conscious that one could walk round a corner or look over a wall
without preliminary reconnaissance or subsequent extirpation.

As for the holiday itself, unreasonable persons are not lacking to
point out that it is of the busman's variety. It is true that we
are no longer face to face with the foe, but we--or rather, the
authorities--make believe that we are. We wage mimic warfare in full
marching order; we fire rifles and machine-guns upon improvised
ranges; we perform hazardous feats with bombs and a dummy trench. More
galling still, we are back in the region of squad-drill, physical
exercises, and handling of arms--horrors of our childhood which we
thought had been left safely interned at Aldershot.

But the authorities are wise. The regiment is stiff and out of
condition: it is suffering from moral and intellectual "trench-feet."
Heavy drafts have introduced a large and untempered element into our
composition. Many of the subalterns are obviously "new-jined"--as the
shrewd old lady of Ayr once observed of the rubicund gentleman at
the temperance meeting. Their men hardly know them or one another by
sight. The regiment must be moulded anew, and its lustre restored by
the beneficent process vulgarly known as "spit and polish." So every
morning we apply ourselves with thoroughness, if not enthusiasm, to
tasks which remind us of last winter's training upon the Hampshire
chalk.

But the afternoon and evening are a different story altogether. If we
were busy in the morning, we are busier still for the rest of the day.
There is football galore, for we have to get through a complete
series of Divisional cup-ties in four weeks. There is also a Brigade
boxing-tournament. (No, that was not where Private Tosh got his black
eye: that is a souvenir of New Year's Eve.) There are entertainments
of various kinds in the recreation-tent. This whistling platoon, with
towels round their necks, are on their way to the nearest convent, or
asylum, or Ecole des Jeunes Filles--have no fear; these establishments
are untenanted!--for a bath. There, in addition to the pleasures of
ablution, they will receive a partial change of raiment.

Other signs of regeneration are visible. That mysterious-looking
vehicle, rather resembling one of the early locomotives exhibited
in the South Kensington Museum, standing in the mud outside a
farm-billet, its superheated interior stuffed with "C" Company's
blankets, is performing an unmentionable but beneficent work.

Buttons are resuming their polish; the pattern of our kilts is
emerging from its superficial crust; and Church Parade is once more
becoming quite a show affair.

Away to the east the guns still thunder, and at night the star-shells
float tremblingly up over the distant horizon. But not for us. Not
yet, that is. In a few weeks' time we shall be back in another part of
the line. Till then--Company drill and Cup-Ties! _Carpe diem!_

II

It all seemed very strange and unreal to Second-Lieutenant Angus
M'Lachlan, as he alighted from the train at railhead, and supervised
the efforts of his solitary N.C.O. to arrange the members of his draft
in a straight line. There were some thirty of them in all. Some were
old hands--men from the First and Second Battalions, who had been
home wounded, and had now been sent out to leaven "K(1)." Others were
Special Reservists from the Third Battalion. These had been at the
Depot for a long time, and some of them stood badly in need of a
little active service. Others, again, were new hands altogether--the
product of "K to the _nth_." Among these Angus M'Lachlan numbered
himself, and he made no attempt to conceal the fact. The novelty of
the sights around him was almost too much for his _insouciant_ dignity
as a commissioned officer.

Angus M'Lachlan was a son of the Manse, and incidentally a child of
Nature. The Manse was a Highland Manse; and until a few months
ago Angus had never, save for a rare visit to distant Edinburgh,
penetrated beyond the small town which lay four miles from his native
glen, and of whose local Academy he had been "dux." When the War broke
out he had been upon the point of proceeding to Edinburgh University,
where he had already laid siege to a bursary, and captured the same;
but all these plans, together with the plans of countless more
distinguished persons, had been swept to the winds by the invasion of
Belgium. On that date Angus summoned up his entire stock of physical
and moral courage and informed his reverend parent of his intention
to enlist for a soldier. Permission was granted with quite stunning
readiness. Neil M'Lachlan believed in straight hitting both in
theology and war, and was by no means displeased at the martial
aspirations of his only son. If he quitted himself like a man in the
forefront of battle, the boy could safely look forward to being
cock of his own Kirk-Session in the years that came afterwards. One
reservation the old man made. His son, as a Highland gentleman, would
lead men to battle, and not merely accompany them. So the impatient
Angus was bidden to apply for a Commission--his attention during the
period of waiting being directed by his parent to the study of the
campaigns of Joshua, and the methods employed by that singular but
successful strategist in dealing with the Philistine.

