John Brown

No doubt you have seen, in the highways and byways, a lot of youths in khaki with white bands round their caps. These 'boys' are called cadets, and are usually men home from the front to train for commissions. In Sandhurst they are officially styled gentlemen cadets; but apparently we are not supposed to be gentlemen-we're just cadets. Funny, isn't it? But that's the way of the army.

Well, my name is John Brown-a very ordinary name-and I'm one of those fellows. Before the war I evaded toil by becoming a student, and spent a lot of time on 'ologies and 'osophies. Now I'm learning to be a pukka officer, and the leader of sixty men to the cannon's mouth.

When I left my battalion for the cadet school I shed no tears. They were in the trenches, or, rather, in the mud. And it cost a pair of brand-new boots to get on to the road. However, I survived, and in due time landed at Windmoor. This is a 'blasted heath,' swept by the winds, and isolated from picture-shows, barmaids, and revues; not a petticoat in sight, and at every corner a notice which amounts to: 'England expects that every cadet this day will do his duty.'

'This is no Utopia,' I muttered, falling into the first hut by the way. Ye gods! There was an old colonel, with eyes like a hawk and cheeks like dumplings; and what do you think he was doing? Cutting his corns.

'What the-why the-who the devil are you, sah?'

'John Brown, sir,' I said meekly, for never in my life had I seen such a perfect relic of the Napoleonic wars.

'Get to blazes out of this, John Brown!' he roared, putting his fat feet on the floor and banging the door. I was again alone-on the blasted heath. The old gent inside was Colonel Eat-All, the commandant. Rumour says he devoured two dervishes at Omdurman. I stumbled on once more, and found the orderly-room.

'This way,' said Sergeant-Major Kneesup, introducing me to the adjutant. I clicked my heels in the style of a Guardsman, and saluted like a railway signal.

'Well?' said a blasé-looking gent with three pips, looking up at me from his papers.

'John Brown, sir.'

'Who sent you here?'

'The War Office.'

'Umph! I know nothing about you. You had better go back to your regiment for your papers.'

'But I can't go all the way to France, sir.'

'Well, no-perhaps not. Wait a minute,' he said, ringing a bell. A clerk answered.

'Have you any papers dealing with Cadet John Brown?'

'Yes, sir. Came a fortnight ago.'

'Thank you. That's all.' The clerk went out.

'Oh, it's all right, Brown. Just go over to No. 1 Company. You'll see Sergeant-Major Smartem there. He'll fix you up. Good luck!' he concluded with a genial smile.

I saluted and went out, marvelling at the methods of the British Army.

I dug out the sergeant-major, and again announced that I was John Brown.

'That's a fine name to go to bed with.'

'It's the one my mother gave me.'

'Oh, well, you can't help it. Here's your blankets; there's your bed. You'll get your equipment to-morrow. Shove this white band on your cap. Tea's at five o'clock. The lavatory's down there. That's the canteen over yonder. And when you want writing-paper, hymns, or free salvation, there's a Y.M.C.A. down the road. Now, push off-John Brown.'

I was extremely grateful for all this information in tabloid form, but I had a lurking suspicion that my name was going to be a subject of rude jest. However, I am an optimist. I pitched my bag into a corner of the hut, pulled out a little book called The Pleasures of Hope, and commenced to read till tea-time. But I was disturbed. Cadet after cadet came filing in. They were all new and rather green, except one man, called Beefy Jones.

'What a ruddy place for a cadet school!' he roared.

'My dear chap, it is designed to protect our morality,' muttered a spectacled youth, who looked like (and proved to be) an ex-parson.

'Morality! After all that time at the front! What a jest!' exclaimed Beefy, banging his kit down.

In half-an-hour we were all good pals. Beefy confided to me that he had a ripping girl five miles away, and she had a jolly sister. If I wanted an intro., it was all right. He would fix it up. While the ex-parson-Billy Greens by name-suggested that I might help him to hand out the hymn-books at Sunday services. I promised to do so. (My father was in the Diplomatic Service.) And so twenty of us settled down to life in our hut at Windmoor Cadet School.

