BLASE-BONES FROM SANDWURSE.

I.

Sandwurse is a very wonderful place. It has produced some exalted men, but, like all institutions, it occasionally throws out a prig. This doesn’t happen very often, but when it occurs the specimen is a real one. And it was the bad fortune of our hitherto happy platoon to be saddled with one of the species. Our dear old platoon officer, Lieutenant Blessem, was found fit for duty, and departed, amid the tears of our hut. We loved that man. He was so kind, so considerate, so interested; and he wasn’t a sneak. Even Ginger admired him, and that was a compliment from our platoon high-brow. Lieutenant Blase-Bones then blew in.

We saw him approach the hut from our window. What a gorgeous Nut—all brilliantine, brown polish, and brasso!

‘Some lad!’ muttered Ginger, scenting trouble.

‘He looks as if he couldn’t help it,’ I remarked.

‘Looks a ruddy ass,’ mumbled Beefy.

Then the door banged, and the sergeant-major shouted, ‘Stand to your beds!’

We sprang to attention, and Blase-Bones entered as if he were the conqueror of Bagdad, Berlin, and Timbuctoo. He had a monocle—of course.

‘This hut looks like a beah-garden. Open that windah theah,’ he said, looking at me.

I obeyed. Twelve months in the ranks had taught me a lot.

‘Whose bed is this?’ he said, on arriving at Ginger’s doss-house.

I must own it looked the bally limit. But even the old commandant had never checked it. The C.O.’s view was that we were there to train and be educated, not wearied with pipeclay and eye-wash.

‘It’s mine, sir,’ answered Ginger.

‘Clean it up. Look smart!’

With a groan, Ginger leisurely commenced to bundle H. G. Wells, Conrad, Haking, Browning, and Zola into a long-suffering box.

‘Are these your boots?’ he asked Tosher.

‘Guess they are,’ said the Canadian casually.

‘“Sir,” when you speak to an officer.’

Tosher grinned. Fortunately this levity went unnoticed. And then Blase-Bones arrived at Billy Greens’s doss. Billy, as you know, was a parson, highly strung, very nervous, and afraid of all military mandarins. We, who knew him, loved him; for Billy was the biggest-hearted man ever made. We shielded him from a good deal of trouble, and we were shocked when the new platoon officer, realising Billy’s nervousness, pounced on him. Here was a chance to show off and impress the hut that the new platoon commander was a mighty smart fellow!

‘Is this your bed?’ he asked.

‘Y-e-s, sir,’ said Billy, his hands twitching.

‘Most untidy! What an example! How can you expect to be an officer?’

‘I’ve never been checked be-fore, sir.’

‘Hold your tongue! Tidy it up.—And, I say, sergeant-major.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Inspect this hut in an hour’s time, and report to me.’

‘Very good, sir.’

Off he went, swinging his cane in a brainless manner, and leaving behind him a well of hate and scorn. This man had in ten minutes smashed our happy home, and given us a prospect of h—— for the next two months.

‘Old Army!’ said Ginger ironically, as the door banged.

‘No, Ginger; he’s the fag-end of the system, but he isn’t a patch on the other good fellows,’ I answered.

‘He’s a prize prig, anyway. He’s out for trouble; but I fancy we can do him in.’

‘Sure thing,’ grunted Tosher.

‘He’s only a boy—a foolish boy,’ commented Billy, who was indeed a most tolerant man.

‘I’ll tell you what he is,’ remarked Beefy. ‘He’s a ruddy inefficient swine, chucked out of some crack battalion.’

And that was about right!

II.

Next day Blase-Bones had us all up for a lecture.

‘You know, you fellows need a lot of bucking up. Of course, I can see that, being New Army men, you’re a bit handicapped. And I think it’s an awful pity, don’t you know, that you couldn’t have gone to Sandwurse. However, it’s my good fortune to be in command.’ (How he loved that word!) ‘If you will pay attention to me, I hope to pull you through.’

‘God help us!’ mumbled Ginger, who was at the back.

‘What’s that?’ he inquired.

‘I was just saying, sir, how much you’d help us.’

‘I see—I see,’ he muttered, but quite convinced that Ginger was pulling his leg. However, he had a face of brass, and continued: ‘I want your huts smartened up. They ought to be like a ship’s deck, with everything in order. And there’s too much “fug,” too many d—— novels lying around. I saw one yesterday by that beastly fellow, H. G. Wells. If you feel you want to read, get Kipling and the Morning Post.’

‘Do you permit the Daily News, sir?’ inquired Nobby, in such a humble (but assumed) manner that Blase-Bones thought Nobby was actually appealing to his profound knowledge.

