SHOULD SOLDIERS BE POLITE?
MY desire was once to pass a peaceful and pleasant winter in Brussels,attending to my work, improving my mind. Brussels is a bright andcheerful town, and I think I could have succeeded had it not been for theBelgian Army. The Belgian Army would follow me about and worry me.Judging of it from my own experience, I should say it was a good army.Napoleon laid it down as an axiom that your enemy never ought to bepermitted to get away from you—never ought to be allowed to feel, evenfor a moment, that he had shaken you off. What tactics the Belgian Armymight adopt under other conditions I am unable to say, but against mepersonally that was the plan of campaign it determined upon and carriedout with a success that was astonishing, even to myself.
I found it utterly impossible to escape from the Belgian Army. I made apoint of choosing the quietest and most unlikely streets, I chose allhours—early in the morning, in the afternoon, late in the evening. Therewere moments of wild exaltation when I imagined I had given it the slip.I could not see it anywhere, I could not hear it.
“Now,” said I to myself, “now for five minutes’ peace and quiet.”
I had been doing it injustice: it had been working round me. Approachingthe next corner, I would hear the tattoo of its drum. Before I had goneanother quarter of a mile it would be in full pursuit of me. I wouldjump upon a tram, and travel for miles. Then, thinking I had shaken itoff, I would alight and proceed upon my walk. Five minutes later anotherdetachment would be upon my heels. I would slink home, the Belgian Armypursuing me with its exultant tattoo. Vanquished, shamed, my insularpride for ever vanished, I would creep up into my room and close thedoor. The victorious Belgian Army would then march back to barracks.
If only it had followed me with a band: I like a band. I can loafagainst a post, listening to a band with anyone. I should not haveminded so much had it come after me with a band. But the Belgian Army,apparently, doesn’t run to a band. It has nothing but this drum. It hasnot even a real drum—not what I call a drum. It is a little boy’s drum,the sort of thing I used to play myself at one time, until people took itaway from me, and threatened that if they heard it once again that daythey would break it over my own head. It is cowardly going up and down,playing a drum of this sort, when there is nobody to stop you. The manwould not dare to do it if his mother was about. He does not even playit. He walks along tapping it with a little stick. There’s no tune,there’s no sense in it. He does not even keep time. I used to think atfirst, hearing it in the distance, that it was the work of some younggamin who ought to be at school, or making himself useful taking the babyout in the perambulator: and I would draw back into dark doorways,determined, as he came by, to dart out and pull his ear for him. To myastonishment—for the first week—I learnt it was the Belgian Army, gettingitself accustomed, one supposes, to the horrors of war. It had theeffect of making me a peace-at-any-price man.
They tell me these armies are necessary to preserve the tranquility ofEurope. For myself, I should be willing to run the risk of an occasionalrow. Cannot someone tell them they are out of date, with their bits offeathers and their odds and ends of ironmongery—grown men that cannot besent out for a walk unless accompanied by a couple of nursemen, blowing atin whistle and tapping a drum out of a toy shop to keep them in orderand prevent their running about: one might think they were chickens. Aherd of soldiers with their pots and pans and parcels, and all theirdeadly things tied on to them, prancing about in time to a tune, makes methink always of the White Knight that Alice met in Wonderland. I take itthat for practical purposes—to fight for your country, or to fight forsomebody else’s country, which is, generally speaking, more popular—thething essential is that a certain proportion of the populace should beable to shoot straight with a gun. How standing in a line and turningout your toes is going to assist you, under modern conditions of warfare,is one of the many things my intellect is incapable of grasping.
In mediæval days, when men fought hand to hand, there must have beenadvantage in combined and precise movement. When armies were mere ironmachines, the simple endeavour of each being to push the other off theearth, then the striking simultaneously with a thousand arms was part ofthe game. Now, when we shoot from behind cover with smokeless powder,brain not brute force—individual sense not combined solidity is surelythe result to be aimed at. Cannot somebody, as I have suggested, explainto the military man that the proper place for the drill sergeant nowadaysis under a glass case in some museum of antiquities?
I lived once near the Hyde Park barracks, and saw much of the drillsergeant’s method. Generally speaking, he is a stout man with the walkof an egotistical pigeon. His voice is one of the most extraordinarythings in nature: if you can distinguish it from the bark of a dog, youare clever. They tell me that the privates, after a little practice,can—which gives one a higher opinion of their intelligence than otherwiseone might form. But myself I doubt even this statement. I was the ownerof a fine retriever dog about the time of which I am speaking, andsometimes he and I would amuse ourselves by watching Mr. Sergeantexercising his squad. One morning he had been shouting out the usual“Whough, whough, whough!” for about ten minutes, and all had hithertogone well. Suddenly, and evidently to his intense astonishment, thesquad turned their backs upon him and commenced to walk towards theSerpentine.
