The soldier of to-day is a very different person to the one of fifty years ago. In the past, all that was asked of a Tommy was clean buttons, a padded chest, and handling of arms. To-day, the soldier is equal to the officer of Wellington's time. His brain is a well-packed encyclopedia on everything from minor tactics to sanitary duties in war. In the past, he was a machine—a splendid machine; now he is an individualist, one trained to use his science in such a way that he feels that upon his conduct the fate of a battle depends. Many stripes have been lost, and many hearts broken, in the achievement of this necessary standard; but, thank Heaven, common-sense has come to stay. It is now practically impossible for an officer to hide his inefficiency [pg 143] under a mask of haughty reserve. Modern tactics demand that he shall teach his men the alphabet of military affairs, as well as those side-issues which count so much in the making of a soldier. Mental superiority and physical efficiency are the only qualities which can inspire loyalty, discipline, and confidence. Of course, the strain is hard, especially upon an officer. Too hard, perhaps, when one thinks of the niggardly pay and the chance of losing one's life in the tender and more useful years. Nevertheless, it is mighty interesting and equally amusing. Imagine a corps like the Glesca Mileeshy suddenly mobilised and ordered to train and become fit within three months. Fortunately Colonel Corkleg was a resourceful and a clever man. He commenced at the bottom—that is, on the square. It is there that obedience and discipline are developed and perfected. When a regiment can march and drill like the Guards' Brigade, there is no fear for its conduct in the sternest battle. This was the colonel's reasoning, and all agreed that he was correct. Each company then went out to march and drill. Let us study a sample. This was Captain Coronet's company. [pg 144] His colour-sergeant, known as Fiery Dick, was a regular terror. This valiant was supported by Sergeants Maloney, O'Dooley, M'Sappy, and Greegor. Very tough gents, I assure you. If they lacked a knowledge of the three R's and perfection in the King's English, they could bash their sections about in the most vigorous style. The preliminary address of Fiery Dick was interesting.

"Look 'ere, you funny bundles of humanity, you've got to drill like soldiers, not like fishermen. And when I says ''Shun,' I means ''Shun.' None of your hankey-pankey tricks, such as wiping your wet noses on your sleeve, or keeking round the corner for a smell of the canteen. Stand erect, head still, eyes to your front, and puff out your chest. Keep your thumbs in line with the seam of your trousers, not inside of the next man's pocket. Remember, pickpocketing's not allowed in His Majesty's Service. If you want a bob, I'll lend you one—and charge you interest. Now—'Shun!" This evidently was not perfect. "Here, O'Riley, don't squint at me like that. That's dumb insolence. Won't have it. None of your moonlighter tricks here."

[pg 145] "To the divil wid ye," muttered O'Riley, who was a bit of a hard case.

"Take his name, Sergeant Maloney. I'll teach him not to talk back in the ranks. Squad—'Shun!" There was now a stillness that pleased the professional eye.

"Not bad for Militiamen. Now we'll try the slope. Look slippy! Chuck it about. It won't bite you. And don't wobble your head like a looney in the asylum. Squad—Slope. Macsausage, wait for the last word—you're too slippy—expect you've been a bookie in civil life, always slipping the cops. Stand still, Private Rednose. Squad—Slope—arms!" There was a weird attempt at precision. Weird is the word, for Fiery Dick immediately bellowed, "As you were." They tumbled back to the order again. "You for soldiers—you're like a lot of monkeys gettin' up a pole. But I'll teach you—Double march." Off they galloped round the square, to the grim delight of Dick, who heaved his chest with martial pride, and followed their antics with his eyes. "Double," he roared, as they slacked a little. "Who told you to crawl like worms? Hi, M'Ginty, you're rolling like a bloomin' old fishwife. O'Riley, I'll get [pg 146] a stretcher for you, you lazy spud-eating Paddy."

"Ach, to H—— wid you," shouted back O'Riley.

