“They don’t look a bit like raw material,” I said.
“No, we don’t use either raw men or raw meat for that matter in the
Guard,” Matthews replied. “Life’s too short.”
Purvis stepped forward and barked in the professional manner. It was physical drill of the most searching, checked only when he laid his hand over some man’s heart.
Six or seven, I noticed, were sent back at this stage of the game. Then a cry went up from a group of privates standing near the line of contorted figures. “White, Purvis, white! Number Nine is spitting white!”
“I know it,” said Purvis. “Don’t you worry.”
“Unfair!” murmured the man who understood quick-firers. “If I couldn’t shape better than that I’d hire myself out to wheel a perambulator. He’s cooked.”
“Nah,” said the intent Matthews. “He’ll answer to a month’s training like a horse. It’s only suet. You’ve been training for this, haven’t you?”
“Look at me,” said the man simply.
“Yes. You’re overtrained,” was Matthews’ comment. “The Guard isn’t a circus.”
“Guns!” roared Purvis, as the men broke off and panted. “Number off from the right. Fourteen is one, three is two, eleven’s three, twenty and thirty-nine are four and five, and five is six.” He was giving them their numbers at the guns as they struggled into their uniforms. In like manner he told off three other guncrews, and the remainder left at the double, to return through the further doors with four light quick-firers jerking at the end of man-ropes.
“Knock down and assemble against time!” Purvis called.
The audience closed in a little as the crews flung themselves on the guns, which melted, wheel by wheel, beneath their touch.
“I’ve never seen anything like this,” I whispered.
“Huh!” said Matthews scornfully. “They’re always doin’ it in the Line and
Militia drill-halls. It’s only circus-work.”
The guns were assembled again and some one called the time. Then followed ten minutes of the quickest firing and feeding with dummy cartridges that was ever given man to behold.
“They look as if they might amount to something — this draft,” said
Matthews softly.
“What might you teach ‘em after this, then?” I asked.
“To be Guard,” said Matthews.
“Spurs,” cried Purvis, as the guns disappeared through the doors into the stables. Each man plucked at his sleeve, and drew up first one heel and then the other.
“What the deuce are they doing?” I asked.
“This,” said Matthews. He put his hand to a ticket-pocket inside his regulation cuff, showed me two very small black box-spurs: drawing up a gaitered foot, he snapped them into the box in the heel, and when I had inspected snapped them out again.
“That’s all the spur you really need,” he said.
Then horses were trotted out into the school barebacked, and the neophytes were told to ride.
Evidently the beasts knew the game and enjoyed it, for they would not make it easy for the men.
A heap of saddlery was thrown in a corner, and from this each man, as he captured his mount, made shift to draw proper equipment, while the audience laughed, derided, or called the horses towards them.
It was, most literally, wild horseplay, and by the time it was finished the recruits and the company were weak with fatigue and laughter.
“That’ll do,” said Purvis, while the men rocked in their saddles. “I don’t see any particular odds between any of you. C Company! Does anybody here know anything against any of these men?”
“That’s a bit of the Regulations,” Matthews whispered. “Just like forbiddin’ the banns in church. Really, it was all settled long ago when the names first came up.”
There was no answer.
“You’ll take ‘em as they stand?”
There was a grunt of assent.
“Very good. There’s forty men for twenty-three billets.” He turned to the sweating horsemen. “I must put you into the Hat.”
With great ceremony and a shower of company jokes that I did not follow, an enormous Ally Sloper top-hat was produced, into which numbers and blanks were dropped, and the whole was handed round to the riders by a private, evidently the joker of C Company.
Matthews gave me to understand that each company owned a cherished receptacle (sometimes not a respectable one) for the papers of the final drawing. He was telling me how his company had once stolen the Sacred Article used by D Company for this purpose and of the riot that followed, when through the west door of the schools entered a fresh detachment of stripped men, and the arena was flooded with another company.
Said Matthews as we withdrew, “Each company does Trials their own way. B Company is all for teaching men how to cook and camp. D Company keeps ‘em to horse-work mostly. We call D the circus-riders and B the cooks. They call us the Gunners.”
“An’ you’ve rejected me,” said the man who had done sea-time, pushing out before us. “The Army’s goin’ to the dogs.”
I stood in the corridor looking for Burgard.
“Come up to my room and have a smoke,” said Matthews, private of the
Imperial Guard.
We climbed two flights of stone stairs ere we reached an immense landing flanked with numbered doors.
Matthews pressed a spring-latch and led me into a little cabin-like room. The cot was a standing bunk, with drawers beneath. On the bed lay a brilliant blanket; by the bed head was an electric light and a shelf of books: a writing table stood in the window, and I dropped into a low wicker chair.
