OUR DEAR OLD COMMANDANT.

If we thought a lot of our school, and did our best to keep up its good name, this was due not to a swelling admiration of the military system, but mainly to a sense of patriotism. It was also a tribute of respect to our commandant. He was not a brilliant man, and in some things was an absolute fire-eater. However, his bark was worse than his bite, and he improved on acquaintance. The Old Man was sincere. He was no sneak. There was nothing petty in his decisions, and little things revealed a passionate love of his ‘boys’ rather than a selfish love of his job. In his day he had been a gallant soldier and ‘a bit of a lad.’ As a man of the world, he understood human nature, and his one desire was to have a happy and successful unit.

He had a hard-working but not a brilliant staff. Brilliant men are scarce as instructors in cadet schools. The military system, even to-day, is not kind to brilliance. It is afraid of genius. Genius even in this war has too often been attacked and destroyed. On the other hand, it is just to note that the brilliant men who have survived the ordeal of jealousy are all at the front, and therefore beyond the reach of cadet schools. What a pity! For in these cadet schools men hunger for more light and congenial thought. Captain Cheerall, I may say, was the great exception. It is good to write such things. The War Office ought certainly to know them. The reason it doesn’t know is that those who are running these schools are afraid to be frank. Push-and-go is not appreciated by certain soft-jobbers in the Home Commands; and they have a quiet but brutal way of dispensing with men who want to be ‘American’ and revolutionise our whole system of military education.

It is imagined by military mandarins that we cadets don’t know and don’t see anything. What a blunder! At our school, and at every other cadet school, you can find the cream of intellect studying for commissions. The nation is in arms. And many a lecturer ignores the fact that he is talking to men with the highest university degrees. These men in our school never declared they had nothing to learn. Indeed, they promptly realised their appalling deficiencies in military education. They hungered for learning. When they got a little, they wanted more; and a good lecturer always left the room to the accompaniment of resounding cheers. This attitude of cadets is in striking contrast with the attitude of those who regard them as ‘a d—— lot of Tommies who want knocking about.’ We never objected to being knocked about, even by the sergeant-major from the Guards. But what we did resent was the visit of silly old fools, who talked a lot of rot and gave us no intellectual food. We were not blind, and all of us had ‘been out.’ If we were deficient in higher strategy, we had a share of common-sense. Had a War Office inspector tumbled into our midst disguised as a cadet, he would have heard frank appreciation of all that was good, and a damning indictment of all that was bad. The greatest weakness of the military system is that it declines to be told, seldom asks for suggestions, and is up against an intellectual aristocracy. This fear of intellect has been our curse in this war. And only one statesman has fought for ‘The New School.’ That man is David Lloyd George. But even Lloyd George has found that he cannot entirely eradicate the fossilised follies of the old rÉgime.

For all that, we were not unhappy. When we ceased to analyse the appalling anomalies of the military system, we enjoyed ourselves. Army life does teach fellowship and breed great friendships. Our hut was tenanted by a band of brothers. Our company commander was a ‘sport,’ and the C.O. had rid us of our platoon commander, who was a prize prig and an insufferable snob. We got a new platoon commander, Lieutenant Damall, who was an intellectual rebel, a first-class soldier, a fine lecturer, and a jolly good chap. The general routine of the school was stiff, yet bearable. But it would have been an absolute joy if more brains had been knocking around. However, the sheet-anchor, the personality, the father, friend, jailer, and general entertainer, was the dear old commandant. He would come on parade and play h—— with everybody, turn us upside-down, call us fat-heads and duffers, then wind up with, ‘You know, boys, I curse you because I love you. And I do want to be proud of you. I want to see you all generals and V. C.’s. Buck up, for Heaven’s sake, or, by Gad, I’ll have you shot!’ and off he would stump, pretending he was in a devil of a temper. In reality the Old Man was playing quite a clever game. He had that wonderful secret of knowing how to ‘curse’ a man, and yet make a man smile and do his best. He was not brilliant—but he was wise. And he was jolly good fun.

‘You know, gentlemen,’ he said one day at a lecture, ‘I was a bit of a lad when I was young. An awful blood! Wouldn’t call a duke my cousin, and was measured for everything—even my ties. Of course, that was in the good old days when we had nothing but nigger wars, and we used to spend nearly all our time hunting foxes or struggling to get in at stage doors. I was jolly good at that.