"Halt!" roared Dick, aflame with military wrath. "What do you mean, talking back to a Non-Commissioned Officer?"

"Yis couldn't drill my ould cat," leered O'Riley in a fearless way.

"What—you—— How dare——"

"Aisy, sargint, or, be jabers, you'll burst."

"Sergeant Maloney, march him to the clink. Skilly and cells will teach him."

"Thank yis, sargint—I'll get a sleep in the clink," chirped O'Riley as he was marched away.

"Double march," roared Dick to the remainder again. When he had almost pumped the last breath out of their bodies he gave the halt, then—"Stand at ease."

"Wipe your sweat off, and then we'll try the slope again." Gladly they mopped their brows. When finished, the old sergeant ordered, "Slope—arms." Every rifle went bang on to the shoulder with a precision that was truly amazing.

[pg 147] "That's the way. You can do it when you like. Now, Present—arms." This had its faults.

"Keep your stomachs in—it's corsets you want. And grip your guns. They ain't dynamite. Just think it's a beer pot. No laughing, Muldoon, or I'll clap you in with O'Riley."

"I couldn't help——"

"Silence! Who ever heard of talking in the ranks? Company—Slope—arms. By the right—Quick march."

"By the right! By the right! Don't wobble like ducks in a mud-pond. Hold your heads up—swing your arms—stick out your measly chests, and march. Steady now! About—turn. One—two—three—four—Step out—you're not at O'Riley's funeral yet. Right—form. Come round like one man. Keep back, Tamson, it's not dinner-time yet."

"I weesh it wis," whispered Tamson.

"Squad—Halt! Stand at—ease," concluded Fiery Dick. "Now you section commanders march off your sections. Slip it across them. If they look sideways, double them till their wind-bags burst."

The sergeants gladly complied, for they [pg 148] were itching to emulate the style of their worthy "Flag," as the colour-sergeant is known in the Service. When sufficiently apart, the din commenced.

"Left—right—left—haud up yer heids—oot wi' yer chists—eyes aff the grun, there's nae money there," piped Sergeant Greegor, the sprightly commander of No. 1 section. His colleagues followed suit, much to the amusement of Captain Coronet and his Subs (Lieutenants Greens and Briefs), who quietly observed all from a corner of the drill-ground. This section drill went on for a week. At the conclusion, the company commander and his subalterns fell to and instructed them in company drill. The methods of these gentlemen were of the polite order. Their adjectives had not the strong flavour of Fiery Dick's. Indeed, their treatment was much too ladylike in the opinion of the sergeants. However, these trusty henchmen kept the scallywags in order. If they stumbled, mumbled, or jumbled when on parade, a quiet dig with a boot mended matters.

Having polished the eight companies into shape and order, Colonel Corkleg and his adjutant decided on battalion drill. Battallion drill under such a colonel was a [pg 149] treat. He was a martinet, and could drill a regiment like a Guardsman.

"Battalion reported present, sir," announced the adjutant on the first parade.

"Thank you," said the colonel, clearing his throat, and viewing a thousand expectant souls.

"Battalion—what's all the moving now? When I say 'Battalion,' every man should stand still and wait for the next word of command. Who's that moving about on the right of Number Eight? Sergeant-Major."

"Yes, sir."

"Take the name of the fat, red-headed man—third from the right of Number Eight. Give him marked drill. That will teach him."

