THE NEW ARMY OFFICER.

‘The New Army Officer is the finest production of the twentieth century,’ said Captain Cheerall at one of his lectures. ‘He is as fascinating as, frequently, he is irritating, for he is no lover of conventions. His success is staggering, particularly to the Germans, and his bravery is the talk of the world. I, of the Old Army, salute the New Crusader; but I am sorry to say a few ancient mandarins don’t. We have to destroy this prejudice, or else remove all those who fail to encourage the bright young men who have led our platoons, companies, and regiments to victory.

‘The New Officer is an Edison and a Trojan.

‘While I am proud of that glorious Old Army which I saw bleeding at Mons and expiring at Ypres, I do feel we must cease to talk of the old and concentrate on the new. The New Army is fighting to-day, and it is most discouraging to our latest cavalier to remind him continually of his temporary rank and temporary job.

‘That word “temporary” ought to be silenced for ever.

‘The New Officer has proved that leadership is no monopoly, and that warfare is not difficult to master. He has exploded the theory that it takes twenty years to make a colonel, and forty to make a general. He has shocked our drill-sergeants, and surprised our Napoleons by his ruthless destruction of shams and his nimble seizure of facts. He is the daring, dashing, dauntless Brigadier Gerard.

‘He is an optimist, and therefore successful.

‘If the New Officer owes a great deal to his predecessor, his predecessor must also acknowledge his debt. The sincerity, the enthusiasm, the intelligence, and the business ability of the new man have been priceless assets in this war. What would this Empire have done without the splendid fellow who chucked his wealth and his pleasures into the dust-heap, and came to us for a job? He was irrepressible! If his chest was small, he bribed men to slip him through. If his heart was diseased, it suddenly became cured. If varicose veins were in his legs, he had them cut out. If he was forty or fifty, he became twenty or thirty. And if he hadn’t experience, he always said, “I’ll d—— soon learn.”

‘He was a blood-thirsty crusader.

‘Now, when he joined we were mournful. We looked at him and sighed. “The correct thing,” somehow or other, wasn’t in his keeping. He was inclined to call the colonel “Alf” and the sergeant-major “Bill.” He didn’t know! And, oh dear—his word of command! It was so respectable—so tame! He seemed to apologise to the troops for his presence—yea, his very existence. Yet he was a sticker. He was cursed from dawn till sunset. In those early days he was occasionally insulted and abused. There was a war on, and we regarded him as shell-fodder, and not as human. Let us apologise now. We were worried. The Old Army was dying. The Huns were knocking at the gates, and we, with our old conservative ideas, regarded him as a forlorn hope, and sometimes as “a wash-out.”

‘How wrong, how terribly unjust, we were!

‘But he always said, “Yes, sir.” He always smiled. His trust was embarrassing, and his docility staggering. To us, his masters, jailers, and martinets, he yielded a homage which made us feel like gods. His very willingness made us misjudge him and think him a fool. “No guts” was a term frequently on our lips. We, with the vanity of the old and tried, could not see that he was of our blood, our faith, our schooling, our patriotism, and our pride. Of these virtues we imagined we had the monopoly. What insolence! What fools we were!

‘But we were worried about the war.

‘In those anxious, awful days we had no rifles, no uniforms, no equipment to spare; no brass bands, no flashing swords or coloured fripperies of rank and standing. Yet this amazing youth was undaunted. He shoved dummy guns into the hands of his platoon, made trenches with fire-shovels and trowels, used living brigadiers for targets, and gave the command, “At the enemy—at four hundred—fire!” The brigadiers woke up and—smiled. The imagination of the New Officer was helpful. He could talk, for he was educated. And he pictured German armies on the move, German hordes at the double, and to meet them roused his civvy-clad platoon to the heights of devilry and daring, then charged with his little bamboo cane—to glory.

‘By Gad! he always won.

