When Spud arrived at Bogmoor Camp he found the regiment in an excited but jovial mood. They were going to war. War, to militiamen, meant bounties, blood, and loot. Though these men were, in many ways, the scrapings of humanity, they had those rugged, almost brutal qualities essential in war. Like bulldogs, they could bite, and once having nibbled an enemy, they could hang on till the end. Of course the regiment was not up to war strength in officers or men. That deficiency, however, was being attended to. Hundreds of men had been already wired for. These were known as the Militia Reserve, or "The Royal Standbacks," to quote the barrack-room wags. All day they came trooping in; some from the open road, others from the Model, a few quite recently [pg 89] from the jail. They all looked like villains in their muddy rags, but once in khaki, many had the appearance of real good Guardsmen. Naturally, there were many reunions, and these had to be sealed in beer. The canteen quickly became a Tower of Babel, wreathed in thick tobacco smoke, and permeated with the nauseating breath of the merry Falstaffs, who incessantly called for the proverbial pint. Discipline was not exacted on this, the first day. It was useless to expect it; the officers knew the calibre of their men.

While the men were thus celebrating the "Great Day," and discussing how they would dispose of Kaiser Bill, the officers were also arriving from many corners of the land. Some came post-haste from the grouse moors; others had hurried from Piccadilly; a few had been dug out of ruined castles, where they represented a poor but splendid nobility. Of course there were new hands. These gentlemen came from the O.T.C., in official language, The Officers' Training Corps. This is an organisation devised by a great War Minister to create heroes out of Carnegie's pet children at our universities. In theory, a perfect system: in practice, [pg 90] at times disappointing. There being no compulsion, the more robust students had shunned the Corps, leaving its ranks open to a few keen, and a greater number of the health culture species, who recognised that a drill-sergeant might improve their chest measurement and digestion. Still it was a scheme acquired in the Lager-laden garrisons of Germany, and we Britishers, perforce, had accepted it as the hall-mark of German military efficiency. However, Second Lieutenants Briefs, Coals, and Grain were detached to this Militia regiment and duly arrived. Briefs, who was studying for the law, arrived in a greatcoat, with an umbrella above his military accoutrements to keep off the rain. As this umbrella trick was the particular prerogative of the late Duke of Cambridge, Briefs was immediately arrested by his brother subalterns for being "Improperly dressed," and forced to pay drinks all round. Drinks all round are very expensive in His Majesty's Service. He never erred again. Second Lieutenant Coals was vomited out of one of his father's pits. He was as black as the devil's waistcoat, and as big as a bullock. He didn't know much about form fours, but he could kill [pg 91] a pit pony with a punch and chuck a man over his head. "A useful man," the colonel whispered to the adjutant, and then in a louder tone remarked, "Put Mr Coals in No. 3 Company." This company, by the way, had its records in the poaching and wife-beating annals of every Parish Council. Coals was therefore in a sphere where his hulking personality would be useful.

Second Lieutenant Grain had the smell of horses about him. He was studying for medicine, but he knew more about his father's Clydesdales. Indeed, when he arrived, his boots had the scent of the stable, and his coat a few stray wisps of straw sticking around. A rough but likely looking chap. The colonel saw this, and after looking him up and down remarked, "You'll be transport officer. Here are some warrants—go out anywhere, everywhere, for two days. Commandeer 107 horses, and mind—no crocks."

"Very good, sir," replied Grain, disappearing with the transport sergeant. He returned two days later with 107 thoroughbred hunters, Clydesdales, and roadsters. The colonel gasped when he [pg 92] saw them on the square, and promptly stood the subaltern a drink.

"Useful man, that Grain," he said to the adjutant that night. "The O.T.C. has been kind to us, if they've been unkind to other regiments. Get him gazetted lieutenant."

This was one instance of the work of mobilisation. And mobilisation, I can assure you, is enough to send men to the grave. Think of gathering 1200 men, then fitting them out for war. Trousers came from Pimlico, buttons from Birmingham, thread from Timbuctoo, jackets from the sewing-rooms of the Hebrews, while rifles came in instalments from Woolwich, Stirling, Ashanti, and Lahore. Shovels were found in the ironmongers next the barracks; shirts were collared in the nearest emporium; plates, basins, knives, forks, and spoons were found in the fish and chip bazaars of the town. "Buy locally," was the order from the C.O.O.—(the Chief Ordnance Officer)—a very important personage, whose duty is to supply everything, from siege guns to bed pans. Imagine the worry! The Quartermaster took heart disease and died; the Quartermaster-Sergeant got drunk and [pg 93] was reduced, and so the work devolved upon a faithful corporal and a few intelligent aides. But the work went on, for Colonel Corkleg was a soldier. He might easily have given Napoleon points in organisation for war.

