The General Staff is improving. Red Tape is being killed; common-sense is beginning to triumph. It took exactly two hundred and fifty years for our General Staff to realise that soldiers cannot be expected to skirmish in busbies, or entrench a position in crimson tunics and skin-tight trews. This admission, you will agree, is evidence of awakening, so the British public need not be alarmed. Years ago, generals received their rank through the influence of their wives, or somebody else's wife. Now, a general is expected to have the brains of Wellington and the sauce of the Kaiser. He is promoted for his efficiency, not for his glass eye or double-barrelled name. Indeed, it is only a brave man who would be a general, for he is supposed to know [pg 133] everything, from the weight of a soldier's socks to the number of men that can be killed by a shrapnel shell. And he is the generator of all schemes for the training of His Majesty's men. When the G.O.C. speaks, all are expected to show that they have a wholesome fear and awe of this almighty personage. The correct reply to a general, on all occasions, is "Yes, sir." Woe unto the man who would dispute the theories of the G.O.C., for "Death or such less punishment" lies in the hollow of his hand. A general who is keen of C.B.'s, knighthoods, and a baton, is always careful in the selection of his Staff. Up till fifteen years ago the young bloods of Mayfair were chosen because of their lineage, cash, and ability to ride a hunter at a five-barred gate. Now, a general seeks for an aide who can work twenty-three hours out of twenty-four, and possessed of all the knowledge that the Staff College can bestow. It is pleasant to note that many clever aspirants can be found, and that is the reason for the success of our arms to-day. If Wellington had had men of this type, he, like Hannibal and Napoleon, might also have conquered the Alps. But Wellington had to deal with aides who [pg 134] were simply British gentlemen with a passion for fox-hunting and a primitive thirst for blood. The modern Staff officer can secure the maximum of efficiency with the minimum of friction. He can inspire the training of a thousand muddling amateurs, and in six months can procure veterans of the type that conquered at Waterloo. Nothing is too much for him. He can make transports out of mud barges; bridges from milk carts; impregnable redoubts from biscuit-boxes, rubble, mud, and sand. In the midst of a most crushing reverse, he will collar a thousand retreating men, stick them in hen-houses, mills, and churchyards, and thus delay the advance of several army corps. He is tireless, persistent, sometimes dogmatic, but ever tactful and cheerful. Haking has instilled into him that soldiers are mainly human, and, in certain instances, fools, hence his ever cheerful charm, his pertinacity and human understanding. Of course there are a few of the old Peninsular type still left on the Staff. When you find them, Heaven help you! Their skulls are as shallow as the aborigines, and their tongues as cutting as a circular saw. They swear by The King's Regulations, and meet [pg 135] every problem by a precise reference to para so-and-so, section something, of the supplement to His Majesty's manuals of military muddles and laws. They terrify the simpleton by the fierceness of their dogmas, and ruthlessly crush the intellectual by thundering adjectives and cries of—insubordination and arrest. Thoroughly honest, thoroughly patriotic, but equally incompetent. They are tolerated for the simple reason that a shell or the age limit will eventually pass them out.

Now, in the Division to which the Glesca Mileeshy belonged there was a G.O.C. of the modern school. He was as big as a Cossack, and as cute as an Oxford Don. Common-sense was his theme; regulations he abhorred. He cursed everything which savoured of stupid obedience and ignorant obstinacy. Yet he had the faculty of humour, and in the midst of a fierce castigation would soothe ruffled pride and vain dignity by a funny yet kindly touch. This G.O.C. was nicknamed "Sunny Jim." Somehow his parents had missed the way to the Peerage and 'Who's Who?' Still, his worthy folks had produced an abnormal and interesting type. In a kindly family [pg 136] atmosphere "Sunny Jim" imbibed the true belief that love is the only philosophy to secure happiness and success. In a good public school this genius developed his amazing brain, and at the same time hardened his strong arms. Tin soldiers was his early game. Boy soldiers followed next. He armed his little army with mops, brooms, and carving knives, and, playing on an old frying-pan, marched them out to war. This was the beginning of great things. And from these boyish battles "Sunny Jim" moved into Sandhurst. And in Sandhurst "Sunny Jim" learned the more noble idealism of arms and the bedrock of those things which can be summed up as the chivalry of war. When he joined his regiment he created a stir. He was unorthodox. For example, he upset the tradition of three hundred years by ordering a sentry to stand under a verandah out of the wet; while he shocked his brother officers by eating an apple on the line of march. "It isn't conventional," his captain remarked. "Oh, hang convention!" was his tart reply. And so he progressed, upsetting all of the portly seniors, who declared that the Army was going to the dogs. While these old gentlemen [pg 137] went off to shoot grouse, "Sunny Jim" went forth to every sort of man-hunting expedition. His sword within ten years had been inside the paunch of many Dervishes, Afridis, hillmen, and negroes. His breast of ribbons told all the tale of days of hardship and of daring. In every scrap he was always "Sunny Jim." That was why he got the charge of the famous "Mixed Division." It was very mixed—twenty thousand gentlemen and scallywags, with little knowledge of war, but a terrible thirst for blood. Jim had to train them.