Tea-time proved that the rations were good, and when Lieutenant Blessem (our platoon officer) came round for complaints, we shouted, 'None, sir.'

'That's a good start,' he said with a smile. 'I want you boys to be happy here. If you're in trouble, or want to know anything, come down to my hut and I'll help you. But remember this, boys'--

'What, sir?' said Beefy.

'This platoon has got to be top-hole at everything.'

'Hear, hear, sir!' we roared, rattling our plates as he went out. Blessem was a sport. After tea we got piles of books thrown at us, as well as the standing orders of the school-a moral code akin to the Koran, insisting on sobriety, sincerity, and big salaams. These orders endorsed the ancient theory that women and wine are the root of all evil.

Beefy grinned, then shoved me on the back of his motor-bike and whirled me over to Sweetville, where I was introduced to Adela, a peach of a girl, who had never been kissed. What luck!

It was 7 P.M. when I met Adela. I kissed her at 9; promised to marry her at 9.15; and at 9.30 (to the minute) Beefy and I were answering roll-call at the camp five miles away. Some hustle-eh, what?

We made our beds down and got in between the blankets. About 'Lights out' there was an infernal din outside the hut. Somebody was running round shouting, 'John Brown! Where the 'ell's John Brown?' Then some fifty huts started a chorus of-

'John Brown's body lies a-mouldering in the grave,

As we go marching along,' &c., &c.

Beefy led the chorus in our own hut-much to my annoyance. At last the door opened, and the sergeant-major bawled, 'Silence!' They shut up. He next inquired if John Brown lived there.

'Yes, sergeant-major. Here I am.'

'Telegram for you.'

'Oh, thanks,' I muttered, thinking it was some wonderful effusion from Adela. On opening the brown envelope I read: 'Sending you cough-drops, Keating's powder, and body-belt.-Mother.'

As the lights went down I thought of the dear, good soul who was so careful of my welfare. Mothers may be silly, but they always love their boys.

The old 'com.' fairly caught me out at the 'prelim.' We had a general knowledge paper set-a fairly easy thing. I finished mine in about half-an-hour; then, getting bored waiting for Beefy, I started to write some skittish answers for my own amusement. Beefy, who is a practical joker, got hold of these, and when we were asked to pass our papers up, substituted the wretched things for my real answers. Just to show you how I put my foot in it, here are samples of the silly tripe I concocted.

(Q.) What is meant by strategy? (A.) Giving a fellow a thick ear-suddenly.

(Q.) Explain the term Tactics. (A.) Correct handling of a platoon when passing a brewery.

(Q.) What is an outpost? (A.) A military mortuary.

(Q.) What is meant by camouflage? (A.) Wearing a Burberry to hide a hole in your pants.

(Q.) Who is Allenby? (A.) The fellow who didn't make a mess of Gaza.

(Q.) What should an officer always say to the men? (A.) 'Get your hair cut.'

Now, just imagine what the old 'com.' thought of me when he went through this piffle. I was in a blue funk. To make matters worse, it was Saturday and leave-day. Adela had got her mother and father off to a Red Cross bazaar, and she had engaged the drawing-room for us-all to ourselves. Beefy and her sister had commandeered the dining-room. This heavenly prospect was damped by a terrible cloud.

'Cheer up, John Brown,' said Beefy.

'That's all jolly fine, Beefy. You've let me down, and if I get chucked out, it's all your fault.'

'You're a ruddy pessimist. The old colonel is a sport. He'll be tickled to death. Of course, he will probably have you up, make a hellifa fuss, &c.; but when you go out he'll burst with laughter. You have got no humour, you silly ass. And you forget that the old chap used to do things at Sandhurst. Hang it all! it's only a rag; and if there's trouble, John, I'll own up. I'm not a sneak.'