‘Even then we doubted him. We somehow felt he wouldn’t “pan out.” Most excellent for the Boys’ Brigade, or the like; but for a war—well, we should see! At last the uniforms came, the rifles too; but somebody forgot the ammunition. He said, “Oh, that’s the bally War Office again. Let’s carry on with these dummy clips.” Standing, lying, kneeling, and sitting, he taught the wonders of rapid fire, and how to make a “group” on the square head of the pimple-dotted Boche. Jules Verne wasn’t in it! His men made bull’s-eyes on the colonel’s tummy, and riddled the nether regions of the twenty-stone quartermaster.

‘Then we called him a ruddy swanker.

‘For all that, he went on. The fellow was clean mad to “get out.” We said, “Yes, when we’ve put you through the mill.” And we did! We froze him on the ranges; soaked him on parade; tore his feet on the route march; and almost broke the valves of his heart charging mountains, and doubling for miles in heavy marching order. But he stuck it, and when he came in, stood us a drink, and said, “D—— it all, do send us to the Front, sir!”

‘We commenced to think he wasn’t bad.

‘And then he started to think and to do things, for he felt his feet on firmer ground. Red tape he damned. For example, he got fed up ending his letters: “I have the honour to be, sir, your obedient servant, William Winkie.” And he introduced this reform: “Yours truly, W. Winkie.”

‘We were shocked, of course. The other had been done since the time of Moses. This was a most atrocious outrage against the all-holy conventions. An explanation was immediately demanded—in writing. He replied: “I’m a business man, and there’s a war on.”

‘The old brigadier expired with apoplexy.

‘His brevity was startling. Instead of replying, “I beg to acknowledge receipt of yours,” &c., he simply stated, “Received, noted, and filed.”

‘But he did a more startling thing. He actually dethroned the pen and brought the typewriter into the company office. He also enlisted his shorthand clerk, and purchased a small card-index system, with which he created a little bureau, labelled: “Accounts,” “Equipment,” “Correspondence.”

‘This had never been done by the best people, for we always thought it very bad form to make the army business-like. If our fathers had sold shirts, beer, or bacon, we never mentioned it. And we had always been most careful to hide away the prompt, precise, methodical methods of our wealthy parents. We worshipped “form” and hated facts. But this fellow day after day continued, quietly but effectively, to cut out all the appalling bluff and nonsense of centuries. We didn’t like this—at first. Indeed, the ancient adjutant, trained in the methods of Wellington and the Duke of Cambridge, took seriously ill, and—retired.

‘The C.O. turned in despair to the New Officer.

‘“I’ll take it on, sir,” he said, “but I must have an absolutely free hand.”

‘“Why?”

‘“Well, I’m a business man.”

‘He was so persuasive about his methods that he was permitted to get his foot inside the orderly-room door. Then he shoved his whole personality into it. With a sweep of his pen he returned all the elderly red-tape clerks to duty. In came his shorthand clerks, typewriter, card-index, and books on “system.” There was a bonfire of ancient rubbish, and the erection of neat shelves, methodically arranged and labelled: “Training,” “Finance,” “Correspondence,” “Records,” “Blunders,” “Results.”

‘The C.O. was astonished at the peace, smoothness, and efficiency. He was also amused when the new adjutant suggested that he (the C.O.) might dictate all his letters to the shorthand clerk. “Saves time, sir, and will let you get out to see what is going on.” The Old Man had a shot at this. He discovered that he need only spend half-an-hour on correspondence instead of three hours.

‘Result: he was always on parade, and training improved.

‘Secretly we admired all this, but some of us got jealous. We grew petty, and showed it in our memos. But he called us up, and said, “Look here, Tom, Dick, and Harry, I’m not here for my health. I’m here for business. If you don’t like my methods, you had better move to another battalion.”

‘And the old C.O. backed him up.

‘At last we voiced our true thoughts, and said, “The New Man is an organiser. He can do things. And he does save us a tremendous lot of trouble with the paymaster, the Command, and the War Office.” Having paid this homage, we started to go to him for advice on administration. He gave us heaps.