‘When I joined my battalion a colour-sergeant was told off to carry me about. This fellow had to think for me, even on parade. He was always at my elbow whispering the words of command—for which I can assure you I often thanked the Lord. For, to be perfectly frank with you, like many young officers, I was a bit of an ass. I achieved fame at a general’s inspection by giving my company the command “Trail arms!” instead of “Present!” for which I got six months’ marked drill on the square. They gave me no leave; wouldn’t even allow me to pop out and see my best girl (as I allow you to do); but from 9 A. M. till 4 P. M. an old sergeant gave me dyspepsia, colic, and lumbago by marching, counter-marching, and doubling on that terrible barrack square. I wore out two pairs of boots, and was almost excommunicated by the garrison chaplain owing to the awful language which I used after those parades. It was a bitter lesson; but it did me good, although I didn’t think so at the time. I am just afraid I was a saucy young devil.

‘Of course, in those days a subaltern was very small fry. He was merely a “fag” in the regimental system. It was very dangerous to think—it still is a bit dangerous to do so—and the great secret of success was to eliminate any trace of personality or originality. As a sarcastic old major remarked, all he demanded of a subaltern was to be strong in the back and soft in the head. In passing, I may say I was awfully popular with this old chap. Perhaps I was up to his marvellous standard. I led him to think so, for I readily found out that the line of least resistance was the one which assured a calm and charming life. You may think that a terrible revelation, but if you study the British Army in the ‘seventies, you will see that it would have been disastrous for any man of mediocre talent to start thrusting out his hand for the field-marshal’s baton.

‘Company commanders in those days directed operations from the anterooms or their bedrooms, and we long-suffering, fat-headed subs. fetched and carried for them. They were the drones, and we were the working-bees. At least, we thought we were, but what we actually did was this. We received our orders, then went to the company office and simply passed them on. The colour-sergeants were really the foremen of works. These old N.C.O.’s were marvellous men—men of great attainments, and men whose abilities were not rewarded as they are to-day. Under the old system the officer was a god, not to be defiled by mere toil or clear thinking. Our daily task commenced about 10 A. M., and finished about noon. When we had to work in the afternoon we always talked about resigning our commissions. We had an extraordinary view that we were there to enjoy ourselves and look pretty, and it was most unfair to burden our brains with 5+5=10.

‘I am telling you these things, not because I long for those old times again. When I see you boys doing so many interesting things to-day, I feel I must teach you to abhor shams, to face facts, and to tell the truth. In those days I couldn’t see the hollowness and the rottenness of it all. I see it now, for I have no illusions. War is a brutal business. Facts predominate. If you have the moral courage to get up in front of your men and admit an error, and seek for light and co-operation, you will show evidence of greatness.

‘We were very pretty in those days. I rejoiced in my figure, which, as with all fashionable officers, was kept in order by common or garden corsets. When we went out in review order we were a sight for the girls and—“the mob.” The men were just as smart. Indeed, a battalion looked like a thousand dandies out of a cutter’s window. I have an affection for that aspect of the past. It is no crime to be a well-dressed man. Even to-day it is most important that an officer should look the picture of a clean, alert, and well-groomed British gentleman. That is an aid to discipline. Every Tommy is an aristocrat. As one of my men once remarked, “I likes my orficer to look a ruddy toff.” Of course, there was a great weakness in this system. It was overdone. We concentrated on brass bands, pipeclay, and eye-wash. The men were mere automatons; the discipline was harsh, in some cases brutal; while strategy and tactics were not worshipped as we worship them now. This was not our fault. It was due to the age. The German menace was not even dreamt of. We had only frontier skirmishes to deal with. And we all enlisted—for fun.

‘As for training, it was not at all intelligent. We did field-days in full-dress uniforms, busbies, cross-belts, and all the glitter used on review parades. Even in India troops wore European clothing, and died by the hundred from heat apoplexy. The frontal attack was the summit of our knowledge, and “form square” for savage warfare our one great stunt. It looked pretty. And it was this damnable craving for prettiness which hindered the development of military training. Of course, I did not know that then. To me life was one huge jest. But I had a rude awakening.

‘In a frontier skirmish, my regiment was attacking a difficult position held by some of the hill tribes. The C.O., who was a charming old gentleman, but no soldier, decided on the usual thing—a frontal attack. We went forward. Two companies were almost annihilated. The senior major, a fairly able man, who was leading the attack, decided it was suicide to go farther, and ordered the retirement. We went back. The colonel demanded an explanation. The major very respectfully pointed out the stupidity of the arrangement, and suggested a feint attack on the front, combined with an enveloping movement round both flanks.