“This is a cut above subaltern’s quarters,” I said, surveying the photos, the dhurri on the floor, the rifle in its rack, the field-kit hung up behind the door, and the knicknacks on the walls.
“The Line bachelors use ‘em while we’re away; but they’re nice to come back to after ‘heef.’” Matthews passed me his cigarette-case.
“Where have you ‘heefed’?” I said.
“In Scotland, Central Australia, and North-Eastern Rhodesia and the North-
West Indian front.”
“What’s your service?”
“Four years. I’ll have to go in a year. I got in when I was twenty-two — by a fluke — from the Militia direct — on Trials.”
“Trials like those we just saw?”
“Not so severe. There was less competition then. I hoped to get my stripes, but there’s no chance.”
“Why?”
“I haven’t the knack of handling men. Purvis let me have a half-company for a month in Rhodesia — over towards Lake N’Garni. I couldn’t work ‘em properly. It’s a gift.”
“Do colour-sergeants handle half-companies with you?”
“They can command ‘em on the ‘heef.’ We’ve only four company officers — Burgard, Luttrell, Kyd, and Harrison. Pigeon’s our swop, and he’s in charge of the ponies. Burgard got his company on the ‘heef,’ You see Burgard had been a lieutenant in the Line, but he came into the Guards on Trials like the men. He could command. They tried him in India with a wing of the battalion for three months. He did well so he got his company. That’s what made me hopeful. But it’s a gift, you see — managing men — and so I’m only a senior private. They let ten per cent of us stay on for two years extra after our three are finished — to polish the others.”
“Aren’t you even a corporal?”
“We haven’t corporals, or lances for that matter, in the Guard. As a senior private I’d take twenty men into action; but one Guard don’t tell another how to clean himself. You’ve learned that before you apply. … Come in!”
There was a knock at the door, and Burgard entered, removing his cap.
“I thought you’d be here,” he said, as Matthews vacated the other chair and sat on the bed. “Well, has Matthews told you all about it? How did our Trials go, Matthews?”
“Forty names in the Hat, Sir, at the finish.
They’ll make a fairish lot. Their gun-tricks weren’t bad; but D company has taken the best horsemen — as usual.”
“Oh, I’ll attend to that on ‘heef.’ Give me a man who can handle company- guns and I’ll engage to make him a horse-master. D company will end by thinkin’ ‘emselves Captain Pigeon’s private cavalry some day.”
I had never heard a private and a captain talking after this fashion, and my face must have betrayed my astonishment, for Burgard said:
“These are not our parade manners. In our rooms, as we say in the Guard, all men are men. Outside we are officers and men.”
“I begin to see,” I stammered. “Matthews was telling me that sergeants handled half-companies and rose from the ranks — and I don’t see that there are any lieutenants — and your companies appear to be two hundred and fifty strong. It’s a shade confusing to the layman.”
Burgard leaned forward didactically. “The Regulations lay down that every man’s capacity for command must be tested to the uttermost. We construe that very literally when we’re on the ‘heef.’ F’r instance, any man can apply to take the command next above him, and if a man’s too shy to ask, his company officer must see that he gets his chance. A sergeant is given a wing of the battalion to play with for three weeks — a month, or six weeks — according to his capacity, and turned adrift in an Area to make his own arrangements. That’s what Areas are for — and to experiment in. A good gunner — a private very often — has all four company-guns to handle through a week’s fight, acting for the time as the major. Majors of Guard battalions (Verschoyle’s our major) are supposed to be responsible for the guns, by the way. There’s nothing to prevent any man who has the gift working his way up to the experimental command of the battalion on ‘heef.’ Purvis, my colour-sergeant, commanded the battalion for three months at the back of Coolgardie, an’ very well he did it. Bayley ‘verted to company officer for the time being an’ took Harrison’s company, and Harrison came over to me as my colour-sergeant. D’you see? Well, Purvis is down for a commission when there’s a vacancy. He’s been thoroughly tested, and we all like him. Two other sergeants have passed that three months’ trial in the same way (just as second mates go up for extra master’s certificate). They have E.C. after their names in the Army List. That shows they’re capable of taking command in event of war. The result of our system is that you could knock out every single officer of a Guard battalion early in the day, and the wheels ‘ud still go forward, not merely round. We’re allowed to fill up half our commissioned list from the ranks direct. Now d’you see why there’s such a rush to get into a Guard battalion?”
“Indeed I do. Have you commanded the regiment experimentally?”
“Oh, time and again,” Burgard laughed. “We’ve all had our E.C. turn.”
“Doesn’t the chopping and changing upset the men?”
“It takes something to upset the Guard. Besides, they’re all in the game together. They give each other a fair show you may be sure.”