‘But we still wondered how he would “pan out” in the field.

‘Next, we went out. The New Man was told to entrain the battalion at the station, where a train would be in waiting. When he got there he discovered the R.T.O. had forgotten—the luggage-vans. He asked no questions, but collared two vans on the siding, had them hitched on to the train, loaded up, shoved the troops in, reported “All correct,” and we started to move.

‘“What the devil do you mean taking those vans?” roared the annoyed R.T.O.

‘“You go and learn your business, sonny. I’m a railway manager. Good-bye.”

‘We lay back and simply roared with laughter.

‘Crossing the Channel, we of the old school were just a bit worried. We had grown to like the new fellow an awful lot. He was so willing, so decent, so obliging, and so keen. Still, we did think he was not quite the type. His business abilities were admirable. But what about leadership?

‘This problem had yet to be solved.

‘However, we plugged into the trenches, and he started on his new job. He was “jumpy” a little, and felt at sea. But he was a sticker. Above all, he was cheerful. He kept the men happy—fought like a devil with the quartermaster about his company’s rations, saw to the rum, stole wood for his men’s fires, robbed the A.S.C. of coal and coke, made braziers out of biscuit-boxes, and organised concerts under heavy bombardments. He wasn’t afraid to grouse, but he never bucked at a job.

‘We did feel immensely grateful.

‘Next, the great offensive. What a day! The barrage of the enemy was sheer murder; but he leaped over the bags like a fine British gentleman, and kept his eye on the OBJECTIVE. The C.O. was killed, the major was killed, company commanders were wounded, and the New Man found he was alone.

‘His hour had come.

‘Some weak fool shouted, “Retire!” but the New Man clapped a revolver to the demoralised man’s ear and said, “Go on.” He went! The weaker were impressed; the brave were thrilled. Old Army sergeants vowed he was “the goods,” and loyally backed him up. And on through hell, through death, and a blood-soaked shambles went the New Crusader with his battalion. The objective was reached, but we had only three hundred men instead of a thousand. There were no bombs, little ammunition, no water, no rations, and the men were absolutely done. All round were the bursting shells, the spluttering maxims, the choking gas, and the agonies of war. His flanks were in the air, but he extended his thin line, sent back the runners, dug in, and opened fire.

‘On came the Germans.

‘But the God of all men was on his side. Providence protects the brave. His fame had trickled down the line, and anxious generals vowed he would be supported. Company after company was slaughtered in the attempt. Then up came the Guards—the flower of British chivalry. The Old Crusaders were determined that the New would not be surrounded, jabbed, and crucified. Through that cruel barrage they tramped as if on parade.

‘And while they were advancing, the New Man, though weary, wounded, and blood-stained, was fighting a dauntless battle. Three hundred men had dropped to two hundred. His flanks were burst. He was almost surrounded. The bayonets of Potsdam were glittering at his breast, but he cried, “Fight on—fight on! No damn surrender to these Huns!”

‘“Ay, ay, sir,” responded his glorious men.

‘Just as the mad finale was reached, when the fate of the New Man and his heroic battalion seemed sealed, a cheer burst on the air, and the Guards broke through. The Old and the New joined hands, then fought the Hun with cold steel till he squealed like a pig and—RAN.

‘Four Guardsmen carried the New Man down the line.

‘And then the world—and the Old Army—woke up. The chivalry of ages was in the New Cavalier. His battered and bleeding form was carried through a guard of honour to the place where the sick are healed. Women sent him flowers; old generals paid him homage; and, like a true Britisher, he inquired, “What’s all the fuss about? It wasn’t I—it was the MEN.”

‘But the King gave him the Victoria Cross.

‘The Guards presented arms.

‘The Old Army cheered.

‘And the world said, “Well done!”

‘I salute the New Army Officer,’ concluded Captain Cheerall.

The school jumped to its feet and almost went mad with cheering.

Why don’t we have more lectures like that?