"Battalion—'Shun. Slope—arms. By the right, quick—march." Any man who quivered an eyelid or turned his eyes the eighth of an inch was promptly collared and marked for drill. Up and down they went, neither looking to the left nor to the right, as if in terror of their lives. The bailies of a hundred towns, with all the men in blue, had tried to quell and train this same material, but it had been left to Colonel [pg 150] Corkleg to instil into them that orders were orders. Discipline—discipline, and obedience, the holy watchword of His Majesty's men. From a sullen, slovenly, careless gang of devil-may-care cut-throats and vagabonds, he whacked them into a regiment of steady, proud, and sterling men. And he did not hesitate to curse them. He knew his men. There was not a sense of cruelty or spite in Colonel Corkleg's soul. He was a gentleman, but he knew that these men were the victims of environment. In their dreary crime-and drink-sodden homes they had learned to emulate the law-breaker, to idolise the criminal, and applaud the football god. Their philosophy was material—necessarily so: for poverty made them steal; environment sent them out to seek the heat of the ale-house and the shelter of the jail. Brutes, some people would call them. But they had never seen these men dying on the sands of Egypt or on the plains of Hindostan. Colonel Corkleg had. While he cursed them in his stern way, that was simply because these men knew no other tongue. In his heart he loved them as his own children. They had stuck to him in many a bloody combat. He knew this same type would [pg 151] stick to him again. Yes, and the men loved him, too. They were shrewd. A cruel world had given them a keen perception. One look at a man and they knew him to be friend or foe. Many a time old Corkleg had met them on the open road and stopped his high-stepping mare to give them a lift and the price of their doss. Often had Colonel Corkleg amazed his guests at his country-seat by hauling a dirty old blackguard off the highway and introducing him as "one of his boys."

Having steadied them up at drill, the regiment was then initiated into the wonders of modern war. First came musketry. Musketry was never good in the British Army till the War Office made a soldier shoot for his pay. This truly brilliant thought made Thomas Atkins spot the bull as he never did before. Those who hitherto spent their lives in tasting ale realised that during musketry they had to study abstinence and do with a pint a day—a great sacrifice on the part of such men. Next they discovered the difference between the line of sight and the trajectory. This kept them low—dead on at six o'clock. The ribbons on their caps, or the fluttering flags [pg 152] on the range, gave all the tip of the wind; while the wonders of the wind-gauge aided in getting the bullets into the best billets every time. All of these theories were amply explained by the N.C.O.'s, who had learned the latest crazes from "The madmen of Hythe." Those queer professors of the art of shooting went to bed with their rifles. They wallowed in cartridges, and prayed for new ideas to get the British Army bulls. And to the horror of all thirsty privates they invented green-and khaki-coloured targets at which the soldier had to pop to qualify for his pay. Standing, kneeling, lying, and sitting, the Tommy was expected to hit the khaki specks on the landscape. Rapid fire was another theme, while grouping, and cones of fire, they argued, were the theories to win a modern war. Very excellent, but, at first, annoying to those who had been used to firing volleys and keeping their cartridges still till they saw "the whites of the enemy's eyes." Yet, in time, all realised that the madmen of Hythe were right, and so the British Army has become the finest shooting force in the world.

Of course, the best-regulated systems are [pg 153] liable to fraud. Spud Tamson proved that. While marking at the butts, under the officer of the day, he found that a pencil pushed sharply through the target resembled the puncture of a bullet. Now this was a great discovery. It meant salvation to many of his pals who were third-class shots. It also indicated to Tamson the road to a lucrative income by charging so much per head for every bull that he secured by the aid of his pencil. Naturally there were risks, but Tamson was willing to take them. To ensure success, he squared his orderly sergeant to get him the job of permanent marker at the butts. Having accomplished that, Spud intimated to many hopeless aspirants for first-class shot that he could pull them through, and thus secure them the threepence a day which is the reward for musketry efficiency. He put dozens through his hands; indeed, he was so zealous that not a third-class shot was found in many of the companies.

"This is really marvellous shooting, sir," said the A.A.G. to the G.O.C. one day during this regiment's course. "Not a third-class shot, so far."

"Don't believe it. There's something [pg 154] wrong there," quickly observed the general, who knew the rifle upside down. "I'll test this regiment to-day," he concluded, putting on his cap and making for the range. There he found a company doing great things at the game. Bull after bull was going up to the delight of all, especially Colonel Corkleg, who was proud of his men's achievement.

