Sergeant Cursem could drill anything from an elephant to a baboon. His figure was a walking advertisement for Lipton's, while his voice resembled the rasping fog-horns on the Clyde. He had the eye of an eagle, the moustache of a Kaiser, and the finest vocabulary of curse-words in the Army—hence his name of Cursem. Of course he was a Regular, one specially selected to thump duty, drill, and discipline into the motley array annually enlisted to defend his Majesty, his heirs and successors. His was a tough job, but he managed it. His brute personality and muscular strength were sufficient to repel the insolence and insubordination of the average Glesca keely. Naturally, he was famous. Round the hot plates of the "Models," in the ticketed dens [pg 23] of the Gallowgate, and in the stone yards of Barlinnie, there were ancient heroes who recited his deeds and mimicked his adjectives. And Cursem's nicknames were legion. "Blowhard," "Hardneck," "Swankpot," and "Grease lightning," were just a few. Still he was popular, for underneath his rough exterior was a heart of gold. Old swaddies delighted to tell of his gallantry, too, for once on the Frontier of India he had slaughtered ten bloodthirsty Pathans in the space of an hour. Spud and his pals, in consequence, always paraded in fear and awe. When Cursem bellowed "Fall in" they trembled, while his thunderous "'Shun" made them shiver and pale.

Cursem had a stock address for recruits on their first parade. "The first duty of a soldier is obedience," he would say. "If you're told to cut the whiskers off a German, or stick your stomach in front of a pom-pom—do it, and no back answers. You're not paid 'to think,' you're paid to die. And when you die—die like a soldier and a man. It doesn't matter whether you've been a tinker, burglar, or wife-beater, once you're a soldier—you're a gentleman. If you want to get drunk, there's the canteen. Don't [pg 24] go into the beer-shops in town and fill yourself up to the neck, then get arrested for assault and battery. Next—wash yourselves. Some of you chaps haven't had a bath since you were born. Take a pride in yourselves. Cleanliness is next to godliness—you've a chance of getting to heaven if you wash the black collars off your necks. There's enough germs below your finger-nails to kill the Army with itch and fever. And when you're marching—march like guardsmen. Don't waddle like ducks and bulldogs. Stick out your chest. If you haven't got a chest shove some cotton-wool in your tunic. Swing your arms out and straighten up your legs. Step out as if you owned the whole Empire. And keep your eyes off the ground. There's no fag-ends or half-crowns there. Now, answer your regimental names—"

"Tamson,"—"Here."

"M'Fatty,"—"Here."

"Muldoon,"—"Here."

"M'Haggis,"—"Here."

"M'Shortbread,"—"Here."

"Whiskers,"—"Here."

"M'Sloppy,"—"Here."

"M'Ginty,"—"Here."

[pg 25] "Very good—now, we'll do some drill. Squad—'Shun. As you were—put some life in it. 'Shun—by the right—quick march. Step out—hold up your heads—swing out your arms. Left—left—left—right—left. Come along, M'Ginty, you walk like a beer-barrel. Step out, M'Haggis,—you're not at a funeral. Left—right—left—about turn. I said right-about, Tamson, not left-about. Don't sulk and scowl at me. No dumb insolence here, my lad, or I'll clap you in the guard-room. Squad—right turn—lead on. Stop that talking in the ranks. Tamson,—hold your head up."

"Haud your ain—— heid up," muttered Tamson.

"Squad—halt. What do you mean, you tin-chested, bandy-legged rag merchant. Didn't I tell you not to talk in the ranks?"

"It wisnae me—it wis M'Ginty."

"You're a liar, Tamson," answered M'Ginty.

