GENERAL POM-POM.

I.

The worst of being in a cadet school is the number of inspections you have. Inspectors for trench warfare, gas, bayonet-fighting, administration, general training, &c., &c., keep popping in. Each man believes that his branch is It, and should you fail to come up to his requirements, then there’s a bad report, a thousand curses, and lots of trouble. All the same, this is absolutely necessary, and keeps specialists and instructors up to the scratch. The greatest defect is this: these people frequently ask for suggestions, but generally fail to back them up. This, I imagine, is due to the apathy of a higher authority, or the obtrusion of the inspector’s own point of view. We often talked about this, and our view was that all cadet-school instructors ought to form a corporate body, and demand ‘the goods.’ By the way, it was whispered that one real good W.O. man was named Browne. He, it is said, invariably endeavoured to get the schools whatever they wanted.

Good old Browne!

We always liked the visits from the younger men of the staff. They were so bright, so business-like, and they did take an interest in all we were doing. Many gave us valuable tips, which were much appreciated. Indeed, were it not for these smarter men, military training would be in a muddle. They are being allowed fair scope; but if the powers that be would only sack all the old foozlers who are tottering round the various districts and home commands, life would indeed be brighter, and training would be pushed along by the younger men, who at present cannot get full play for all their splendid ideas. We of the New Army belong to the New School. We are willing to learn from a duke or a pauper, but the teacher must have BRAINS. We are not concerned about seniority or foolish traditions. We are out to win this war in the speediest manner possible.

I also think it is a great pity that we never saw real generals. We longed for a lecture from Robertson, French, Haig, Allenby, Birdwood, and all the other good fellows who have done so well. We never had one. Of course, such men are doing bigger things at the Front; but some are at home, and others frequently cross the Channel. We would have pawned our shirts to go and hear them, for we do admire them. Certainly we got their ideas in the form of pamphlets. But what’s a pamphlet compared to the living man? A mere shadow, and not at all impressive. I am writing this, of course, for a definite purpose. The W.O. will see these lines long before John Brown’s book is published, and something, I know, will be done. They always do things in the army when they see them in PRINT.

After all, what is the use of sending old dug-out generals to talk to cadet schools? Some are nice old gentlemen who have done well in Ashanti or on the Frontier—in the past. Others, again, are petty-minded old fools, who simply upset the instructors and give the cadets a thin time. They may be jolly good disciplinarians, and all that sort of thing; but we got our discipline from the best source (a Guards sergeant-major); and when we saw a general, we did expect him to talk sensibly about the war, and not about clean buttons, pipeclay, hair-cuts, and the proper way to stand to attention.

Brass bands and pipeclay never win a war.

Still, some of these ancient mandarins gave us fun. For example, old General Pom-Pom, who was in a bath-chair in August 1914, suddenly found himself elevated to an active job. His great stunt was the carrying of a drill-book in his hand. This was his authority, and Heaven help the man who deviated from the official path! Unless an officer was prepared to slay the Boche according to the text-book, he declared we should lose the ruddy war. He was kept on. Not that the Higher Command had any great belief in him, but no doubt because they imagined he would frighten the life out of the ‘undisciplined’ stuff who were carrying swords and sporting pips, especially one pip; for one pip was the sign of all that is reckless, careless, inefficient, &c., according to General Pom-Pom.

II.

But we got to know him. Every unit had a secret-service agent in his office, and when he decided to make a raid on some poor, ‘unsuspecting’ C.O., a little bird whispered that General Pom-Pom was en route.

Out came the whitewash, pipeclay, blanco, brasso, greasy paste, and ‘soldier’s friend.’ Pioneers whitewashed every post—not forgetting the Last Post—and slapped the stuff all round the walls and the doors of the billets.

Pom-Pom was a devil for whitewash.

The band was hauled out by the hair of the head to practise the general salute, while all the men were hustled to get everything shining and—in line. Even the dixies in the cook-houses had to be drawn up according to the style laid down by army architects. Before General Pom-Pom was half-way to the unit, the men were being moved about the square like perfect machines (he loved that), the band was playing ‘The British Grenadiers,’ and every officer, including the C.O. and the adjutant, were tropically busy on the square.