"Here, my lad," said the G.O.C. to a blind-looking man firing at a target, "give me your rifle." Lying down, the general fired two shots.

"What's that?" he inquired casually.

"Two bulls, sir," answered the colonel.

"Bulls, eh?"

"Yes, sir."

"Very well—blow the cease fire."

This was sounded, and the general ran up to the butts. There he found the zealous Tamson "pasting up."

"Show me the last two shots on number one target," ordered the general.

"Here they are, sir," replied the cool and resourceful rascal.

"Umph! Not much of a bullet went in there."

"Oh yes, sir, that's right enough. I saw them spit on."

[pg 155] "Well, lend me your pencil for a minute, my lad."

Out came Tamson's pencil, which he handed to the general.

"Now, look here, young man—I fired the last two shots at number one target, but I fired them in the air. They went miles from here—somewhere in the sky."

"It's gey funny, sir."

"Not so very funny, either," replied the G.O.C., "especially when I look at your pencil. It's the exact circumference of a bullet, and a little paste on each side shows that you have been sticking it through the target."

"No' me, sir! No' me, sir!"

"Oh no—it was your pencil. Put him in the guardroom, colonel, and all of your companies must fire over again with neutral officers in the butts. Good-day." And off stamped the G.O.C. with a grim smile in his eyes. He knew Tommy Atkins, and had caught many a regiment before. In the next shooting many "marksmen" suddenly fell to the status of third-class shots. Thus was a Bisley standard foiled. Tamson got seven days' cells without the proverbial option. But he didn't mind. He was thirty shillings [pg 156] to the good. Colonel Corkleg's opinion cannot be printed.

Having performed the necessary musketry course, all hands were initiated into skirmishing and the need of taking cover. Skirmishing, as you are aware, was invented to dodge the unpleasant effects of "Black Marias," "Coal Boxes," and whizzing volleys of death in tabloid form. This new formation gives all the sporting chance of getting through a war and winning a medal and a wife. As for taking cover, that undignified game has robbed war of much of its chivalry, compelling the most austere martinet to hide behind a blade of grass. This sort of thing would not have pleased the army of Wellington. Imagine the Iron Duke's Guards, clad in the glories of red and gold, hiding in a mud-hole, or crawling along a ditch, like a lot of boy scouts. These gentlemen would have declared that the Army was going to the dogs. Speaking of dogs, the soldier of to-day is very much of a dog. He is expected to scent, crouch, crawl, and spring on his prey. The closer he gets to mother earth the better his chance of getting a bite. Of course, such a proceeding is very annoying to one with the girth of Falstaff or Bailie [pg 157] Nicol Jarvie. And it was a very difficult matter to get these gallants to understand the tricks of the weasel. The sudden flop on to mother earth at first dislocated the internal bag of tricks. Crawling, too, was bad for their tender knees. Nor did they realise that the effect of posing with their nether regions like humps of khaki meant an unpleasant wound. Think, then, of the difficulties. Imagine training one thousand men into crawling monkeys. You can picture the scene. How weird! How funny! But it had to be done. As the drill-book says, "You must see without being seen, and take advantage of all cover." Thus did the Glesca Mileeshy wriggle and crawl. Darwin would have been delighted. The sight would have convinced him that man did come from the crawling and clambering apes of the forest.

A week of this business fitted them for a more interesting stage—namely, "Artillery Formations," or, in other words, the tactical disposition of men to avoid the effects of artillery fire. The modern shrapnel shell has a forward throw of about 200 yards and a lateral spread of 50 yards. This necessitates the breaking of a company into four [pg 158] little groups. Two groups or sections are in the front line, about 50 yards apart; two in the rear line with about 200 yards between them and the first line, and about 50 yards between sections. The four sections then move forward in a sort of diamond formation. This really prevents a gunner getting the correct range, and even if he does get a hit he can only blot out one of the sections. The sporting chance of life, you will observe, is there for all. Quite a cunning device of our General Staff; presenting to every man the opportunity of glory and the chance (sometimes meagre) of getting home to one's own fireside.