"Get them fit," he ordered.

"How, sir?" said the A.A.G.

"Make them charge mountains with fixed bayonets for a month."

"But there's no mountains nearer than fifteen miles, sir."

"March them out to them—good for them!"

"They'll probably kick, sir."

"Then we'll have them shot." And so the Mixed Division tramped, manoeuvred, and charged. It lowered each man's weight, and made him wring his shirt after the day's darg was done. The older soldiers cursed [pg 138] and growled; the younger men whined and often fell out.

"Too stiff, eh?" inquired "Sunny Jim" one day of a perspiring Tommy.

"A wee bit, sir," said the man with a wan smile.

"It's example these men want. I'll show them. Here, you," he shouted to a young subaltern in charge of an infant company.

"Yes, sir."

"Hand over your company to me."

"Very good, sir."

The company was awed. They had only heard of "Sunny Jim." Now, there he stood in his gold-braided cap and ribboned chest—a perfect type of soldier.

"'Shun," he roared. They shivered, for the voice told them that Jim was very much alive.

"Advance." They trekked behind him over the manoeuvring area. The whole regiment stopped to look on.

"Extend," was his next command.

They went out in a sleepy way.

"Come back! Come back!" he roared. They doubled back half startled.

"Now, look here, you young rascals, I'm fifty, and about fifteen stone. I've been [pg 139] through five wars and fifteen battles. I've been wounded twice and half starved in all my Army life, but if I couldn't double better than that I would desert and go home." Then in his thundering voice he bellowed, "Extend," once more. Out they ran like whippets.

"That's the way, my lads, and that's the way you'll run when the bullets are cracking round your ears. Now, advance."

Off they went again.

"Down—at the enemy in front—at five hundred—fire."

They flopped down in an awkward manner.

"Well! Well!" muttered the general. "Get up! Get up!" All rose in a shamefaced way.

"Now, watch me," and off he went at the double; next he flopped on to the muddy ground. It was mighty quick, but then "Sunny Jim" had done this many times to save his skin. All the while the men marvelled at this wonderful general doing such things when he might have ridden his horse and cursed them in the orthodox way. But they gladly followed his lead; ran, lay down, and opened fire.

[pg 140] "Rapid fire," he yelled above the din. The reply was a feeble thing to a trained ear.

"Oh dear! Oh dear! What the ...? ...." he roared, using the most choice and original adjectives. "It's fifteen rounds a minute I want, and fifteen rounds I'm going to have. Give me your rifle," he yelled to a shivering youth. Lying down, he quickly opened fire, while an aide-de-camp timed his shooting with a watch.

"How many?" he inquired when closing his bolt after firing the last round.

"Just fifteen, sir, to the minute."

"There! And these young scamps take about half an hour. Now, my lads, ready once more."

"Rapid fire!" The response was good, almost perfect.

The old general smiled grimly as he muttered—

"They're getting on."

In this way he conducted the fight to the point of assault. This, of course, was the critical stage of the whole manoeuvres. But before proceeding he gave another address.

"Look here, my boys. This is where you've got to frighten the devil out of the [pg 141] enemy, and charge like Hell. When you charge, open your mouth and yell like a mad Dervish. Keep yelling till you get at them, and then plug your bayonet home with a mighty thrust. As you pull it out give it a pleasant twist. Every twist helps to end the war. Are you ready?"

"Yes, sir."

"Well, charge!" and off went "Sunny Jim" at their head yelling like a mad fakir. They gleefully followed and charged as they never had before. At the conclusion he formed them up, remarking, "Well, how did you like that?"

"Fine, sir," was the quick response.

"All right, lads; that's the way I want it done—good day to you."

"Good day, sir," answered the company, as proud as Punch.

There was no more growling in the Mixed Division, for the general had shown them that he could do their job.

[pg 142]