Accommodation was also difficult. No more tents could be had. Twenty men were therefore crammed into these little canvas homes. To avoid a plague and prevent bloodshed, the colonel ordered all men to place their socks outside the tents. If you know the Militia you will understand. But even tents have their limits. The newer arrivals had to be billeted in the homes of the citizens near by. These Weary Willies lolled in their feather beds like princes. It was a hustling time. The colonel cursed from reveille till tattoo. Still, in seven days he had the job done, and wired to the War Office—"Ready."

Back came the reply, "Proceed at once to Mudtown, for Coast Defence."

"Coast Defence!" muttered the old colonel, purple with rage. "Coast Defence!...!...?..."

His after-remarks cannot be printed, for he was a true soldier. He wanted to see Red [pg 94] Blood—not the billets of a seaside town. He could handle his men in a battle like a boy playing "bools," but billets, he knew, meant worry, trouble, and crime. Still, orders were orders, and he at once obeyed. In three hours the regiment stood in marching order, and to the tune of "Hielan' Laddie" blithely marched to the train. It was followed by thousands—wives, sweethearts, mothers, and friends. There were tears, cheers, and jeers.

"Here's a scone, Jimmy, keep up yer heirt," said an old budie, throwing a tartan-coloured scone to her son.

"Hie, you!" shouted a woman in a shawl to a roguish-looking private with an amorous leer in his eye.

"Me!" he answered mockingly.

"Ay, you—ye hinnae paid for yer wean—ye low rascal. But I'll pit the polis on ye—ye'll no diddle me."

"Yer haverin'; awa' an' waash yer een;" and on marched the careless prodigal to the train.

"Haw, look at oor Jock—he's the only man in step," yelled the admirer of Jock Broon, a fifteen-stone corporal, whose belt was too small and tied with string.

[pg 95] "Is that oor Tam?" queried a half-blind woman, as a rakish-looking youth went by.

"He's thin enough for a pull through," interjected a friend of Tam's.

"An' there's Puddin' Johnson—he's awfu' like a barrel."

"I weesh I wis a barrel—I'm awfu' dry," answered the man concerned.

Behind this valiant stepped Lance-Corporal Spud Tamson, his chest puffed out like a bantam and his calves well stuffed with cotton wool. He was an important person, for he marched in the supernumerary rank. Dignity was part of his job. Still, he had time to wink at the lassies as he went by. Close to the station he sighted his fond parent somewhat elated with the thoughts of war, and aided by the cheapest gin. He would show him something.

"Left—right—left—March by the right," yelled Spud, as his section struggled and rolled up to the waiting train.

"Guid, Spud! Guid! You've the bluid o' the Tamsons. Man, I'm prood o' ye." Spud winked and passed on.

After the halt was given, entraining commenced. Now, it is a rule in the service that when a regiment entrains every door [pg 96] and every bar of the station has to be guarded to prevent the rush for liquid refreshments. Colonel Corkleg had duly provided for this, and smiled grimly as he quickly entrained his men. Nearly all had been settled in their carriages when he was startled by a queer sound from the other side of the line. He went to the end of the train and looked across. "Well, I'm d——," he muttered. This is what had happened. As quickly as the bold Militiamen had been ushered into their compartments, the more daring quietly opened the doors on the other side of the train, jumped down on to the rails and clambering on to the platform rushed the refreshment bar. The colonel saw hundreds struggling and fighting for "a gill and a pint" round three demented waitresses. It was an awkward moment, but Colonel Corkleg had experienced many in his life. For such moments he had one really trusty man. This was Sergeant Bludgeon, the provost-sergeant, an ex-champion wrestler and hammer-thrower. He had muscles like boxing-gloves, and he never struck a man without dislocating his framework. His stick was the most powerful thing in the regiment. It had quelled [pg 97] many mutinies. Thus was it called in again. Sergeant Bludgeon knew what was in the colonel's brain, for he stood twitching his murderous-looking stick in anticipation of orders.

"Sergeant Bludgeon—clear 'em out," the colonel ordered.

Bludgeon was across the line in a flash. Like a cyclone he fell on to the stragglers in rear. Half pushing and pitching, he dumped a dozen back on to the rails, then with a superhuman jerk he burst into the bar. His great stick whirled in the air and fell with a terrific clash on to the marble slab. There was a fearful clattering of pots, glasses, and money, as the startled men jumped back; next came a click of heels as Bludgeon thundered, "'Shun." Every man stood as still and erect as Roman sentinels.

