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Page 11
Other officers took up the job of company commander in turn, and all
suffered. One, who was a dapper little fellow, speedily earned the
nickname of "Tailor's Dummy;" another, when giving a platoon the
wrong direction in dressing, was told to be careful, and not shove the
regiment over. A third, a Welshman, with the black ribbons, got angry
with a section for some slight mistake made by two of its number, and
was told to be careful and not annoy the men. He had only got them on
appro'.
Spick and span in their new uniforms, they came to drill daily on our
parade ground. Slowly the change took place. They were "rookies" no
longer, and the adjutant's sarcasm was a thing of the past. Commands
were pronounced distinctly and firmly; the officers were trained men,
ready to lead a company of soldiers anywhere and to do anything.
No man who has trained with the new armies can be lacking in respect
for the indefatigable N.C.O., upon whom the brunt of the work has
fallen. With picturesque scorn and sarcasm he has formed huge armies
out of the rawest of raw material, and all in a space of less than
half a year. His methods are sometimes strange and his temper short;
yet he achieves his end in the shortest time possible. He is for ever
correcting the same mistakes and rebuking the same stupidity, and the
wonder is, not that he loses his temper, but that he should ever be
able to preserve it. He understands men, and approaches them in an
idiom that is likely to produce the best results.
"Every man of you has friends of some sort," said the musketry
instructor, as we formed up in front of him on the parade ground,
gripping with nervous eagerness the rifles which had just been served
out from the quartermaster's stores. We were recruits, raw "rookies,"
green to the grind, and chafing under discipline. "And some sort of
friends it would be as well as if you never met them," the instructor
continued. "They'd play you false the minute they'd get your back
turned. But you've a friend now that will always stand by you and play
you fair. Just give him a chance, and he'll maybe see you out of many
a tight corner. Now, who is this friend I'm talking about?" he asked,
turning to a youth who was leaning on his rifle. "Come, Weary, and
tell me."
"The rifle," was the answer.
"The crutch?"
"No, the rifle."
"I see that, boy, I see that! But, damn it, don't make a crutch of it.
You're a soldier now, my man, and not a crippled one yet."
Thus was the rifle introduced to us. We had long waited for its
coming, and dreamt of cross-guns, the insignia of a crack shot's
proficiency, while we waited. And with the rifle came romance, and the
element of responsibility. We were henceforward fighting men,
numbered units, it was true, with numbered weapons, but for all that,
fighters--men trained to the trade and licensed to the profession.
Our new friend was rather a troublesome individual to begin with. In
rising to the slope he had the trick of breaking free and falling on
the muddy barrack square. A muddy rifle gets rusty, and brings its
owner into trouble, and a severe penalty is considered meet for the
man who comes on parade with a rusty rifle. Bringing the friend from
the slope to the order was a difficult process for us recruits at the
start the back-sight tore at the fingers, and bleeding hands often
testified to the unnatural instinct of the rebellious weapon. But the
unkindest kick of all was given when the slack novice fired the first
shot, and the heel of the butt slipped upwards and struck the jaw.
Then was learnt the first real lesson. The rifle kicks with the heel
and aims for the jaw. Control your friend, humour him; keep him well
in hand and beware his fling.
I was unlucky in my first rifle practice on the miniature range,
and out of my first five shots I did not hit the target once. The
instructor lay by my side on the waterproof ground-sheet (the day was
a wet one, and the range was muddy) and lectured me between misses on
the peculiarities of my weapon and the cultivation of a steady eye.
"Keep the beggar under control," he said. "You've got to coax him, and
not use force. Pull the trigger easily, as though you loved it, and
hold the butt affectionate-like against the shoulder. It's an easy
matter to shoot as you're shooting now. There's shooting and shooting,
and you've got to shoot straight. If you don't you're no dashed good!
Give me the rifle, you're not aiming at the bull, man, you're aiming
at the locality where the bull is grazing."
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