Angus had a long while to wait, for all the youth of England--and
Scotland too--was on fire, and others nearer the fountain of honour
had to be served first. But his turn came at last; and we now behold
him, as typical a product of "K to the _nth_" as Bobby Little had been
of "K(1)," standing at last upon the soil of France, and inquiring
in a soft Highland voice for the Headquarters of our own particular
Battalion.

He had half expected, half hoped, to alight from the train amidst a
shower of shells, as he knew the Old Regiment had done many months
before, just after the War broke out. But all he saw upon his arrival
was an untidy goods yard, littered with military stores, and peopled
by British privates in the _deshabille_ affected by the British Army
when engaged in menial tasks.

Being quite ignorant of the whereabouts of his regiment--when last
heard of they had been in trenches near Ypres--and failing to
recollect the existence of that autocratic but indispensable _genius
loci_, the R.T.O., Angus took uneasy stock of his surroundings and
wondered what to do next.

Suddenly a friendly voice at his elbow remarked--

"There's a queer lot o' bodies hereaboot, sirr."

Angus turned, to find that he was being addressed by a short, stout
private of the draft, in a kilt much too big for him.

"Indeed, that is so," he replied politely. "What is your name?"

"Peter Bogle, sirr. I am frae oot of Kirkintilloch." Evidently
gratified by the success of his conversational opening, the little man
continued--

"I would like fine for tae get a contrack oot here after the War.
This country is in a terrible state o' disrepair." Then he added
confidentially--

"I'm a hoose-painter tae a trade."

"I should not like to be that myself," replied Angus, whose early
training as a minister's son was always causing him to forget the
social gulf which is fixed between officers and the rank-and-file.
"Climbing ladders makes me dizzy."

"Och, it's naething! A body gets used tae it," Mr. Bogle assured him.

Angus was about to proceed further with the discussion, when the cold
and disapproving voice of the Draft-Sergeant announced in his ear--

"An officer wishes to speak to you, sir."

Second-Lieutenant M'Lachlan, suddenly awake to the enormity of his
conduct, turned guiltily to greet the officer, while the Sergeant
abruptly hunted the genial Private Bogle back into the ranks.

Angus found himself confronted by an immaculate young gentleman
wearing two stars. Angus, who only wore one, saluted hurriedly.

"Morning," observed the stranger. "You in charge of this draft?"

"Yes, sir," said Angus respectfully.

"Right-o! You are to march them to 'A' Company billets. I'll show you
the way. My name's Cockerell. Your train is late. What time did you
leave the Base?"

"Indeed," replied Angus meekly, "I am not quite sure. We had barely
landed when they told me the train would start at seventeen-forty.
What time would that be--sir?"

"About a quarter to ten: more likely about midnight! Well, get your
bunch on to the road, and--Hallo, what's the matter? Let go!"

The new officer was gripping him excitedly by the arm, and as the
new officer stood six-foot-four and was brawny in proportion, Master
Cockerell's appeal was uttered in a tone of unusual sincerity.

"Look!" cried Angus excitedly. "The dogs, the dogs!"

A small cart was passing swiftly by, towed by two sturdy hounds of
unknown degree. They were pulling with the feverish enthusiasm which
distinguishes the Dog in the service of Man, and were being urged to
further efforts by a small hatless girl carrying the inevitable large
umbrella.

"All right!" explained Cockerell curtly. "Custom of the country, and
all that."

The impulsive Angus apologised; and the draft, having been safely
manoeuvred on to the road, formed fours and set out upon its march.

"Are the Battalion in the trenches at present, sir?" inquired Angus.

"No. Rest-billets two miles from here. About time, too! You'll get
lots of work to do, though."

"I shall welcome that," said Angus simply. "In the depot at home we
were terribly idle. There is a windmill!"

"Yes; one sees them occasionally out here," replied Cockerell drily.