Pom-Pom galloped on parade. ‘Morning, colonel; morning. What’s the scheme to-day?’

‘Ceremonial drill, sir. The companies are just being exercised; then I’m going to work the battalion.’

‘Excellent! Excellent! Nothing like ceremonial stuff for these fellows. Makes ‘em smart! Makes ‘em smart! By Jove! your band plays well. Reminds me of old days. Good to hear ‘em! Good to hear ‘em! Let’s see your battalion show now, colonel.’

‘Very good, sir.’

The battalion was mustered, during which the C.O. would tactfully ask old General Pom-Pom if he would kindly take post at the saluting base.

‘Certainly! Certainly!’ and off he would trot to the flag-pole. There he sat on his old bus-horse, pouting like a pigeon, and studying his wonderful shadow on the ground. The men, of course, were quite interested. Pom-Pom was, on the whole, very popular with the troops, and they did love to swank to the tune of ‘The British Grenadiers.’

The band played.

Down came the battalion like a perfect machine. The general straightened himself again.

‘Battalion—eyes right!’ roared the colonel. The heads came round with a click, and the general saw one thousand cheery, sun-tanned faces.

‘Splendid, men! Splendid! You can beat the Guards any day.’

They stalked past as proud as dukes.

Next the C.O. formed them into line; and one thousand well-scrubbed Tommies, with buttons and bayonets glistening, advanced in review order.

‘Battalion—halt! General salute—present arms!’

‘Ta—tum—tum—talee, Tiddle—um—tum—talee,’ went the bugles.

‘Battalion—slope arms! Order—arms!’

‘Magnificent!’ roared Pom-Pom. This shout of praise could be heard miles away. Then he toddled round the billets. His eye caught the whitewash, saw the neat kits, and the cooks’ dixies—all in line.

‘That’s all! That’s all, colonel! I’m very pleased! I congratulate you on your excellent unit. Morning! Morning!’ And off he galloped on his bus-horse.

The colonel smiled and faded away.

III.

General Pom-Pom came to our school one day. He went through the same performance. Even Ginger borrowed my Vinolia to have a wash. Pom-Pom stumped on to the parade in a way that shook the earth, looked at us very keenly, and muttered, ‘Good stuff! Good stuff!’

One of his ideas was that a company officer must know the name of every man in his company. While he was inspecting our company he arrived at me.

‘What’s this man’s name?’ he asked Captain Bloggs.

‘Eh? Smith, sir.’

‘Is that right?’ he inquired of me.

‘Yes, sir,’ I replied with emphasis. I wouldn’t have let our company officer down for worlds. After all, it is a good deed to keep an old general happy.

‘Where’s your pull-through?’ he asked Tosher.

‘I guess it’s broken, general.’

‘No d—— guessing for me, my lad. Get it mended and shove it in your butt-trap.’

We enjoyed this immensely, and felt that General Pom-Pom could beat Tosher any day.

‘Are you married?’ he asked Billy Greens, who was always rather pale and carried a worried look.

‘No, sir.’

‘What are you in civil life?’

‘A curate, sir.’

‘Thought so! Thought so!’ he said, passing on.

We all grinned.

‘Ah! You’re a musician, aren’t you?’ he inquired of a youth with lustrous locks.

‘No, sir—a Socialist!’

‘And you’re fighting?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘What for?’

‘To destroy militarism.’

‘Oh!’ ... The general hurried away.

After the inspection he gave us a few words. Not much intellectual food, but a lot about the bayonet.

‘At ‘em when you see ‘em come. Give it ‘em hot. The short jab in the chin, or the smart thrust in the paunch. They loathe it! They’re afraid of it! The bayonet will win the war,’ he concluded.

On the whole we enjoyed his visit, and agreed that General Pom-Pom was good fun, kind-hearted, loyal, intensely patriotic—but not the man to win the war.