"About turn." They whipped round like men of the Guards.

"Double march," finally roared the provost-sergeant as they scampered out of the bar. In three minutes every man was back in the train.

"All correct, sir," said Sergeant Bludgeon grimly, a few minutes later, to the colonel, who had quietly observed the scene.

[pg 98] "Any casualties?" queried the colonel with a grin, as he looked at the sergeant's stick.

"None, sir,—this time."

"Thank you, sergeant," concluded the colonel, ordering the train to go. As it slipped out amidst the deafening cheers, he turned and remarked to the adjutant—

"Useful man, that!—useful man!"

"Yes, sir," replied the adjutant.

The journey to Mudtown was a long one—sufficiently long to allow some of the inebriates time to soak into their bodies a few "hauf mutchkins" and some bottles of Bass. This refreshment, with the heat and roll of the train, quickly let loose the lung-power of the crowd. They sang, danced, and yelled with a devilish delight, and at times threatened disaster to every window and every N.C.O. in the carriages. Poor Spud Tamson shivered in his corner. He was in charge of eight tough-looking pirates, who knew neither fear nor pain. Fortunately they regarded Spud's stripe as a necessary evil, and eventually left him alone. And so pandemonium reigned till Mudtown came in sight. The fame of the Glesca Mileeshy had travelled before them. There was no [pg 99] civic welcome. The Provost had locked his chain and robes of office up in his safe; while his nervous citizens sat fearfully in their little suburban homes. In every manse the minister prayed for guidance in the coming trials; while every mother gathered her daughters round and told them that, on no account, must they go out at nights. They became still more alarmed when the news trickled round that the regiment was to be billeted in church halls, picture houses, and other public buildings near. It was monstrous, they argued. How dare the War Office do such a thing? They would protest. Poor ignorant souls, they did not know their danger. They never realised the perils of invasion; nor the fact that they had in their midst the toughest and finest bunch of fighters in the British Army. Drunkards and devils, may be, but soldiers to a man. Meantime, the tradesmen of Mudtown beamed with delight. They had no use or time for the men as men, but they were delighted with the prospect of a boom in trade. And, of course, the publicans were careful to hoist the Union Jack above their barrels, and put out the sign, "All Soldiers Welcome Here."

A bugle-call in Mudtown Station was the [pg 100] signal to get out of the train. The men rolled, jumped, and staggered down. The more merry chorused—

"I'm fu' the noo, I'm absolutely fu',

But I adore the country I was born in.

My name is Jock M'Craw,

But I dinnae care a straw,

For I've something in the bottle for the mornin'."

"Silence," roared the mountainous Sergeant-Major Fireworks. His voice made the station tremble, and the men gave a perceptible shiver as they fell into the ranks. Sergeant-Majors are wonderful men.

"Form fours—right," ordered the colonel, and into the town stepped the famous corps of Militiamen. They staggered bravely on till the halt was given in a sort of square. There the billeting officer met them, and issued the accommodation orders. The regiment then divided to the various halls and billets in the town. Spud Tamson found himself and his company in an old church, and, strange to say, he was allotted the pulpit as his doss. This was hardly in keeping with his theology, but such is the fortune of war. Another company was shoved into an old picture house, the platform of which was promptly captured as a [pg 101] rendezvous for card-playing and clog dancing. Barns, stables, and old manor-houses accommodated the remaining companies. Flower gardens were immediately converted into cook-houses; wash-houses became colour-sergeants' parlours, and old closets were cornered as the special quarters of such important people as the cooks and pioneers. A disused backyard with a tarpaulin over was transformed into the quartermaster's stores. This quickly became a centre of curiosity. Citizens were much interested and amused to observe ration parties coming out from this place, their loaves of bread in somewhat doubtful blankets, and great chunks of juicy red beef in their horny hands. Hunger, however, is "good sauce, while plain feeding means high thinking,"—so the philosophers say. Colonel Corkleg sometimes disagreed about the high thinking. In fact, he believed that the issue of one pound of beef per man was designed to give soldiers a primitive lust for blood.

It is easy to imagine the difficulties of training, organising, and disciplining a battalion in billets. It is like trying to make alligators out of snakes. Men get into all sorts of corners when they ought to be on [pg 102] parade. Visitors are also a nuisance. Maiden ladies will insist on entering to read the New Testament while the men are careering round in their somewhat spare night attire. Deputations frequently arrive with shortbread and liquid refreshments for their pals just as the colonel is making his inspection. And the night-birds find the windows a convenient exit into the darkness where they may pursue the antics of the owl. Can you wonder, then, that the officers felt depressed? Still, difficulties are made to be conquered, and Colonel Corkleg determined to conquer them. Sergeant-Major Fireworks and Sergeant Bludgeon would see to that.

