two paces. He took the first three in the first platoon and handed them over to a sergeant. They were marched off on their perilous mission with nine men from other companies. The dauntless twelve. We that were left behind composed explanations to our wives, making it quite clear that we had volunteered, but pointing out that, as twelve only could go, they had probably chosen the ugliest ones first. Our three heroes rejoined us during an "easy" an hour later. The forlorn hope had been to dig a hole and bury all the unused fragments of last night's supper—the gristly bits… And now, when three volunteers are called for, the whole company remains rooted to attention. It is our keenness again; we are here to drill; to form fours, to march, to wheel; we want to learn to be soldiers, not dustmen.
But naturally we differ in our ideas upon the best way to learn—particularly in regard to night-work. What James says is, "Why be uncomfortable in camp? If I could do anything for my country between the hours of 10.30 P.M. and 5.30 A.M., I would do it gladly. But if my country, speaking through the gentleman who commands my platoon, tells me to retire to my tent with the fourteen loudest-breathers in Middlesex, I may at least try to get a little bit of sleep." So he brings with two air-cushions, a pillow, three blankets and a pair of bed-socks, and does his best. On the other hand, John says, "When one is on active service one has to sleep anywhere. Unless I am preparing for that moment, what am I here for at all?" So he disdains the use of straw, selects the hardest brick he can find for his head, and wraps himself up in a single coat. And I doubt if he sleeps worse than James. Personally, I lie awake all night listening to the snores of the others and envying them their repose... and I find that they all say they have been doing the same.
It was James, by the way, who created such a sensation the first time he appeared on parade with all his impedimenta. There was a shout of laughter from the company—and then a quiet voice behind me said reflectively, "He decided not to bring the parrot."
"There is a story here of a reservist, arriving from the provinces, who saw on the Nevsky a brilliantly lighted picture palace, and took off his hat before it and crossed himself devoutly. The point of that story is that the man, when pointed out to me on the parade-ground, was working in rubber gloves upon the installation of field wireless apparatus."—Daily Chronicle.
Ha-ha! (Yes, just for a moment it escaped us). Ha-ha! Ha-ha-ha!
(A vision and a protest.)
I saw in the night unbroken,
In the land the daylight shuns,
At their long tables oaken
The Sea-kings and the Huns.
Strong arms had they for smiting,
To them death only gave
More feasting and more fighting,
More plunder for the brave.
Scant use had they for pleaders,
They boasted of their war,
The pitiless bright-eyed leaders,
And their battle-god was Thor.
And When this right hand falters,"
Quoth one, "the soul is fled;"
"And I made so many altars
Ruinous," this one said.
And lo! as they sat and vaunted
Across the mist of the years,
There came to them one that flaunted
The helm of the war-god's peers.
A little shape and a mightless,
And the strong men laughed and roared:
"Is our father Odin sightless
That bade him share the board?
"From what realms spoilt and plundered,
From what shrines burnt art come?
Has thine hand hewed and thundered
On the crosses of Christendom?"
And he said, "I too had legions,
I fouled where ye defiled,
I trod in the selfsame regions
And warred on woman and child.
"Tricked out in my shining armour
And riding behind my Huns,
I harried the priest and farmer,
I followed the smoking guns."
But the kings cried out and shouted
As they drained the sweetened mead:
"Was it thus that the Franks were routed,
When we made Europe bleed?
"This king with a leaden rattle
And death that comes from afar,
What pride hath he of the battle?
What lust to maim or mar?
"The loot and the red blood running
Were the only signs we saw;
But the gods that gave thee cunning
Have also given thee law."
And a Northman spake: "With seven
Fair churches when I died
I had paved my path to heaven;
Their pillage was my pride.
"I tore the saints from their niches
With the red hands of my rage;
But what hast thou in thy ditches
To do with a craftless age?
"Thou hast felt no Viking's starkness;
Thou hast lost a Christian's throne."
And they drove him forth in the darkness
To find a place of his own.
I have a confession to make. Once in the happy far-off days—it seems ages since—I was bored by my fellow-passengers' conversation in the train. I daresay that they were equally bored by mine; but against that view there is the fact that this is my confession and not their theirs. Well, I am punished now. I admit that I would give a good deal to hear Griffith's story of how he did the dog-leg hole in three again. There sits Griffith opposite to me, and no one would know that he had ever handled a club. He has become a golf-mute.
Or think of Purvis. The recital of the performances of Purvis's new car lent an additional terror to railway travelling. I have forgotten the very make of his car now. I cannot particularise the number of its cylinders or say if it is electrically started. Purvis is conversationally punctured.
There was, too, one recalls, an Insurance Act. Wilson felt a special grievance because he employed an aged gardener, out of charity, two days a week. He talked, if I remember correctly, about a cruel fourpence and mythical ninepence. He read fierce letters he had composed for the Press, and when the papers published them, which was seldom, he read them to us all over again. As an anti-insurance agitator Wilson now comes under the unemployment section of the accursed Act.
And the strange people who intruded with third-class tickets, and trampled on our toes, and smoked shag, and talked repulsively about the Cockspurs and Chelsea's new purchase from Oldham Athletic, and gave each other "dead certs" of appalling incertitude, and passed remarks which to my mind showed a shocking lack of respect for the upper and middle classes! We were not one class in those times.
May it all come back to us soon—all the old chatter! Come back to us, Sir Thomas Lipton and the Cup! Come back to us, Gloomy Dean! Come back to us, Ninepence for Fourpence. Come back back to us, "dead certs" and "also rans." Come back golf and motor-cars. Come back, Wicked Government and Wicked Opposition. Life is too painfully interesting now. I long to be bored again.
But it must be boredom with honour.