"Silence, you red-haired, spud-bred Irishman. I'll do all the talking here," roared Cursem, his whiskers sticking out like needles and his eyes blazing with anger. "Now, no more nonsense. By the right—quick march. I'll sweat you to death, and [pg 26] make your shirts stick to your back like glue. About turn—keep your eyes off the colonel's cook—she's married and got a family. Right form—come round now—steady—forward—by the right. That's better. Squad—right turn—leave the canteen clock alone—it's not twelve yet, and there's no free beer. Come along, Muldoon,—step out—you get a loaf of bread and a pound of beef to do it on. Halt! Now you can talk about your Mary Ann's," concluded Cursem, after the first spasm. But the rookies had no wind left to talk. They were content to gasp and study in silence the mountainous personality of Sergeant Cursem.

It was also during the minutes at ease that the sergeant discovered the callings and antecedents of his men.

"What do you outside?" he inquired of the pimple-nosed M'Ginty.

"Everybody, sarjint," replied this sharp imp of the streets.

"I thought you were a burglar. And, Muldoon, what's your calling?"

"Gravel crusher, sergint?"

"Umph! What's that?"

"Road merchant and milestone counter."

[pg 27] "You're a tinker, eh?"

"Ay. Hae ye ony tin cans or umbrellas tae mend—I'll dae them for a pint?"

"No. Now, M'Haggis, what are you?"

"A coal merchant."

"Where?"

"Doon below."

"In the pits—I thought that, by your neck. And where did you get the name of Whiskers?" he next inquired of a queer-looking mortal from Cowcaddens.

"Frae ma faither. The hair used tae grow oot o' his nose an' ears. He wis a Hielanman frae Tobermory."

"Umph—I can see the heather sticking out of your toes as well," interjected Cursem. Then turning to Tamson, he asked his pedigree.

"Rags and balloons, sergint."

"I suppose you push the barrow?"

"Na—I blaw the balloons, mak' the candy, and soond the trumpet for the auld chap."

"Where did you get that broken nose?"

"In a fish shop."

"A fight?"

"Ay—an Italian hit me wi' a bottle for pinchin' a plate."

[pg 28] "Well—you're a lot of beauties," said Cursem, addressing the crowd. "You could steal the hair off a billiard ball and burgle the Bank of England in broad daylight. But never mind, lads," he continued, in a more intimate and kindly way, "you're doing your little bit for your country. That's more than some of the vulgar rich can do. And you can all stop a bullet, or plank a bayonet in a German's stomach. Hooligans can be heroes just as well as aristocrats. This old Militia was first raised in a prison and died like heroes in the Peninsula. And I've seen men like you slicing the heads off big fat niggers out in India. And, mind you, I would sooner lead a company of the Glesca Mileeshy than a company of Oxford grads."

"Why, sergint?" ventured one of the squad.

"These gents think too much—you don't. A good soldier never thinks. If he does, he's a nuisance. A soldier's a man who doesn't ask why he's got to die. He does it, and that's the end of it. And I want to talk to you now about Esprit-de-Corps."

"What's that, sergint?"

[pg 29] "Esprit-de-Corps means that you've got to feel and believe that you're equal to a hundred niggers, ten Frenchmen, five Germans, and a couple of Yanks."

"Is that no' swank?" asked Tamson.

"Well—yes. What you call swank won Waterloo, the Crimea, and the Mutiny. See! But just to make it clear, gather round here and I'll tell you of a fight I was once in."

The recruits came closer, for when Cursem opened up his heart they loved him. And then all liked to hear the yarns of the tented field. And Cursem was a clever enough soldier to know that this was the best way to let these simple-hearted youngsters understand that tradition and duty are the mainsprings of an army.

"You see, this affair happened out on the Frontier. That's where the sun peels your nose like a banana, and gives you a thirst that gallons can't kill. Well, we had been marching, skirmishing, and killing for nearly six months. We had lost half of the regiment with bullets, fever, and sunstroke when we arrived at a place called Fugee. There the old colonel told us that there were three thousand oily-skinned Dacoits [pg 30] waiting to kill us out by a night attack. Mark you, we were only five hundred strong, and half-starved at that. The nearest garrison was 100 miles away, and we had only rations for three days. Pretty tight, I tell you. So the officers and sergeants had a pow-wow. The colonel put it straight to us when he said, 'It's fight and get out, or stand still and get butchered to death.' We voted to fight. 'Very well—we'll burn our camp baggage, spare rifles, and everything we can't carry on our backs. Then we shall sally out at night. 'A' Company will make a feint at the enemy, while the remaining companies slip round their rear. 'A' must fight its way through or perish, while the remainder must also take pot-luck. Do you agree?' We all said 'Yes,' and went back to get ready.