Artillery formation was at first a weird business to the old soldiers accustomed to the straight business and marching with their whiskers in line. The idea of manoeuvring in a lot of disordered groups distinctly upset their precise barrack-square drill. It didn't look well, and that seemed a weak point in the scheme. However, as the G.O.C. remarked, "They would be glad of it when the Kaiser had his guns going at them." But we must get on. Well, on reaching, say, seven hundred yards, all were impressed with the need of urgently and rapidly extending [pg 159] to avoid the rude effect of the enemy's rifle-fire. An enemy has little respect for football-like crowds advancing to the attack. Their machine-guns usually squirt out lead injections at a furious rate, with the most startling results, hence the open order at the range indicated. It is here, too, that the soldier must get behind a blade of grass or a jam tin, anything likely to stop the bullet from putting him on the roll of honour. From a vantage point, all are expected to create as many German widows as they possibly can. Quite a murderous job, but delightfully thrilling to the man who has the hereditary thirst for blood. In such a phase, the third-class shot is of little account. The marksman, however, has the time of his life. He can inoculate the brain or the little Mary of his foe at will. Indeed, he can play nasty tricks with the angles of the square-headed Teuton. If such is the case at seven and six hundred yards, imagine the deadliness of matters at five, four, and lesser ranges.

Mistakes will happen in field-firing practices, as officers know to their sorrow. Many rifle-ranges are used as grazing grounds for cattle and sheep. These quadrupeds, [pg 160] as you are aware, have very bad manners. They persist in getting in front of the targets just as a company is opening out a deadly volley. Officers under such circumstances are always careful to cease fire and clear the offenders away. But on one occasion at the Mudtown range the officers happened to be having a little refreshment in the range-keeper's hut. During this interval a flock of prize sheep happened to stroll along in front of the khaki figures. Just then Sergeant Maloney bellowed out—"At the enemy in front—at four hundred—rapid fire."

"Z—r—r—r—p," rattled the volley—not at the targets. The devil had tempted the noble Militiamen to pot the sheep in front. Fifty fell, others screamed and ran blindly about with bullets in their skin.

"Cease fire!" roared Sergeant Maloney, but too late! The damage had been done. "What the ...?..."

Then the officers arrived. More ...? ...?...?...

Next the farmer, and still more ...? ...?...?...

Finally the colonel!...?...!...!...?...!

Sergeant Maloney was placed under arrest, [pg 161] and every man was marched back to the guardroom. This little incident cost the small sum of two hundred pounds. The officers gladly paid—for the honour of the regiment. But the affair was chronicled deep in regimental memories, especially in the canteen, where the culprits received a certain amount of hero-worship. "It wis d—— guid," as Tamson often remarked.

Another interesting phase of modern training is scouting. Each battalion has about twenty men trained for this job. The toughs of a battalion make the best scouts. They will face anything, from a mad bull to a German Division. Life to them is cheap. They glory in slitting an enemy's throat and getting back with sound news. Naturally the training of such gentlemen in peace times is troublesome. They will get lost. Any colonel will tell you that at manoeuvres he sees his scouts at the beginning of an attack, seldom during or after the mimic battles, especially in a district where inns and hospitable old ladies abound. For example, in one great fight on the Hills of Mudtown, Colonel Corkleg was determined to win the day. Information of the enemy's whereabouts was, of course, absolutely essential for victory. [pg 162] For this he hailed his worthy band of scouts. Spud Tamson was one. They were told to double out a mile or so ahead and get in touch. As soon as they located the enemy, all were instructed to retire at once with their reports. Gleefully they marched away. Their intentions were good, but, alas! Colonel Corkleg was opposed by a colonel of a Territorial Corps who had studied well the temperament of the Militiamen against him. This alert Terrier instructed his scout officer to bag the enemy's scouts at all costs, and see that they were well treated.