Meantime the regiment, like the civil population of the country, was most excited about the German advance. Belgium was to be invaded, Paris taken, next London, and then—Mudtown. So there was really a chance of seeing service in their own native land. That was a solace to the bloodthirsty warriors. During many of these discussions in the billets some wag incidentally remarked that Mudtown was crammed full of German waiters.

"Germans! Whaur?" queried the patriotic Spud.

[pg 103] "In a' the hotels," replied the informer, Micky Cameron by name.

"They're spies," declared Spud, who had read all the penny horribles in his days.

"Ay, 'yin o' them gied me a pint, an' asked me hoo mony men were in the regiment."

"I tell't ye," declared our heroic lance-corporal, who then declared his intention of leading an attack on the German waiters.

"A'm wi' ye," declared Micky Cameron.

"An' me."

"An' me."

"An' me," shouted many others all over the room. That settled the attack, and made Lance-Corporal Spud Tamson conjure up visions of fame and promotion by his daring night raids on the hotels. A conference was next called to discuss details.

"Should we shoot them?" asked Micky.

"Na, that'll mak' owre much noise," interjected Spud.

"I've an awfu' guid razor," remarked Beefy M'Lean, as he thumbed a murderous-looking blade. Other methods were suggested, such as pole-axing, hanging, and tying them up in barbed wire. But the cautious spirit, engendered by Tamson's [pg 104] stripe, ruled all these murderous designs out of order.

"Let's mak' them a' prisoners an' march them to the colonel." This was finally agreed to, and the party sallied out to tackle the first hotel—namely, The Grand, where twenty waiters were employed.

"Whaur are ye gaun?" a sentry asked.

"Active Service," chirped Micky Cameron, giving him a wink.

On arriving at the hotel they tackled the back door. A patriotic kitchen-maid told them that the waiters were upstairs in their bedrooms.

"But there's wan," she remarked, pointing to a portly Teuton carrying a salver into the dining-room.

"Charge!" ordered Tamson. The wild, murderous crew tore like Dervishes through the hall. Poor Otto von Onions was so startled that he dropped his dish of choice grilled steak. Then, realising his danger, he lifted a carving-knife and edged towards the stairs. Kismet was with him. Tamson's army halted to pick up and sample the steaks. This was a golden chance for Otto. He turned and dashed up the stairs.

"Come on, lads," ordered Spud. His [pg 105] men followed with the half-chewed steaks sticking out of their mouths. Up the stairs they panted and yelled, alarming all the guests into a state of hysterics. Old ladies shrieked in terror, while the younger women swooned away on the various landings. At last Otto von Onions was brought to bay. Spud's army found him, knife in hand, at his bedroom door.

"Stops, or I vill kill yous all. I am a naturalusized ceetezan."

"A what?" queried Micky.

"A Breeteesh subjects. I haf Scotteesh wifes and cheeldrens."

"Oh, you've more than wan wife, eh?" asked Spud.

"No! No! One wifes."

"You're a spy," roared Micky, advancing under the cover of a broom.

"I keel you! I keel you!" shrieked the foreigner.

"Awa' an' kill yer granny," roared the intrepid Militiaman, striking him with the broom and wresting the knife right out of his hand.

"No keel me—no keel me—kind shentlemans. I give you moneys—wheesky—ceegars."

[pg 106] "Noo, you're talkin'," said Spud. "Oot wi' it." From his trunk the terrified Teuton disgorged his gold, his fine Havannas, and a bottle of Special Scotch. This loot was quickly collared and lodged in various pockets.

"An' noo tell me whaur these ither Germans stay?" asked Tamson.

"Away! They mobilised. Gone Shermanys."

"When?"

"To-nights. Ten train. They Shermans. I, Breeteesh subjects," he declared again.

"All right, old cock, we'll let you off," concluded the valiant lance-corporal, looking at the clock, which had just turned 9.30 P.M. Turning to his men, he said, "Look here, boys, we've time tae capture them deevils. Come on—aff tae the station." And down the stairs they walloped like a lot of schoolboys. The terrified visitors gave a sigh of relief as they went out through the great hall door, while poor Otto von Onions sat down and cried.