"Everything is so strange!" confessed the open-hearted Angus. "Those
dogs we saw just now--the people with their sabots--the country
carts, like wheelbarrows with three wheels--the little shrines at the
cross-roads--the very children talking French so glibly--"

"Wonderful how they pick it up!" agreed Cockerell. But the sarcasm
was lost on his companion, whose attention was now riveted upon an
approaching body of infantry, about fifty strong.

"What troops are those, please?"

Cockerell knitted his brows sardonically.

"It's rather hard to tell at this distance," he said; "but I rather
think they are the Grenadier Guards."

Two minutes later the procession had been met and passed. It consisted
entirely of elderly gentlemen in ill-fitting khaki, clumping along
upon their flat feet and smoking clay pipes. They carried shovels on
their shoulders, and made not the slightest response when called upon
by the soldierly old corporal who led them to give Mr. Cockerell "eyes
left!" On the contrary, engaged as they were in heated controversy or
amiable conversation with one another, they cut him dead.

Angus M'Lachlan said nothing for quite five minutes. Then--

"I suppose," he said almost timidly, "that those were members of a
_Reserve_ Regiment of the Guards?"

Cockerell, who had never outgrown certain characteristics which most
of us shed upon emerging from the Lower Fourth, laughed long and loud.

"That crowd? They belong to one of the Labour Battalions. They make
roads, and dig support trenches, and sling mud about generally.
Wonderful old sportsmen! Pleased as Punch when a shell falls within
half a mile of them. Something to write home about. What? I say, I
pulled your leg that time! Here we are at Headquarters. Come and
report to the C.O. Grenadier Guards! My aunt!"

* * * * *

Angus, although his Celtic enthusiasm sometimes led him into traps,
was no fool. He soon settled down in his new surroundings, and found
favour with Colonel Kemp, which was no light achievement.

"You won't find that the War, in its present stage, calls for any
display of genius," the Colonel explained to Angus at their first
interview. "I don't expect my officers to exhibit any quality but the
avoidance of _sloppiness_. If I detail you to be at a certain spot,
at a certain hour, with a certain number of men--a ration-party, or a
working-party, or a burial-party, or anything you like,--all I ask is
that you will be _there_, at the appointed hour, with the whole
of your following. That may not sound a very difficult feat, but
experience has taught me that if a man can achieve it, and can be
_relied_ upon to achieve it, say, nine times out of ten--well, he is
a pearl of price; and there is not a C.O. in the British Army who
wouldn't scramble to get him! That's all, M'Lachlan. Good morning!"

By punctilious attention to this sound advice Angus soon began to
build up a reputation. He treated war-worn veterans like Bobby
Little with immense respect, and this, too, was counted to him for
righteousness. He exercised his platoon with appalling vigour. Upon
Company route-marches he had to be embedded in some safe place in the
middle of the column; in fact, his enormous stride and pedestrian
enthusiasm would have reduced his followers to pulp. At Mess he was
mute: like a wise man, he was feeling for his feet.

But being, like Moses, slow of tongue, he provided himself with an
Aaron. Quite inadvertently, be it said. Bidden to obtain a servant for
his personal needs, he selected the only man in the Battalion whose
name he knew--Private Bogle, the _ci-devant_ painter of houses. That
friendly creature obeyed the call with alacrity. If his house-painting
was no better than his valeting, then his prospects of a "contrack"
after the War were poor indeed; but as a Mess waiter he was a joy for
ever. Despite the blood-curdling whispers of the Mess Corporal, his
natural urbanity of disposition could not be stemmed. Of the comfort
of others he was solicitous to the point of oppressiveness. A Mess
waiter's idea of efficiency as a rule is to stand woodenly at
attention in an obscure corner of the room. When called upon, he
starts forward with a jerk, and usually trips over something--probably
his own feet. Not so Private Bogle.

"Wull you try another cup o' tea, Major?" he would suggest at
breakfast to Major Wagstaffe, leaning affectionately over the back of
his chair.

"No, thank you, Bogle," Major Wagstaffe would reply gravely.

"Weel, it's cauld onyway," Bogle would rejoin, anxious to endorse his
superior's decision.

Or--in the same spirit--

"Wull I luft the soup now, sir?"

"_No!_"

"Varra weel: I'll jist let it bide the way it is."