'Fall in for lecture,' shouted the C.S.M. 'And, I say,' he added.

'What, sergeant-major?'

'Is John Brown here?'

'Yes.'

'You're for orderly-room after the lecture. Make your will out. You're going to be hanged, drawn, and quartered.'

'Right-o!' I answered, making the best of a bad job.

We then marched away to the lecture-hall to hear the adjutant on his favourite topic-'Customs of the Service.' He was not a bad lecturer, and quite funny at times. We called him 'Blasé Percy.' He had been at Mons, the Marne, and Ypres. Half his nose was off; he had a glass eye, a dummy hand, a silver plate in his tummy, and a game leg. Poor chap! no wonder he was blasé. For all that, he was a sport, and had the Legion of Honour.

'Now, gentlemen,' he said, 'when you've finished wiping your feet on the tables, I'll start. You've got to go through it, so don't go to sleep. My lecture is "The Customs of the Service." When you leave here you will have commissions. And when you join your regiments, try to do "the correct thing." Don't lurch into your new battalion like an actor-manager looking for trouble. Slide in quietly, just like a little dawg. If you're not humble by nature, look as humble as you can. When reporting to the adjutant, don't have a woodbine between your lips and your hands in your pockets. He will eat you alive. When I was a sub. I saved myself an awful lot of trouble by cutting the English Dictionary down to two words-"Yes, sir." If you're not brainy, that's quite a good scheme. The adjutant will mark you down as decent and harmless, and the men won't know. Of course, this beastly war has upset our easy old system. You've got to be intelligent to please the newspapers. It's a bit of a bore, but the best people are trying to do it, and it's good to be in the fashion. At the same time, it isn't the correct thing to argue the point with majors and colonels. They are big-bugs in the military scheme, and should an old gentleman announce in the anteroom that Macedonia is in Texas, or that Florrie Forde is the wife of President Wilson, don't call him a liar. You will make him unhappy, and when he gets you on parade, he'll most likely twist your tail. Use your brains, certainly; but don't advertise them-that's bad form.

'A man is judged by little things, and it is very easy to discover a man's temperament and schooling. For example, in one battalion to which I was attached, a gorgeous youth barged in and presented his card to the adjutant as if he were a commercial traveller. Mark you, he was only joining his battalion that day; but the adjutant was amused to read the following:

LIEUT. TED TIDDLEWINKS, Esq.,

1st Batt. Bombing Buffs.

Tel. address:

"Hustle." Red Villa,

Tooting.

'Now, that visiting-card was all right for "The Bing Boys," but it was no good for an officer of His Majesty's Service. I agree it wouldn't prevent our going on with the war. And I am glad to say it was no indication of the real ability of dear old Ted, as he turned out to be. But officers are officers. We control the actions of millions of men, and it's not at all a bad thing to make the British Army a school for etiquette and good manners. Ted, I may tell you, was an advertising agent in civil life. He simply couldn't help getting that card printed. From his telegraphic address you will observe he was a hustler, and we can do with lots of men like him. However, the adjutant handed him over to me, and I got him to dump his one thousand gold-edged, red-lettered visiting-cards into the ashpit, and gave him a bit of pasteboard like this:

MR TED TIDDLEWINKS,,

1st Batt. Bombing Buffs.

'Thus was he shorn of all his gilt, his Esq., his Red Villa, Tooting, tel. address, and all the fripperies of Suburbia. No officer requires a brass band or a newspaper poster to announce his commission or importance. The uniform is good enough, and it's a mighty good kit, too. Ted was such a good fellow, so willing, so generous, and afterwards so brave that we adopted him as a regimental mascot. He's now a captain, a D.S.O. And what do you think that devil Ted is going to do next week?'

'What, sir?' I asked.

'He's going to marry my sister.'

'Hear, hear!'