"This way, lads," yelled Spud, as they thundered into the Mudtown Station. There they saw a mongrel gang of heavily-built [pg 107] Germans waiting for the train. A Consular official with a ponderous umbrella was in charge. He had them marshalled in a rough sort of group. Some had still their tail-coats on, others had napkins round their necks, while a few showed their bare heels over the tops of their shoes. A villainous crowd; more ready to use the stiletto than their fists. All were eagerly discussing the great Day, and how long it would take them to invade our country, when they were startled by the terrific yell of Spud Tamson's men.

Charge! was the order of the day. In a second a peaceful station was turned into a bear garden. Kicks, shrieks, and yells rent the air. Human beings rocked to and fro, and tumbled over the luggage littered over the platform.

"I protest, in the name of the Kaiser," said the Consular gent with the umbrella.

"Tak' that, in the name o' the King," said Spud, delivering a terrific punch on the German's bulbous nose. Blood burst all over his ponderous paunch, but he was game, and pluckily tackled Spud with his umbrella. One whack over his enemy's head smashed the whole framework.

"Made in Germany," yelled Spud, giving [pg 108] him one full on the waist-line. He staggered and fell into a writhing mass of Germans and Militiamen. Micky Cameron was seen furiously belting a stout little German, with one hand; with the other he was rapidly relieving him of his watch, money, and trinkets, including a few silver napkin rings which the waiter had "borrowed" as a present for the Kaiser. Beefy Duncan found a fiendish delight in flattening the nose of Adolph Squarehead, the late boots of The Grand; while they nobly strived to tap blood and gather as much loot as possible in the struggle. It was a titanic conflict. Blood, skin, and hair were flying like snowflakes. Faces resembled lumps of beefsteak instead of respectable features. And although the Militia were outnumbered, they struggled bravely on. At last there was a cry of "Surrender." The Germans shrieked for mercy, while the stationmaster vainly implored for peace. An armistice was granted, during which the enemy gathered up their false teeth, collars, and other displaced apparel.

"Fall in now," ordered Lance-Corporal Tamson, as he wiped his bleeding nose.

"Quick march," and out of the station [pg 109] marched the escort with their captures. Hundreds had gathered and followed the convoy along. Spud headed straight for the Officers' Mess. There was no halt on arriving at the door. He marched them into the anteroom, where Colonel Corkleg and his officers were enjoying an evening smoke. All were startled at the sight of the twenty bleeding and battered Germans as well as the rowdy-looking escort. Before they had recovered, the whole lot was in the room, and Spud Tamson standing to attention at their head.

"What the devil do you mean, corporal?" roared the colonel.

"Twenty prisoners, sir. They're a' spies. We captured them at the station."

"In the name of the Kaiser, I protest——"

"Haud yer tongue—I'm speakin'," said the corporal to the Consular gentleman. But the colonel had realised that this assault on these Germans was a breach of the Convention. It was awkward, and although he had no love for the enemy he knew that International law permitted their being mobilised and shipped to their country. The colonel felt an inward pride as he [pg 110] surveyed the bleeding captures, but he had to assume the mask of duty. Turning to the adjutant he said, "Place this corporal and all of our men in the guardroom; I will see them to-morrow." Turning to the Germans, the colonel remarked in his best official tone, "I'm sorry, gentlemen, that you should have been assaulted. It is all through the ignorance of my men, as you see——"

"In the name of the Kaiser, I pro——"

"Very well," interjected the colonel, "you may lodge that protest when we arrive in Berlin. Now, you may go," he said, pointing to the door.

Gladly they tripped to the station. Another train conveyed these battered Teutons to the Port of Hull, where they found a steamer for Lagerland.

Of course there was a Court of Inquiry, the result of which was a Regimental Court-Martial for Spud and his pals. Diplomatic reasons demanded punishment, and Colonel Corkleg had to comply.

That day was a memorable one in the annals of this corps, for inside the Reading Room the bandaged Militiamen stood before their judges. After a pile of evidence had [pg 111] been read and the usual formalities finished, Colonel Corkleg asked, "Do you all plead guilty?"

"Yes, sir," was the firm response.

"Well, Lance-Corporal Tamson, I sentence you to be reduced, and fourteen days' field imprisonment with hard labour. The remainder are sentenced to seven days' field imprisonment."

"March them out, sergeant-major," ordered the adjutant. Without a tremble, they turned about and tramped from the room.

"Useful man, that Tamson," the colonel remarked, with a twinkle in his eye.

"Yes, sir," replied the adjutant, who, by the way, was a perfect military machine, knowing everything from the strength of a regiment to the number of grain seeds per diem allowed to a transport horse.

[pg 112]