‘“Bosh!” replied the Old Man. He ordered us forward again. Another company was decimated, and fortunately the colonel was among the casualties. If he had lived, he would have killed every man by his stupid tactics. The major then withdrew the battalion. That night he made arrangements for another attack at dawn. One hundred men were sent to make a feint at the front, and two hundred more were divided into two columns to attack the right and left flanks. The remainder were in reserve. At dawn we carried out his orders. Two hours afterwards we had captured the position, three hundred of the enemy, one gun, and lots of loot.

‘Our casualties in that attack were fifty-five.

‘Our previous casualties were about three hundred and fifty.

‘This to me was a revelation of the use of brains, and an indication that brains can save human life. From that day, gentlemen, I honestly tried to be intelligent. But I had to go warily. I swotted up Napoleon and Frederick the Great—in secret; for it was considered bad form to be a student. Even then I did not quite appreciate the terrible dangers of such false “form.” However, I had the courage to chuck my fashionable regiment and become a soldier of fortune in the Indian and Egyptian Armies. From those two great and immortal men, Kitchener and Roberts, I acquired any little knowledge I possess. Still, I am not a marvellous soldier—and know it. But one thing I have been taught, and that is—sincerity.

‘When I make a blunder, I have no hesitation in cutting my losses. Nor am I afraid of criticism or suggestion. You may find this lacking in certain spheres of military life. But do not despair. Do your duty! Be loyal! And attempt no far-reaching reforms unless you have the genius and the courage to carry them out. Otherwise you will only batter your head against a brick wall. Progress is with you, and you are all young. I wish I were sitting with you as a cadet, and not talking to you with the rank of a colonel. In this war my age seems a curse. Your field is wide and your opportunities are illimitable. To the keen soldier this is a day of glory!

‘For all that, I do not say our system is perfect. And I am not going to insist that the best men are always pushed on. But I do believe the system is improving. And I can assure you that I am doing my best to smash false barriers. I am not popular with certain people for this. Popularity is nothing to me. I have boys of my own. While I think this is a good school, I quite realise it is not a perfect school. We have not cut the old shackles yet, but we are getting on. You are young and impatient. I know your dreams. I know your hopes. I know how you grouse, and I often hear some of you say, “Oh, here’s that frosted old dug-out again.” But I am quite sure you don’t mean anything—just as I am quite convinced you try your best.

‘Frankly, gentlemen, you have much to be grateful for. You are getting in this school as much knowledge as the old army officer got in twenty years. It may not be issued in palatable or popular form. It may jar your temperament, but the “stuff” is there, if you care to pick it up. I cannot talk to you like Sir Oliver Lodge or fascinate you like Lord Rosebery. I am a plain soldier. My staff are plain soldiers, but they are hard workers. They are doing their best for you, and it is up to you to do your best for them. If I, your colonel, have the courage to come and tell you of my own deficiencies, surely you boys will have the pluck to do a little heart-searching. You must also study the Service as a whole, and not in parts. Believe me, the British Army is a proud and glorious institution. The traditions are high. Great men have come from our ranks. In this war our arms are belaurelled with chivalry. Ours is no mercenary host, no band of knaves or babe-assassins. We fight a good fight. While I am no great Christian, I do believe we are the New Crusaders. This is a Holy Crusade.

‘To sum up my theme, let me say I have told you of the jolly but inefficient past simply to show the marvellous advance made in military education, how we have blundered through to a more sensible and useful system. If you feel there are imperfections to-day, you would have been shocked had you soldiered in the ‘seventies. For all that, I do not want you to feel contented—not even with me. A healthy discontent is a sign of a progressive mind. Always look forward. Always endeavour to develop new ideas and produce fresh thoughts. But in doing so, try to incorporate the best from the past. Shatter stupid tradition, certainly; but remember this, gentlemen—if your fathers are old, they are also wise with experience. And never insult old age or scorn good counsel.

‘Yours is a high calling. Yours is a noble cause. You are all my boys, and I want to be proud of you. When you go from here I shall watch your careers. If you feel you have any respect for me and this school—imperfect as it is—then I ask you to honour the King, play the game, be good citizens and gallant British officers. That’s all.’

When the Old Man finished an extraordinary thing happened. Tosher, the Canadian, jumped up on the table and shouted, ‘Three cheers for the good old colonel!’ Our wild hurrahs almost burst the roof.

‘Thank you, boys,’ said the C.O. quietly, and hurried away. He was afraid of his emotions.

Oh, we did love our dear old commandant!