'My sister, I may tell you, is a jolly good-looking gel-so is Ted good-looking-and when she asked my benediction, I wired: "God bless you, Red Villa and all."

'Another point. Don't start attempting to tip adjutants and colonels. You may be very rich, and imagine that if you send me a gold cigar-case studded with diamonds I shall pass you out for your commission. Personally, I should have no hesitation in court-martialling a man who did so. I recall a youth named Solomon M'Isaaks, who blew in from the Argentine. Out there he had to deal with grafters and twisters. To get business he had to give palm-oil by the gallon. He was not at all a desirable fellow. He wanted short cuts to success, and didn't like the daily grind of orderly officer, drill, marching, &c. Somehow or other he suddenly conceived the idea that by patronage he might buy a colonelcy or a brigadier's job. So he started to throw fivers about like hot peas, and ended up by sending a cheque to a brigade major. That finished him. He was booted out. If there is one thing we ought to be proud of, it is that the British Army has not the graft of South America. Merit counts, although I'm just afraid a sneak soft-soaps his way occasionally by acting the part of Uriah Heap.

'I may also tell you there are hundreds of little things you have got to know. For example, when the commanding officer enters the anteroom every officer must promptly rise to attention-as a mark of respect. Colonels do not insist on this from mere vanity. It is really discipline, and as all of you may be colonels some day, you will realise the benefit of the system. Another custom is, when you meet the C.O., the major, or the adjutant in the morning, salute smartly, and say, "Good-morning, sir." If the C.O. had occasion the day before to reprimand you for some error, make a point of saying a cheerful "Good-morning," and he will then know that you are no petty-minded individual.

'Remember your table manners. For dinner assemble in the anteroom five minutes before the time. Allow the C.O. and seniors to lead the way to the table, and take your seats quietly. Don't eat with your knife; and when you finish a course, put your knife and fork together. When a mess servant sees a new officer leave his knife and fork sprawling all over the plate he says nothing-but he thinks a lot. He really believes the delinquent is not a gentleman. And it is most important that officers should convey to all ranks that they have a knowledge of the courtesies which are the hall-mark of all well-trained people.

'Of course, you may say, "What has all this got to do with winning the war?" My reply is, it is the whole scheme. For example, the German officer is quite a brave man, but he is not a gentleman. His manners to the German soldiers are the manners of a brute. He never uses "please," seldom "thanks;" while Faith, Hope, and Charity are absent from his curriculum. His whole life is based on brute-power, the penal code, and-orders. What a difference from the British Army! Our discipline is the firmest, yet the kindest, in the world, simply because cadets and all officers have had their noses shoved on the grindstone by sergeant-majors, lecturers, and seniors, who insist that if you fail in your duty, and neglect to cultivate the love and the friendship of your men, then you are absolutely no use to the British Army.

'Again, when you want to leave the mess table before the mess president does so, you must go and ask his permission. On a guest-night you must not leave the room, except on a point of duty; and you should remain with the guests of the evening till they go.

'Here are a few more hints in brief, which I call the Subaltern's Ten Commandments.

'(1) Thou shalt drink soda-water.

'(2) Thou shalt not wear pink socks or yellow shoes, or carry Mills grenades on leave with the pin half-out.

'(3) Thou shalt not address generals as "Dear old Charlie."

'(4) Thou shalt not kiss V.A.D.'s-in public.

'(5) Thou shalt aspire to the V.C.-if thou cannot become an R.T.O.

'(6) Thou shalt smile, even when thy calf has "stopped one."

'(7) Thou shalt permit the men to sing, dance, and be merry, for on the morrow they may die.

'(8) Thou shalt covet the Kaiser's blood, his ox, and his ass, and everything that is the Kaiser's.

'(9) Thou shalt be chivalrous.

'(10) Honour thy King and serve thy Motherland, that thy labours may gain unto thee three pips and a D.S.O.

'I think that is all just now, gentlemen,' concluded the adjutant. 'Fall out, please.'