“Halt!” yelled the sergeant, the instant his amazed indignation permittedhim to speak, which fortunately happened in time to save the detachmentfrom a watery grave.
The squad halted.
“Who the thunder, and the blazes, and other things told you to do that?”
The squad looked bewildered, but said nothing, and were brought back tothe place where they were before. A minute later precisely the samething occurred again. I really thought the sergeant would burst. I waspreparing to hasten to the barracks for medical aid. But the paroxysmpassed. Calling upon the combined forces of heaven and hell to sustainhim in his trouble, he requested his squad, as man to man, to inform himof the reason why to all appearance they were dispensing with hisservices and drilling themselves.
At this moment “Columbus” barked again, and the explanation came to him.
“Please go away, sir,” he requested me. “How can I exercise my men withthat dog of yours interfering every five minutes?”
It was not only on that occasion. It happened at other times. The dogseemed to understand and take a pleasure in it. Sometimes meeting asoldier, walking with his sweetheart, Columbus, from behind my legs,would bark suddenly. Immediately the man would let go the girl andproceed, involuntarily, to perform military tricks.
The War Office authorities accused me of having trained the dog. I hadnot trained him: that was his natural voice. I suggested to the WarOffice authorities that instead of quarrelling with my dog for talkinghis own language, they should train their sergeants to use English.
They would not see it. Unpleasantness was in the air, and, living whereI did at the time, I thought it best to part with Columbus. I could seewhat the War Office was driving at, and I did not desire thatresponsibility for the inefficiency of the British Army should be laid atmy door.
Some twenty years ago we, in London, were passing through a riotousperiod, and a call was made to law-abiding citizens to enrol themselvesas special constables. I was young, and the hope of trouble appealed tome more than it does now. In company with some five or six hundred othermore or less respectable citizens, I found myself one Sunday morning inthe drill yard of the Albany Barracks. It was the opinion of theauthorities that we could guard our homes and protect our wives andchildren better if first of all we learned to roll our “eyes right” orleft at the given word of command, and to walk with our thumbs stuck out.Accordingly a drill sergeant was appointed to instruct us on thesepoints. He came out of the canteen, wiping his mouth and flicking hisleg, according to rule, with the regulation cane. But, as he approachedus, his expression changed. We were stout, pompous-looking gentlemen,the
majority of us, in frock coats and silk hats. The sergeant was a manwith a sense of the fitness of things. The idea of shouting and swearingat us fell from him: and that gone there seemed to be no happy mediumleft to him. The stiffness departed from his back. He met us with adefferential attitude, and spoke to us in the language of socialintercourse.
“Good morning, gentlemen,” said the sergeant.
“Good morning,” we replied: and there was a pause.
The sergeant fidgetted upon his feet. We waited.
“Well, now, gentlemen,” said the sergeant, with a pleasant smile, “whatdo you say to falling in?”
We agreed to fall in. He showed us how to do it. He cast a critical eyealong the back of our rear line.
“A little further forward, number three, if you don’t mind, sir,” hesuggested.
Number three, who was an important-looking gentleman, stepped forward.
The sergeant cast his critical eye along the front of the first line.
“A little further back, if you don’t mind, sir,” he suggested, addressingthe third gentleman from the end.
“Can’t,” explained the third gentleman, “much as I can do to keep where Iam.”
The sergeant cast his critical eye between the lines.
“Ah,” said the sergeant, “a little full-chested, some of us. We willmake the distance another foot, if you please, gentlemen.”
In pleasant manner, like to this, the drill proceeded.
“Now then, gentlemen, shall we try a little walk? Quick march! Thankyou, gentlemen. Sorry to trouble you, but it may be necessary torun—forward I mean, of course.. So if you really do not mind, we willnow do the double quick. Halt! And if next time you can keep a littlemore in line—it has a more imposing appearance, if you understand me.The breathing comes with practice.”