* * * * *

Lastly, Angus M'Lachlan proved himself a useful
acquisition--especially in rest-billets--as an athlete. He arrived
just in time to take part--no mean part, either--in a Rugby Football
match played between the officers of two Brigades. Thanks very largely
to his masterly leading of the forwards, our Brigade were preserved
from defeat at the hands of their opponents, who on paper had appeared
to be irresistible.

Rugby Football "oot here" is a rarity, though Association, being
essentially the game of the rank-and-file, flourishes in every green
field. But an Inverleith or Queen's Club crowd would have recognised
more than one old friend among the thirty who took the field that day.
There were those participating whose last game had been one of the
spring "Internationals" in 1914, and who had been engaged in a
prolonged and strenuous version of an even greater International ever
since August of that fateful year. Every public school in Scotland
was represented--sometimes three or four times over--and there were
numerous doughty contributions from establishments south of the Tweed.

The lookers-on were in different case. They were to a man
devoted--nay, frenzied--adherents of the rival code. In less spacious
days they had surged in their thousands every Saturday afternoon to
Ibrox, or Tynecastle, or Parkhead, there to yell themselves into
convulsions--now exhorting a friend to hit some one a kick on the
nose, now recommending the foe to play the game, now hoarsely
consigning the referee to perdition. To these, Rugby Football--the
greatest of all manly games--was a mere name. Their attitude when the
officers appeared upon the field was one of indulgent superiority--the
sort of superiority that a brawny pitman exhibits when his Platoon
Commander steps down into a trench to lend a hand with the digging.

But in five minutes their mouths were agape with scandalised
astonishment; in ten, the heavens were rent with their protesting
cries. Accustomed to see football played with the feet, and to demand
with one voice the instant execution of any player (on the other side)
who laid so much as a finger upon the ball or the man who was playing
it, the exhibition of savage and promiscuous brutality to which their
superior officers now treated them shocked the assembled spectators
to the roots of their sensitive souls. Howls of virtuous indignation
burst forth upon all sides.

When the three-quarter-backs brought off a brilliant passing run,
there were stern cries of "Haands, there, referee!" When Bobby Little
stopped an ugly rush by hurling himself on the ball, the supporters
of the other Brigade greeted his heroic devotion with yells of
execration. When Angus M'Lachlan saved a certain try by tackling a
speedy wing three-quarter low and bringing him down with a crash, a
hundred voices demanded his removal from the field. And, when Mr.
Waddell, playing a stuffy but useful game at half, gained fifty yards
for his side by a series of judicious little kicks into touch, the
spectators groaned aloud, and remarked caustically--

"This maun be a Cup-Tie, boys! They are playin' for a draw, for tae
get a second gate!"

Altogether a thoroughly enjoyable afternoon, both for players and
spectators. And so home to tea, domesticity, and social intercourse.
In this connection it may be noted that our relations with the
inhabitants are of the friendliest. On the stroke of six--oh yes, we
have our licensing restrictions out here too!--half a dozen kilted
warriors stroll into the farm-kitchen, and mumble affably to Madame--

"Bone sworr! Beer?"

France boasts one enormous advantage over Scotland. At home, you have
at least to walk to the corner of the street to obtain a drink: "oot
here" you can purchase beer in practically every house in a village.
The French licensing laws are a thing of mystery, but the system
appears roughly to be this. Either you possess a license, or you do
not. If you do you may sell beer, and nothing else. If you do not, you
may--or at any rate do--sell anything you like, including beer.

However, we have left our friends thirsty.

Their wants are supplied with cheerful alacrity, and, having been
accommodated with seats round the stove, they converse with the
family. Heaven only knows what they talk about, but talk they do--in
the throaty unintelligible Doric of the Clydeside, with an occasional
Gallicism, like, "Allyman no bon!" or "Compree?" thrown in as a sop to
foreign idiosyncracies. Madame and family respond, chattering French
(or Flemish) at enormous speed. The amazing part of it all is that
neither side appears to experience the slightest difficulty in
understanding the other. One day Mr. Waddell, in the course of a
friendly chat with his hostess of the moment--she was unable to
speak a word of English--received her warm congratulations upon his
contemplated union with a certain fair one of St. Andrew (to whom
reference has previously been made in these pages). Mr. Waddell, a
very fair linguist, replied in suitable but embarrassed terms, and
asked for the source of the good lady's information.

"Mais votre ordonnance, m'sieur!" was the reply.

