THE SERGEANT-MAJOR FROM THE GUARDS.

Cadet schools are not perfect military academies; nevertheless, they are interesting resorts. This school was not only a fount of learning, but a school for manners and—in a way—a minor university. Although, as I have said, I was a student of ‘osophies and ‘ologies before the war, the discovery that my knowledge was limited soon came to me. This is a happy condition, and the only basis whereon to achieve future success. For all that, I am no groveller at the feet of lecturers. An officer must form his own opinions, and if I am going to be of any use in this military business, I must riddle the wheat from the chaff, and gather the harvest into my store. To be independent in thought is not uppish. It is personality! Personality is the whole thing in war, but never despise—the other fellow.

Now I have to make a confession. Before the war, when I was blundering around with golf-clubs and feminine charmers, the Brigade of Guards often passed my way. This seemed a wonderful machine, officered by men whom I imagined to be Beau Brummells and Byrons. Well-drilled automatons was all I thought of them. To me they were just fancy soldiers and ornaments of the Court. But who would say that now? Think of Ypres! And remember Cambrai! When the line was broken and my brigade was ‘bu’st,’ they came up like Trojans. They crossed the lines of trenches almost dressing by the right. Their faces were set, their bayonets shone, and they dived into hell and destruction with a valour that was amazing. They saved the British Army—and fifty men on the General Staff their jobs.

Salute the Guards!

Now, at this school where I, John Brown, was sent to learn the arts of war, our sergeant-major was from the Scots Guards. He was a wonderful man! When he drilled us I hated him like the Kaiser, but when he had finished with us I felt a smarter man. Beefy Jones and I agreed that Sergeant-Major Kneesup was much too German, and yet, somehow, we wouldn’t have given him to the Germans for quids. Oh, he was a big fish on parade. In appearance he was like a well-cut statue. His eyes were of the X-ray kind. He could tell when there was a hole in your socks, or cotton-wool (instead of a heavy great-coat) in your pack. When he shouted he was like a fog-horn, and every command was finished with a click that gave you the jumps. Before we went on parade we cursed him, and vowed we would see him far enough before we jumped about like automatic toys; but when we got there he simply threw us about like kids. The man was a marvel.

That first parade! Oh, what a nightmare! Some of us were a bit late, for in the army you’ve got to be standing on parade five minutes before the hour allotted. The S.M. said nothing, but when the hour struck he bellowed ‘Shun!’ in a way that made half of us drop our rifles with fright.

‘Pick ‘em up! Pick ‘em up! Look sharp!’

I gripped my gun with a shiver, and knew the squad were about to enter Dante’s Inferno.

‘Squad!... Shun!... As you were!’ he roared. ‘When I say “Shun!” come up to it.... There’s cobwebs in your brains, and wax in your ears.... Stand still, that man with the egg on his mouth, and hair like Caruso.... I can see all of you.... I am a blankety octopus, I am.

‘Squad!... Shun!... Still!... Not a move!... There’s a long-nosed gentleman twiddling his little fingers as if he’s got St Vitus Dance.... This isn’t a home for epileptics or a sanatorium for delirium tremens.... It’s an officers’ school, and I belong to the Brigade of Guards.... Twenty-five years’ service, five medals, and the D.C.M.... I’ve drilled kings, princes, field-marshals, yokels, and hobos; and, by Gawd! I’ll drill you off the face of the earth.... By the right—quick march!’ And off we stepped.

‘He’s a bit thick,’ mumbled Beefy to me.

Now, Beefy had hardly worked his lips when he made the remark, but the eagle eye of that S.M. had caught the culprit.

‘Squad—halt!’

We stopped in terror, and poor old Beefy began to perspire with fright.

‘Now, I’ll have no talking on the march, and no back-answers.... Discipline is discipline! If you can’t keep your mouth shut on the square, you’ll jabber on a night attack.... I’m the gramophone in this business.... I can read your thoughts and see your brains.... To me you’re all as plain as a pikestaff.... I’ve only seen you ten minutes, but I’ve ticked off the lame, the lazy, the insubordinate, and the mad.... I’m Sherlock Holmes, I am. By the right—quick march!... A full step now! Shoulders square.... Heads erect.... March like the Guards.... Left—right—left.... Left.... Left—right—left.... Right—form!... Slowly now—slowly!... Swing round like a gate! Get back, that man with the nicotine on his fingers and the brilliantine running down his neck.... Forward—by the right!