If the thing must be done at all, why should it not be done in this way?Why should not the sergeant address the new recruits politely:
“Now then, you young chaps, are you all ready? Don’t hurry yourselves:no need to make hard work of what should be a pleasure to all of us.That’s right, that’s very good indeed—considering you are only novices.But there is still something to be desired in your attitude, PrivateBully-boy. You will excuse my being personal, but are you knock-kneednaturally? Or could you, with an effort, do you think, contrive to giveyourself less the appearance of a marionette whose strings have becomeloose? Thank you, that is better. These little things appear trivial, Iknow, but, after all, we may as well try and look our best—
“Don’t you like your boots, Private Montmorency? Oh, I beg your pardon.I thought from the way you were bending down and looking at them thatperhaps their appearance was dissatisfying to you. My mistake.
“Are you suffering from indigestion, my poor fellow? Shall I get you alittle brandy? It isn’t indigestion. Then what’s the matter with it?Why are you trying to hide it? It’s nothing to be ashamed of. We’ve allgot one. Let it come forward man. Let’s see it.”
Having succeeded, with a few such kindly words, in getting his line intoorder, he would proceed to recommend healthy exercise.
“Shoulder arms! Good, gentlemen, very good for a beginning. Yet still,if I may be critical, not perfect. There is more in this thing than youmight imagine, gentlemen. May I point out to Private Henry Thompson thata musket carried across the shoulder at right angles is apt toinconvenience the gentleman behind. Even from the point of view of hisown comfort, I feel sure that Private Thompson would do better to followthe usual custom in this matter.
“I would also suggest to Private St. Leonard that we are not here topractice the art of balancing a heavy musket on the outstretched palm ofthe hand. Private St. Leonard’s performance with the musket is decidedlyclever. But it is not war.
“Believe me, gentlemen, this thing has been carefully worked out, and noimprovement is likely to result from individual effort. Let our idea beuniformity. It is monotonous, but it is safe. Now, then, gentlemen,once again.”
The drill yard would be converted into a source of innocent delight tothousands. “Officer and gentleman” would become a phrase of meaning. Ipresent the idea, for what it may be worth, with my compliments, to PallMall.
The fault of the military man is that he studies too much, reads too muchhistory, is over reflective. If, instead, he would look about him morehe would notice that things are changing. Someone has told the Britishmilitary man that Waterloo was won upon the playing fields of Eton. Sohe goes to Eton and plays. One of these days he will be called upon tofight another Waterloo: and afterwards—when it is too late—they willexplain to him that it was won not upon the play field but in the classroom.
From the mound on the old Waterloo plain one can form a notion of whatbattles, under former conditions, must have been. The other battlefieldsof Europe are rapidly disappearing: useful Dutch cabbages, as Carlylewould have pointed out with justifiable satisfaction, hiding the theatreof man’s childish folly. You find, generally speaking, cobblers happilyemployed in cobbling shoes, women gossipping cheerfully over the washtubon the spot where a hundred years ago, according to the guide-book, athousand men dressed in blue and a thousand men dressed in red rushedtogether like quarrelsome fox-terriers, and worried each other to death.
But the field of Waterloo is little changed. The guide, whosegrandfather was present at the battle—quite an extraordinary number ofgrandfathers must have fought at Waterloo: there must have been wholeregiments composed of grandfathers—can point out to you the ground acrosswhich every charge was delivered, can show you every ridge, stillexisting, behind which the infantry crouched. The whole business wasbegan and finished within a space little larger than a square mile. Onecan understand the advantage then to be derived from the perfect movingof the military machine; the uses of the echelon, the purposes of thelinked battalion, the manipulation of centre, left wing and right wing.Then it may have been worth while—if war be ever worth the while—whichgrown men of sense are beginning to doubt—to waste two years of asoldier’s training, teaching him the goose-step. In the twentiethcentury, teaching soldiers the evolutions of the Thirty Years’ War isabout as sensible as it would be loading our iron-clads with canvas.
I followed once a company of Volunteers across Blackfriars Bridge ontheir way from Southwark to the Temple. At the bottom of Ludgate Hillthe commanding officer, a young but conscientious gentleman, ordered“Left wheel!” At once the vanguard turned down a narrow alley—I forgetits name—which would have led the troop into the purlieus of Whitefriars,where, in all probability, they would have been lost for ever. The wholecompany had to be halted, right-about-faced, and retired a hundred yards.Then the order “Quick march!” was given. The vanguard shot acrossLudgate Circus, and were making for the Meat Market.
At this point that young commanding officer gave up being a military manand talked sense.
“Not that way,” he shouted: “up Fleet Street and through Middle TempleLane.”
Then without further trouble the army of the future went upon its way.
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