"I understand, sir," replied his alert intelligence officer. This smart young subaltern marched off his merry men towards the enemy. He did not worry about using his glasses or sending his men ahead to crawl through hedges and drain-pipes. No, he simply marched them to the village, which lay in the centre of the manoeuvre area. There was only one inn. In that hostelry he was sure to find the opposing Buffalo Bills.

"Steady," he cried, as they drew near. Creeping forward, he peered through a corner of a window. Yes, there they were, sitting round a table and enjoying four ale [pg 163] of an appetising kind. There was another attraction—a buxom wench of eighteen, who had singled out Spud Tamson as the object of her jests and affection. This bold young man was leering into her eyes with a persistency akin to the style of Don Juan.

"Good!" muttered the subaltern as he crept back again to his waiting men.

"Sergeant."

"Yes, sir," answered the subaltern's henchman.

"Here's five shillings. Take half the men and get inside there. Pay for all they want and keep them merry. Whatever you do, see that they are well entertained for two hours."

"Very good, sir," replied the non-com., boldly stepping towards the door. The officer then crept away with the remaining scouts. In twenty minutes he located Colonel Corkleg's Corps in quarter column behind a hill, with only half a company thrown out as an observation post. The colonel was waiting for his scouts before he set out to annihilate "those bally amateurs," as he termed the Territorials. While he was fretting, fuming, and cursing the overdue scouts, the gallant subaltern was busily [pg 164] pedalling back on a borrowed bicycle with his report.

"Well," said the Territorial colonel, as his chief scout arrived.

"I've bagged all their scouts, sir, and we can decimate the whole regiment."

"Good," said the C.O., avoiding unnecessary inquiries in anticipation of future trouble with headquarters.

"You can double the regiment, sir, to within five hundred yards of the enemy. One company might engage their observation post; the remainder might make a detour with our Maxim guns and annihilate the regiment."

"Right—lead the way," ordered the colonel, signalling the advance. Quickly they covered the ground. In half an hour they arrived at the point to deploy. Leaving a company to engage the enemy in front, the others circled round, then moved into long skirmishing lines. Down on their knees they went, and up the hill all quietly crawled to bag the Glesca Mileeshy.

"Where are those scouts?" said Colonel Corkleg in a furious manner.

"Can't understand, sir—most annoying," replied the adjutant.

[pg 165] "It's worse—it's damned annoying," raved the colonel, looking at his watch. "But we can't wait. We had better move out to——"

"Bang!" interjected a shot in his rear. Next there was a fierce volley of blank on three sides of his position, while away to the front he heard the volleys of his defending outposts. The startling onslaught frightened his charger, which reared and flung him to mother earth. The crack of the enemy's Maxims and the terrible crash of their musketry threw the regiment, for the moment, into a state of panic and alarm.

"Good Lord!—they've trapped us," roared the angry colonel, as he was helped to his feet.

"Yes, sir," replied the adjutant.

"Extend—extend," ordered the now alert veteran, in an endeavour to save his regiment. Alas! he was too late. Like one man the whole seven companies of Territorials fixed their bayonets and charged down on to the surprised Militiamen. It was, indeed, a glorious victory—one which startled the Brigadier, who happened to ride on to the scene.

"You've been scuppered, Corkleg," said the general, with a dry grin.

[pg 166] "Yes, sir," was the tart reply of the disconsolate C.O.

"Well—you're out of action. But why were you caught napping?"

"Waiting for my scouts, sir."

"Ah, Corkleg," interjected the Brigadier, "I thought you knew better. Scouts are the only privileged absentees at this game. Have a look in the nearest public-house," concluded the Brigadier as he rode away, well pleased with the work of "those d—— amateurs," as Colonel Corkleg had termed the enemy. By the way, this defeated colonel did look for his missing men. With his adjutant he rode towards the village. As they neared the inn, sounds of revelry rent the air. A cracked piano was playing "Tipperary," while many fuddled voices mumbled out the words of this popular air. "Tipperary" was followed by a general shout of—

"Oh, we won't go home till morning,

We won't go home till morning,

We won't go home till mor-n-n-ing,

And so say all of us."