Tackled upon the subject, the "ordonnance" in question, Waddell's
servant--a shock-headed youth from Dundee--admitted having
communicated the information; and added--

"She's a decent body, sirr, the lady o' the hoose. She lost her
husband, she was tellin' me, three years ago. She has twa sons in the
Airmy. Her auld Auntie is up at the top o' the hoose--lyin' badly, and
no expectin' tae rise."

And yet some people study Esperanto!

We also make ourselves useful. "K(1)" contains members of every craft.
If the pig-sty door is broken, a carpenter is forthcoming to mend it.
Somebody's elbow goes through a pane of glass in the farm-kitchen:
straightway a glazier materialises from the nearest platoon, and puts
in another. The ancestral eight-day clock of the household develops
internal complications; and is forthwith dismembered and reassembled,
"with punctuality, civility, and despatch," by a gentleman who until a
few short months ago had done nothing else for fifteen years.

And it was in this connection that Corporal Mucklewame stumbled on to
a rare and congenial job, and incidentally made the one joke of his
life.

One afternoon a cow, the property of Madame _la fermiere_, developed
symptoms of some serious disorder. A period of dolorous bellowing was
followed by an outburst of homicidal mania, during which "A" Company
prudently barricaded itself into the barn, the sufferer having taken
entire possession of the farmyard. Next, and finally--so rapidly did
the malady run its course--a state of coma intervened; and finally the
cow, collapsing upon the doorstep of the Officers' Mess, breathed her
last before any one could be found to point out to her the liberty she
was taking.

It was decided to hold a _post-mortem_--firstly, to ascertain the
cause of death; secondly, because it is easier to remove a dead cow
after dissection than before. Madame therefore announced her intention
of sending for the butcher, and was upon the point of doing so when
Corporal Mucklewame, in whose heart, at the spectacle of the stark and
lifeless corpse, ancient and romantic memories were stirring--it may
be remembered that before answering to the call of "K(1)" Mucklewame
had followed the calling of butcher's assistant at Wishaw--volunteered
for the job. His services were cordially accepted by thrifty Madame;
and the Corporal, surrounded by a silent and admiring crowd, set to
work.

The officers, leaving the Junior Subaltern in charge, went with one
accord for a long country walk.

Half an hour later Mucklewame arrived at the seat of the deceased
animal's trouble--the seat of most of the troubles of mankind--its
stomach. After a brief investigation, he produced therefrom a small
bag of nails, recently missed from the vicinity of a cook-house in
course of construction in the corner of the yard.

Abandoning the role of surgical expert for that of coroner, Mucklewame
held the trophy aloft, and delivered his verdict--

"There, boys! That's what comes of eating your iron ration without
authority!"

III

Here is an average billet, and its personnel.

The central feature of our residence is the refuse-pit, which fills
practically the whole of the rectangular farmyard, and resembles
(in size and shape _only_) an open-air swimming bath. Its abundant
contents are apparently the sole asset of the household; for if you
proceed, in the interests of health, to spread a decent mantle of
honest earth thereover, you do so to the accompaniment of a harmonised
chorus of lamentation, very creditably rendered by the entire family,
who are grouped _en masse_ about the spot where the high diving-board
ought to be.

Round this perverted place of ablution runs a stone ledge, some four
feet wide, and round that again run the farm buildings--the house at
the top end, a great barn down one side, and the cowhouse, together
with certain darksome piggeries and fowl-houses, down the other. These
latter residences are occupied only at night, their tenants preferring
to spend the golden hours of day in profitable occupation upon the
happy hunting ground in the middle.

Within the precincts of this already overcrowded establishment are
lodged some two hundred British soldiers and their officers. The
men sleep in the barn, their meals being prepared for them upon the
Company cooker, which stands in the muddy road outside, and resembles
the humble vehicle employed by Urban District Councils for the
preparation of tar for road-mending purposes. The officers occupy any
room which may be available within the farmhouse itself. The Company
Commander has the best bedroom--a low-roofed, stone-floored apartment,
with a very small window and a very large bed. The subalterns sleep
where they can--usually in the _grenier_, a loft under the tiles,
devoted to the storage of onions and the drying, during the winter
months, of the family washing, which is suspended from innumerable
strings stretched from wall to wall.

Pages:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14