The Amateur Army by Patrick MacGill


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Page 23

We stood, every unit of us, sphinx-like, immovable, facing our front
and resigned to our position. To an onlooker it might seem as if we
were frozen there--our fingers glued on to our rifles and our feet
firm to the earth at an angle of forty-five degrees. I stood near the
rear, and could see the still platoons in front, not a hat moved, not
a boot shifted. The general broke the spell when he was passing me.

"Another button. There were forty-seven the last time," he said, and
the man with the eyeglass made an entry in the notebook. Through an
oversight, I had helped to lower the prestige of the battalion: a
pocket flap of my tunic was unbuttoned.

Kit inspection was a business apart; the general picked out several
soldiers haphazard and ordered their packs to be opened for an
examination of the contents--spoons, shirts, socks, and the various
necessaries which dismounted men in full marching order must carry on
their persons were inspected carefully. A full pack is judged best by
its contents, and nearly all packs passed muster. One man was unlucky:
his mate was chosen for kit inspection, but this hapless individual
came out minus a toothbrush and comb, and the friend in need took his
place in the freshly-formed ranks. Here, the helper found that his own
kit was inefficient, he had forgotten to put in a pair of socks. That
afternoon he had to do two hours' extra drill.

Perhaps an even greater trial than Divisional Inspection was that of
waiting orders when we were the victims of camp rumours. But this was
as nothing to the false alarms. There is some doggerel known to the
men which runs:

"We're off to the front," said the colonel,
as he placed us in the train,
"And we went at dawn from the station,
and at night came back again."

For months we had drilled and drilled, all earnest in our labours and
filled with enthusiasm for our new profession, and daily we await the
order to leave for foreign parts. Where are we going to when we leave
England? France, Egypt, or India? Rumour had it yesterday that we
would go to Egypt; to-day my mate, the blue-eyed Jersey youth, heard
from a friend, who heard it from a colour-sergeant, that we are going
out to India, where we will be kept as guardians of the King's Empire
for a matter of four years. Ever since I joined the Army it has been
the same: reports name a new destination for my battalion daily.

Afterwards we had to go and help the remarkable Russians who passed
through England on the way to France; but when the Russians faded from
the ken of vision and the Press Bureau denied their very existence,
it was immediately reported that we had been drilled into shape in
order to demolish De Wet and all his South African rebels. De Wet was
captured and is now under military control, and still we waited orders
to move from the comfortable billets and crowded streets of our town.
Dry eyes would see us depart, mocking children would bid us sarcastic
farewells, the kindly landladies and their fair daughters would laugh
when we bade adieu and moved away to some destination unknown. We had
already taken our farewell three times, and on each occasion we have
come back again to our billets before the day that saw our departure
came to an end.

The heart of every man thrilled with excitement when the announcement
was made for the first time, one weary evening when we had just
completed a ten-hour divisional field exercise. Our officer read it
from a typewritten sheet, and the announcement was as follows:

"All men in the battalion must stand under arms until further
orders. No soldier is to leave his billet; boots are not to be
taken off, and best marching pairs are to be worn. Every unit
of the company who lacks any part of the necessary equipment
must immediately report at quartermaster's stores, where all
wants will be supplied. Identity discs to be worn, swords
must be cleaned and polished, and twenty-four hours' haversack
rations are to be carried. The battalion has to entrain for
some unknown destination when called upon."

The news spread through the town: the division was going to move! On
the morrow we would be sailing for France, in a fortnight we would be
in Berlin! Our landladies met us at the doors as we came in, looks of
entreaty on their faces and tears in their eyes. The hour had come; we
were going to leave them. And the landladies' daughters? One, a buxom
wench of eighteen, kissed the Jersey youth in sight of the whole
battalion, but nobody took any notice of the unusual incident. All
were busy with their own thoughts, and eager for the new adventures
before them.

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Books | Photos | Paul Mutton | Mon 17th Mar 2025, 8:02