"'Shun!" roared the adjutant, as he led the way into the tap-room.

Spud Tamson disengaged his arm from [pg 167] the barmaid's neck and jumped, or, rather, staggered to attention with his pals.

"What are you men doing here?"

"We're scouts," answered all, with one accord.

"And who are you?" inquired the colonel of the Territorial's sergeant and his party.

"Scouts, sir."

Corkleg stamped out and rode home like the Kaiser in a rage. For the next ten days the scouts of the Glesca Mileeshy were under the care of Sergeant Bludgeon, the police sergeant. His total prohibition campaign made them thirsty, but not wiser, men.

Any chapter on training must also refer to night operations, generally called Night Attacks. These operations are never popular in times of training. They interfere with social engagements. The finest dinners have to be refused, and the most amorous engagements cancelled. These attacks in real war are simply organised nightmares to shorten the life of the enemy. They are difficult, and only successful under the most favourable conditions. Mistakes always happen. And, to an officer, such sorties are anxious affairs. Think of leading a company, every man of which has a [pg 168] bayonet as keen as a razor edge. Remember that every bayonet is carried at the "Charge." If there is a sudden halt in the course of the advance, the officer's anatomy generally acts as a sort of buffer for the nearest blade. Indeed, it is safe to assert that the reason for an officer's quick and gallant advance in the assault is not his thirst for death ahead, but his fear of death from some careless fellow behind. To prevent such accidents, the officers of the Glesca Mileeshy always carried coats, canteens, and a general emporium on their backs. These articles were most useful as a shield in case of accidents.

Talking was barred and smoking absolutely prohibited. The red glow of one cigarette on a night job is enough to give a whole Division away. This had to be deeply impressed on the brains of these gallants. They did their best to comply—a severe test to the garrulous gentry who also believed in "thick black." Subdued excitement was always characteristic of these affairs. The chirping of a bird, the rustle of leaves and creaking of trees, were signs of "the enemy."

Preliminary night attacks were done on [pg 169] the Mudtown Common—a great expanse which had been gifted by a king to the sweethearts of all ages. The loneliness and darkness of this area may be imagined. This place, by the way, was the rendezvous of the Territorials at dusk. In all of its dark corners these gay Lotharios told the old, old tale. The Militia knew this, and, still bitter with the poison of their great defeat, determined to have revenge. It was to be accomplished on a night attack.

"We'll get oor ain back the nicht," said Spud Tamson on hearing the orders given for night operations.

"How?" asked Micky Cameron.

"The Terriers are no' trainin' the nicht. They'll be a' owre the place. We'll capture them an' their weemin and bring them in tae the colonel." This great plot was quietly sent round. When the regiment paraded, all were thrilled with the prospect of fun ahead. Of course the officers knew nothing about it. That would have spoiled the game.

"Gentlemen," said the colonel to his group of officers, "we shall imagine an enemy at the other end of the Common. Our plan is to make a simple reconnaissance from this, [pg 170] our outpost line. Two companies will go out, the remainder will stay here. The enemy which is represented by the Mudshire Militia will also have strong patrols in front. Elude or capture them, but do something useful."

"Very good, sir," replied the officers concerned, moving off. These officers split up their companies into strong patrols and sent them out as arranged. The darkness swallowed them up almost instantly. For half an hour there was a tense silence, broken only by an occasional patter of feet, as a scout returned with the necessary false news from the various patrols to keep the officers at ease while the comedy went on in the darkness. Then the trouble began. Shouts and screams rent the wintry air and carried far, while here and there a thud or scuffling noise made the expectant colonel and his staff prick up their ears.