‘Certainly not! But I should be awfully pleased to write you a list of papers and books, if you care to have it. I’m sure they would help you to understand the war. Another thing! I addressed one man yesterday, and he did not say “sir” when replying. This must not occur again. It’s rotten bad form, and I won’t have it! Won’t have it! Dismiss!’

Ginger rose with a groan. All his Oxford Imperialism had vanished. He wanted to be a murderer and a revolutionary. We took him to the canteen and gave him a drink. He recovered!

‘Say, boys, I reckon we’ve got to get busy,’ said Tosher that evening.

‘Your proposition?’ demanded Ginger.

‘Anything from slicing to lynching. I guess the world ain’t any the richer for that production.’

‘We’ll catch him, duck him, and d—— the consequences.’

‘Tar and feather him,’ suggested Beefy.

‘I think you are all very stupid,’ remarked Billy. ‘Why should you worry yourself about an atom? He can’t go too far. The company officer will see to that. Give him a full rope and he’ll hang himself.’ Billy Greens was afraid of revolt.

‘Well, boys, I’m a lawyer,’ submitted Nobby. ‘This man may be an ass; but he’s got the Manual of Military Law behind him, and don’t forget it. We’re in the army, “don’t you know,” and this youth would come out top-dog. Again, I’m too jolly lazy to entertain the thought of getting chucked for my commission, and sent back to do orderly-man. Therefore, I say, give him rope, and, as the padre says, he’ll hang himself.’

‘Meantime we suffer,’ commented Ginger.

‘That suffering, old chap, is not as bad as fighting the Boche.’

‘Isn’t it?’

‘Let’s vote for Nobby’s idea,’ I said. ‘We don’t want to make bally fools of ourselves. Besides, there’s the reputation of the school, and the old commandant. I don’t think we ought to let the Old Man down. He’s been good to us.’

‘That’s right, John! That’s right!’ exclaimed the padre, glad to think a budding mutiny was being quelled.

‘Oh, very well. We’ll study the brute,’ concluded Ginger, recalling the lecture on psychology.

III.

For the next fortnight we had a dog’s life. The company commander, who was a real good chap, didn’t notice it. He was such a perfect sport and gentleman that he concluded his new officer was the same. Billy and I, however, threw our influence into the scales of neutrality, for Tosher and Ginger, when roused, were of violent temper. They were such good pals that we were not a little afraid of their rapidly fraying temper.

At last the storm-clouds burst.

At morning parade Blase-Bones was inspecting the platoon. He was in a bad mood. When he reached Ginger he remarked, ‘What do you mean by coming out with such shocking boots?’

‘It was wet yesterday, sir. I’ve tried to polish them. I’ve done my best.’

‘Your best is not my best. Understand?’

‘No, sir.’

‘You’re insolent.’

‘No, sir. I’m endeavouring to understand you.’

‘I know your type. Enough!’

‘I shall feel much obliged, sir, if you will cease to be personal.’

‘Take his name, sergeant-major.’

Ginger was mad.

‘There’s dust on your belt. Why?’ Blase-Bones now asked Tosher.

‘I’m real sorry,’ answered the Canadian.

‘“Sir,” when you answer me.’

‘You ain’t wise, boy.’

‘Silence!—Take his name.’

Tosher’s hands quivered; then he stood still, his face pale with suppressed anger.

I went through that morning’s drill sick as a dog. And the only solution I could discover was that Blase-Bones was either ignorant or mad. But that didn’t alter the plight of Ginger or Tosher. I trembled to think what might happen. As they were cadets, a high code of discipline was expected of them, and this had been observed under our former platoon commander. Indeed, our platoon had the highest marks in sports and examinations. Yet this awful prig had smashed it all up. If I was sorry for Ginger and Tosher, I was more sorry for the commandant. This affair would break the Old Man’s heart. However, I did not know that the colonel had already weighed Blase-Bones up. He was a shrewd judge of character, a man of stern moods, but a just C.O. and a gentleman.

Finally, he understood Canadians.

IV.

Ginger and Tosher, with an escort, of which I formed part, were before the colonel. The Old Man, I could see, was pained and sad. This was the first real ‘dust-up’ in the school. Blase-Bones gave his evidence. Then the colonel sorrowfully raised his head, and quietly asked, ‘Well, men, what have you got to say?’

‘I regret, sir, committing a breach of discipline,’ said Ginger, ‘but my old officers in my own regiment never addressed me in such a manner. Lieutenant Blase-Bones apparently has a contempt for the New Army. I belong to the First Hundred Thousand, and I decline to be treated in this way. The commission is nothing to me, sir, and I desire to be returned to my battalion. This officer has not heard a shot fired in the war.’