‘Keep your dressing, there. By Gawd! I could get the Chinese Militia or the Boys’ Brigade to beat you at this game. Heads up, or you’ll drop your eyeballs.... Straighten your legs like sticks, and don’t double your backs like dudes in Bond Street. About turn!... By the left.... Keep your hands down.... Never mind the sweat on the brow.... Let the flies lick it off.... Keep up. Keep up.... You’d never make a show at Buckingham Palace or Hyde Park.... If you can’t drill, you can’t beat the Germans.... Keep your dressing, there!... When the Brigade of Guards went into action at Ypres, they marched by the right and filled the gaps of the dead to keep a straight line.... When I fought at Belmont and Graspan, my company marched into action with whiskers, eyeballs, and tummies all in line.... That’s the thing to put the fear of God into the enemy. Squad—halt!... Not a move!... Order—arms!... Stand at—ease! As you were! Who said “easy”?... None of your infantry dodges here. That’s all right for an armed mob—not for me. Squad—stand easy!’

‘He’s the ruddy limit,’ said Beefy.

‘Yes. This isn’t a school. It’s a bally penitentiary,’ I said, wiping the perspiration off my brow. My shirt was sticking to my back, and I felt beastly uncomfortable. At the moment I hated Sergeant-Major Kneesup, but yet in my real heart I admired him. He was a man’s man, hard as nails, merciless to the inefficient, but the A and the Z of that wonderful system which has made the Brigade of Guards a terror to every despot in Germany. As we looked at him walking up and down the square he resembled a true-born aristocrat, and yet he was once a ploughman. A wonderful product of a hard, yet marvellous, system.

‘Squad—shun!... Stand—easy! Now, come round here, boys. I’m going to talk with you.’

The term ‘boys’ melted our fears, and we gathered about him.

‘It’s like this! A lot of you imagine when you get knocked about that it’s a sort of punishment; for I know your thoughts. I’ve been through all this. When I joined the Guards we did the old-fashioned slope. They used to stick you close to a wall, and if you were not smart the wall tore all the skin off your fingers when you chucked the rifle up. That has been done away with, but the old-fashioned discipline remains. Some of you may think it brutal, but, believe me, it gets results. It makes men smart. It makes them obey. It turns them into gentlemen. I used to be a ploughman—now I’ve got a pension, a little pub, and a farm. I wouldn’t call the Kaiser my cousin, and I learned everything in the Guards.’

‘But don’t you think we need more intelligence and less of this Peninsular stuff, sergeant-major?’

‘Not a bit less. Men are still the same—very human. Let drill, discipline, and orders slide, and your men will get panicky for the want of it. Now take my tip: all of you boys are going to be officers, so model your drill on mine. Your men will hate you at first, just as you hate me when I’m knocking you about; but when your colonel turns round and says, “Lieutenant John Brown has the smartest-drilled platoon in this battalion,” the men will lick your boots for you. Tommy’s a funny fellow. He doesn’t really admire a slack officer. He likes the officer who knows his job. If you want to get them up to the scratch, drill like the Brigade of Guards.’

‘But, look here, sergeant-major, aren’t other corps as good as the Guards?’ I inquired.

‘Certainly, my boy. But still I must tell you this, that the Guards are nearly always kept in reserve, not because they are pets, but to save awkward situations. It’s not we that should be saying it, but you’ll admit that at Cambrai we managed to keep things right, eh?’

‘By Jove, you did!’ exclaimed a few of the cadets who had been there.

‘Whatever regiment you join, you’ve got to feel and believe that your regiment is It. Every regiment has different traditions. There’s the Old Devons, Wilts, Surreys, and all the Highland corps. They’re wonderful stuff. And if I dared to talk to them about the Guards they’d bash my head in. And quite right, too! That’s esprit de corps. But at the moment you are all cadets. You belong to no regiment, and if I can hand on any of the good ideas I’ve got from other good men, you will profit by it.’

‘But it’s ruddy hard to learn from you, sergeant-major,’ piped Beefy, who was still steaming with perspiration.

‘My dear boy, I’m mild compared to some. When I was a “rookie” I used to come in with my feet bleeding, my heart pumping like an engine, and limbs like lead. You don’t really know what drill is. I’m mild—real mild. And when you’ve finished here we’ll all part good friends. Don’t worry! A number nine pill will help you through all right. You’re too fat. Now, fall in!’

For the next half-hour he knocked us about like ninepins. Every nerve, every muscle, was on the jump. He knew every trick of drill, and turned us inside-out. To an observer it must have been a treat to watch him. But to us it was more or less hell. Yet he quickened our wits and roused our ardour so that every man Jack said, ‘Well, it’s up to us to knock spots off the Guards.’ And that was his real and only aim, for he was a true soldier. He dismissed us with a smile, and said we weren’t really a bad lot. We rejoiced.

I was so delighted after the ‘Dismiss’ that I commenced to throw my rifle up in the air, and catch it.

‘Hi, there!’ shouted the S.M.

‘Yes, sir.’

‘What’s your name?’

‘John Brown, sir.’

‘Carry your arms properly—John Brown.’