"Everything was burned. And as I was in 'A' I got my boys ready for their job. The old colonel shook hands with every man of 'A,' and wished us luck. He never expected to see us again. Then out we crawled to the foot of the hills. It was as dark as the devil's waistcoat. And now and then we fell into dongas and holes. [pg 31] No one spoke, and all tried to keep behind the captain, who had an illuminated compass. For over an hour we stumbled along, when the captain whispered 'Halt!'

"'Sergeant,' said he, 'I can smell niggers. Come with me for a minute.' We went forward. 'Steady!' says he; 'there's one asleep.' And before I could say Jack Robinson his sword was in the nigger's stomach. The beggar roared like a donkey, and that started the bother. In a minute the hills were ablaze with bullet flashes. The captain was shot dead; so was the subaltern. My helmet was riddled, and I got pinned in the leg. Just then the dawn broke, and I saw one chance for us all—through a little valley. ''A' Company, fix bayonets—charge,' I roared. And didn't the boys come on. All Glasgow lads—and plucky ones. We shot, bayoneted, kicked, battered, and cursed through a thousand dirty-smelling Dacoits. They made mincemeat of twenty of us in five minutes. I was bleeding like a pig, for they were cutting me up for sandwiches. But on I went with the remainder of the company. The shots, the whistling knives, the wild yells and curses made it just like hell. Yes; that's [pg 32] the word. Once I looked back and saw the enemy disembowelling some of our boys. Just then our silly bugler, who got in a funk, sounded the 'Retire.'"

"And did you, sergint?" asked Tamson.

"No—I shot him dead. The battlefield's no place for fools. Well, we cut, cursed, and blundered through till we got on to a hill. There were only ten of us left. You see, we had tackled the main body, so that I knew the regiment had got safely through. It was hopeless for us to follow. We were cut off. It was to be a last stand for us all. The enemy had shied clear for a while. They knew they could get us any old time. So I got the boys to build a sangar, and we lay down. There was no water, and we had only a few biscuits to last us out. Our throats were parched, our tongues hanging out, and nearly every man had some kind of wound. We tied them up with rags. But oh, my God, the sun! It burnt the sinews of our legs, and sent one fellow raving mad. He rushed down the hill like a mad priest, and in five minutes he was shot dead and disembowelled by the outposts of the enemy. All through the night the Dacoits chanted their death songs, for they [pg 33] were biding their time. For three days we lived like that. Four more died. And on the fourth day the enemy drew near for the final murder of us all. We were weak, but frenzy made us strong. I fired as if I was at Bisley, and potted ten of them dead. All the others did the same. That stopped their rush. But only for an hour. Then they crept on again. Nearer they came. I could smell them—their dirty, evil eyes were mocking us. But every head that popped up from behind a stone got bashed with a bullet. Then our ammunition went done. I had one round left. I heard them come on. I felt it was domino for us all. My brain was going; blood was trickling down my shoulder; but just as my memory snapped I heard the echo of a bugle and cheer. The relief column had got through. When I came to I was in hospital. I was a lunatic for six months, and the only one left out of a hundred men. That's what we call Esprit-de-Corps. Do you understand what I mean now?" he asked in a quiet voice.

"Ay, sergint," was the humble response from all.

"Squad—Dismiss," and off they trooped [pg 34] to the barrack-room with the spirit of duty and honour in their souls. That's how Sergeant Cursem drilled the Glesca Mileeshy. And that is how he earned his Victoria Cross.

[pg 35]