Blase-Bones turned ghastly white.

‘Is that all you have to say?’ inquired the ‘com.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘And your defence?’ he asked Tosher.

‘I’m just real sorry, colonel, to waste your time. But since this foolish boy blew into our shack, there’s been nothing but gaw-damns and muttered revolution. Why, sir, we were the happiest bunch of kids in the British Army when Old Bobby Blessem was boss of the show.’

‘You mean Lieutenant Blessem, I presume,’ said the colonel, correcting him.

‘I guess you’re right, colonel; but you know in the Western world we talk free and mean no offence.’

‘I quite understand,’ answered the C.O. tactfully. ‘Go on.’ There was a twinkle in the corner of the C.O.’s eyes.

‘I’m a Canadian, sir. I’m here to give the Old Land a lift against these blasted Huns. But I ain’t here to be knocked around by flannel-headed hobos.’

‘Just a minute, Johnson,’ said the colonel. ‘I am asking for your defence, and as a future officer you must realise that expressions of opinion have no bearing on the case. You are charged with dirty equipment and insolence. Please keep to the first.’

‘Sure, sir! My belt was clean as it was for the Prince o’ Wales’s inspection in France. What’s good enough for the son of a king is good enough for any two-pipped child in this institooshun. As for insolence, I reckon we Canadians ain’t out to grovel at the feet of snobs, though we don’t mind givin’ a “sir” now and again to a white man like yourself.’

‘But don’t you see that a young officer, unacquainted with the Canadian temperament, might misinterpret your attitude?’

‘Maybe, colonel; but it’s up to you to educate this child. I’m no chicken in the fighting business. Out West I make ten thousand dollars a year. Seems to me that your old machinery’s all wrong. And I guess you can’t do me in as long as these things are hanging around my figure,’ concluded Tosher, throwing the Military Medal and the D.C.M. on the table.

Blase-Bones was trembling. I felt sorry for the ass.

There was a strange silence in the room for a couple of minutes. The colonel was outwardly studying conduct-sheets, but in reality he was weighing up in his own mind how he could maintain justice without letting an officer down in front of the rank and file. It was an awkward position. Much depended on his decision. He knew there was a whole Canadian Government behind Tosher, and a House of Commons behind Ginger. He also knew that if he muddled the issue, the War Office might promptly lift him out of his job. The commandant, as one of the old school, was nobly striving to bring the Manual of Military Law into line with the blunt (but honest) democracy of the New Army and the Canadian Force.

At last he looked up at Ginger and inquired, ‘Will you take my punishment?’

‘Yes, sir.’ Ginger had complete confidence in the C.O.

‘And you?’ he asked Tosher.

‘I guess I will, colonel, if it doesn’t mean time in a stone-breakin’ institooshun.’

‘Very well! In my opinion there’s been a great lack of tact on the part of your officer, just as there has been a great lack of sense on your part. It is not for you to reply on parade. If you have a grievance, come to me. I’m paid to keep everybody in order. I’m going to punish you for that. If there is no discipline, there is no army. You, as future officers, must realise that. Both of you will be confined to camp for a week. Understand?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘But,’ said the colonel, ‘I request your platoon commander to apologise to you here in my presence. You are good soldiers. You have both been honoured by the King. Your officer has no right to cast aspersions on the New Army, and to conduct his work in a manner calculated to stir hostility. I won’t have it.—Please apologise, Mr Blase-Bones.’

‘I’m—exceedingly sorry. I’m just afraid I’ve made a—mistake. I hope you will pardon me,’ muttered the crestfallen subaltern.

‘Fall out, men,’ said the C.O. kindly.

We were marched out, Ginger and Tosher quite well pleased with the colonel’s verdict.

The C.O. knew his job.

V.

That night Colonel Eat-All went to his quarters weary and worn. The affair had made him most unhappy. He was just afraid of what the Canadian might do. However, on opening the door of his hut, he was surprised to see a beautiful bowl of red roses on the table. He called his servant and asked where they came from.

‘Don’t know, sir. When I came back after tea they were there.’

‘That’s all, thank you.’

The colonel went forward and picked up the bunch of flowers. There was a tiny label attached. On the label he read: ‘To our Dear Old Colonel—from two Defaulters.’

Something fell on the Old Man’s hand. It was a tear.

Battalion Orders [a week later].

Lieutenant Blase-Bones, having left to rejoin his unit, is struck off the strength of the Battalion.

(Verb. sap.)