"What the devil is wrong?" said Corkleg anxiously.

"There's women there, that is evident from the screaming," ventured Coronet.

"It seems to me your patrols have gone woman hunting instead of man hunting."

"Well—eh—yes."

[pg 171] "Send another patrol out and see what's on, and stop that awful din," ordered the irate C.O.

Another patrol went forth, but to no purpose. The screaming and scuffling continued, to the annoyance of the officers and the secret delight of the men. To understand it better, let us picture the scene. In each dark corner, and beneath every great oak tree, was a loving couple. These youthful warriors and their girls were lost to the world. What mattered the Germans? What mattered the waiting sergeants who were calling the roll in the billets beyond? They loved and were beloved. And so into each servant and shop-girl's ear they poured those words which have thrilled all women since the advent of Eve. So lost were they in this fairyland that none heard the crawling patrols of the Glesca Mileeshy. The real enemy mattered little to these warriors. It was the Terriers' blood they desired. Into each nook and up to each tree went these rascals. Just as each pair were renewing their bonds of affection in a long—long—kiss there was a general shout of "Hands up" all over the Mudtown Common.

"Oh!" shrieked the girls.

[pg 172] "Get out," roared the Terriers.

"Hands up," persisted the Militiamen, presenting their glittering bayonets in a manner distressful to the anatomy of the men. This menacing attitude, with the fierce expression on the tough faces of the aggressors, sent nearly all the ladies into tears and hysterics. But all the tears and shrieks were of little avail. They were prisoners, and, as such, would be presented to the powers that be. They cursed and struggled, but the rifle slings and bootlaces of their captors eventually subdued all resistance. Pitiful they looked; more pitiful were the girls who followed their captured braves, with handkerchiefs to their eyes.

This, then, was the awful din which Colonel Corkleg had heard. Louder it grew as the returning warriors neared the zone of flashing torchlights, which now indicated the end of the operations and the position of the outpost lines.

"In the name of Heaven, what is this?" ejaculated the C.O. on seeing one patrol emerging into the light with four battered Terriers and their weeping lovers.

"Prisoners, sir," was a Tommy's blunt reply.

[pg 173] "What—more of them?" he again remarked as a great big sergeant was carried in, all gagged and bound. This was the scout-sergeant who had played his part so well in the old village inn. The colonel recognised the N.C.O., and inwardly chuckled.

"Still more, sir," ventured the adjutant, as four more patrols came forward with the battered remnants of the Territorial Force.

"But these men are not the enemy," insisted the colonel in his official tone.

"Na, sir, but they were the enemy the ither day. We're piyin' them back," chirped Micky Cameron.

"Ay! an' here's an officer," gleefully yelled a brave then coming into the light.

"A what?" queried the now startled colonel.

"An officer, sir," said Spud Tamson, saluting proudly as he presented the form of a young subaltern who had been having a quiet stroll with the daughter of the Brigadier.

"I protest, sir. It is an insult to me and my regiment."

"Yes, positively disgusting," pouted a [pg 174] very charming maid of seventeen, with a haughty flush on her cheek.

"We didnae protest the ither day when you made us fu' in the pub," chirped Spud, almost sticking his nose into the young scout-officer's face.

"Silence!" roared Colonel Corkleg.

Addressing the officer, he said, "I apologise for this rude interference with your very pleasant mission. I can well understand your indignation," at the same time casting a roguish glance at the pretty girl.

"Oh, it's all right, sir," replied the subaltern, saluting and marching off.

A similar apology was tendered to all the other captured swains when they were allowed to depart. "Fall in" was then sounded, and all marched merrily home. In the officers' mess that night the laughter was loud and long, for their men had squared the defeat of the previous day. Even the colonel let himself go, and laughed till his old artificial leg rattled on the floor with glee.

"Useful men, eh," he concluded.

"Yes, sir," replied the adjutant.

[pg 175]