Then, after observing that the only sportsman in the combined forces of the German Empire is-or was-the captain of the Emden, we come to the casualty lists-and there is silence.
Englishmen are fond of saying, with the satisfied air of men letting off a really excellent joke, that every one in Scotland knows every one else. As we study the morning's Roll of Honour, we realise that never was a more truthful jest uttered. There is not a name in the list of those who have died for Scotland which is not familiar to us. If we did not know the man-too often the boy-himself, we knew his people, or at least where his home was. In England, if you live in Kent, and you read that the Northumberland Fusiliers have been cut up or the Duke of Cornwall's Light Infantry badly knocked about, you merely sigh that so many more good men should have fallen. Their names are glorious names, but they are only names. But never a Scottish regiment comes under fire but the whole of Scotland feels it. Scotland is small enough to know all her sons by heart. You may live in Berwickshire, and the man who has died may have come from Skye; but his name is quite familiar to you. Big England's sorrow is national; little Scotland's is personal.
Then we pass on to our letters. Many of us-particularly the senior officers-have news direct from the trenches-scribbled scraps torn out of field-message books. We get constant tidings of the Old Regiment. They marched thirty-five miles on such a day; they captured a position after being under continuous shell fire for eight hours on another; they were personally thanked by the Field-Marshal on another. Oh, we shall have to work hard to get up to that standard!
"They want more officers," announces the Colonel. "Naturally, after the time they've been having! But they must go to the Third Battalion for them: that's the proper place. I will not have them coming here: I've told them so at Headquarters. The Service Battalions simply must be led by the officers who have trained them if they are to have a Chinaman's chance when we go out. I shall threaten to resign if they try any more of their tricks. That'll frighten 'em! Even dug-outs like me are rare and valuable objects at present."
The Company Commanders murmur assent-on the whole sympathetically. Anxious though they are to get upon business terms with the Kaiser, they are loath to abandon the unkempt but sturdy companies over which they have toiled so hard, and which now, though destitute of blossom, are rich in promise of fruit. But the senior subalterns look up hopefully. Their lot is hard. Some of them have been in the Service for ten years, yet they have been left behind. They command no companies. "Here," their faces say, "we are merely marking time while others learn. Send us!"
* * * * *
However, though they have taken no officers yet, signs are not wanting that they will take some soon. To-day each of us was presented with a small metal disc.
Bobby Little examined his curiously. Upon the face thereof was stamped, in ragged, irregular capitals-
[Illustration: LITTLE, R., 2ND LT.,
B. & W. HIGHRS.
C. OF E.]
"What is this for?" he asked.
Captain Wagstaffe answered.
"You wear it round your neck," he said.
Our four friends, once bitten, regarded the humorist suspiciously.
"Are you rotting us?" asked Waddell cautiously.
"No, my son," replied Wagstaffe, "I am not."
"What is it for, then?"
"It's called an Identity Disc. Every soldier on active service wears one."
"Why should the idiots put one's religion on the thing?" inquired Master Cockerell, scornfully regarding the letters "C. of E." upon his disc.
Wagstaffe regarded him curiously.
"Think it over," he suggested.
VII
Table of Contents SHOOTING STRAIGHT
"What for is the wee felly gaun' tae show us puctures?"
Second Lieutenant Bobby Little, assisted by a sergeant and two unhandy privates, is engaged in propping a large and highly-coloured work of art, mounted on a rough wooden frame and supported on two unsteady legs, against the wall of the barrack square. A half-platoon of A Company, seated upon an adjacent bank, chewing grass and enjoying the mellow autumn sunshine, regard the swaying masterpiece with frank curiosity. For the last fortnight they have been engaged in imbibing the science of musketry. They have learned to hold their rifles correctly, sitting, kneeling, standing, or lying; to bring their backsights and foresights into an undeviating straight line with the base of the bull's-eye; and to press the trigger in the manner laid down in the Musketry Regulations-without wriggling the body or "pulling-off."
They have also learned to adjust their sights, to perform the loading motions rapidly and correctly, and to obey such simple commands as-
"At them two, weemen"-officers' wives, probably-"proceeding from left tae right across the square, at five hundred yairds"
-they are really about fifteen yards away, covered with confusion-"five roonds, fire!"
But as yet they have discharged no shots from their rifles. It has all been make-believe, with dummy cartridges, and fictitious ranges, and snapping triggers. To be quite frank, they are getting just a little tired of musketry training-forgetting for the moment that a soldier who cannot use his rifle is merely an expense to his country and a free gift to the enemy. But the sight of Bobby Little's art gallery cheers them up. They contemplate the picture with childlike interest. It resembles nothing so much as one of those pleasing but imaginative posters by the display of which our Railway Companies seek to attract the tourist to the less remunerative portions of their systems.
"What for is the wee felly gaun' tae show us puctures?"
Thus Private Mucklewame. A pundit in the rear rank answers him.
"Yon's Gairmany."
"Gairmany ma auntie!" retorts Mucklewame. "There's no chumney-stalks in Gairmany."
"Maybe no; but there's wundmulls. See the wundmull there-on yon wee knowe!"
"There a pit-held!" exclaims another voice. This homely spectacle is received with an affectionate sigh. Until two months ago more than half the platoon had never been out of sight of at least half a dozen.
"See the kirk, in ablow the brae!" says some one else, in a pleased voice. "It has a nock in the steeple."
"I hear they Gairmans send signals wi' their kirk-nocks," remarks Private M'Micking, who, as one of the Battalion signallers-or "buzzers," as the vernacular has it, in imitation of the buzzing of the Morse instrument-regards himself as a sort of junior Staff Officer. "They jist semaphore with the haunds of the nock-"
"I wonder," remarks the dreamy voice of Private M'Leary, the humorist of the platoon, "did ever a Gairman buzzer pit the ba' through his ain goal in a fitba' match?"
This irrelevant reference to a regrettable incident of the previous Saturday afternoon is greeted with so much laughter that Bobby Little, who has at length fixed his picture in position, whips round.
"Less talking there!" he announces severely, "or I shall have to stand you all at attention!"
There is immediate silence-there is nothing the matter with Bobby's discipline-and the outraged M'Micking has to content himself with a homicidal glare in the direction of M'Leary, who is now hanging virtuously upon his officer's lips.
"This," proceeds Bobby Little, "is what is known as a landscape target."
He indicates the picture, which, apparently overcome by so much public notice, promptly falls flat upon its face. A fatigue party under the sergeant hurries to its assistance.
"It is intended," resumes Bobby presently, "to teach you-us-to become familiar with various kinds of country, and to get into the habit of picking out conspicuous features of the landscape, and getting them by heart, and-er-so on. I want you all to study this picture for three minutes. Then I shall face you about and ask you to describe it to me."
After three minutes of puckered brows and hard breathing the squad is turned to its rear and the examination proceeds.
"Lance-Corporal Ness, what did you notice in the foreground of the picture?"
Lance-Corporal Ness gazes fiercely before him. He has noticed a good deal, but can remember nothing. Moreover, he has no very clear idea what a foreground may be.
"Private Mucklewame?"
Again silence, while the rotund Mucklewame perspires in the throes of mental exertion.
"Private Wemyss?"
No answer.
"Private M'Micking!"
The "buzzer" smiles feebly, but says nothing.
"Well,"-desperately-"Sergeant Angus! Tell them what you noticed in the foreground."
Sergeant Angus (floruit A.D. 1895) springs smartly to attention, and replies, with the instant obedience of the old soldier-
"The sky, sirr."
"Not in the foreground, as a rule," replies Bobby Little gently.
"About turn again, all of you, and we'll have another try."
In his next attempt Bobby abandons individual catechism.
"Now," he begins, "what conspicuous objects do we notice on this target? In the foreground I can see a low knoll. To the left I see a windmill. In the distance is a tall chimney. Half-right is a church. How would that church be marked on a map?"
No reply.
"Well," explains Bobby, anxious to parade a piece of knowledge which he only acquired himself a day or two ago, "churches are denoted in maps by a cross, mounted on a square or circle, according as the church has a square tower or a steeple. What has this church got?"
"A nock!"...