“That’s true,” said Matthews. “When I went to N’Gami with my — with the half-company,” he sighed, “they helped me all they knew. But it’s a gift — handling men. I found that out,”
“I know you did,” said Burgard softly. “But you found it out in time, which is the great thing. You see,” he turned to me, “with our limited strength we can’t afford to have a single man who isn’t more than up to any duty — in reason. Don’t you be led away by what you saw at Trials just now. The Volunteers and the Militia have all the monkey-tricks of the trade — such as mounting and dismounting guns, and making fancy scores and doing record marches; but they need a lot of working up before they can pull their weight in the boat.”
There was a knock at the door. A note was handed in. Burgard read it and smiled.
“Bayley wants to know if you’d care to come with us to the Park and see the kids. It’s only a Saturday afternoon walk-round before the taxpayer…. Very good. If you’ll press the button we’ll try to do the rest.”
He led me by two flights of stairs up an iron stairway that gave on a platform, not unlike a ship’s bridge, immediately above the barrelled glass roof of the riding-school. Through a ribbed ventilator I could see B Company far below watching some men who chased sheep. Burgard unlocked a glass-fronted fire-alarm arrangement flanked with dials and speaking- tubes, and bade me press the centre button.
Next moment I should have fallen through the riding-school roof if he had not caught me; for the huge building below my feet thrilled to the multiplied purring of electric bells. The men in the school vanished like minnows before a shadow, and above the stamp of booted feet on staircases I heard the neighing of many horses.
“What in the world have I done?” I gasped.
“Turned out the Guard — horse, foot, and guns!”
A telephone bell rang imperiously. Burgard snatched up the receiver:
“Yes, Sir…. What, Sir?… I never heard they said that,” he laughed, “but it would be just like ‘em. In an hour and a half? Yes, Sir. Opposite the Statue? Yes, Sir.”
He turned to me with a wink as he hung up.
“Bayley’s playing up for you. Now you’ll see some fun.”
“Who’s going to catch it?” I demanded.
“Only our local Foreign Service Corps. Its C.O. has been boasting that it’s en tat de partir, and Bayley’s going to take him at his word and have a kit-inspection this afternoon in the Park. I must tell their drill-hall. Look over yonder between that brewery chimney and the mansard roof!”
He readdressed himself to the telephone, and I kept my eye on the building to the southward. A Blue Peter climbed up to the top of the flagstaff that crowned it and blew out in the summer breeze. A black storm-cone followed.
“Inspection for F.S. corps acknowledged, Sir,” said Burgard down the telephone. “Now we’d better go to the riding-school. The battalion falls in there. I have to change, but you’re free of the corps. Go anywhere. Ask anything. In another ten minutes we’re off.”
I lingered for a little looking over the great city, its huddle of houses and the great fringe of the Park, all framed between the open windows of this dial-dotted eyrie.
When I descended the halls and corridors were as hushed as they had been noisy, and my feet echoed down the broad tiled staircases. On the third floor, Matthews, gaitered and armed, overtook me smiling.
“I thought you might want a guide,” said he. “We’ve five minutes yet,” and piloted me to the sunsplashed gloom of the riding-school. Three companies were in close order on the tan. They moved out at a whistle, and as I followed in their rear I was overtaken by Pigeon on a rough black mare.
“Wait a bit,” he said, “till the horses are all out of stables, and come with us. D Company is the only one mounted just now. We do it to amuse the taxpayer,” he explained, above the noise of horses on the tan.
“Where are the guns?” I asked, as the mare lipped my coat-collar.
“Gone ahead long ago. They come out of their own door at the back of
barracks. We don’t haul guns through traffic more than we can help…. If
Belinda breathes down your neck smack her. She’ll be quiet in the streets.
She loves lookin’ into the shop-windows.”
The mounted company clattered through vaulted concrete corridors in the wake of the main body, and filed out into the crowded streets.
When I looked at the townsfolk on the pavement, or in the double-decked trams, I saw that the bulk of them saluted, not grudgingly or of necessity, but in a light-hearted, even flippant fashion.
“Those are Line and Militia men,” said Pigeon. “That old chap in the top-hat by the lamp-post is an ex-Guardee. That’s why he’s saluting in slow-time. No, there’s no regulation governing these things, but we’ve all fallen into the way of it somehow. Steady, mare!”
“I don’t know whether I care about this aggressive militarism,” I began, when the company halted, and Belinda almost knocked me down. Lo
oking forward I saw the badged cuff of a policeman upraised at a crossing, his back towards us.
“Horrid aggressive, ain’t we?” said Pigeon with a chuckle when we moved on again and overtook the main body. Here I caught the strains of the band, which Pigeon told me did not accompany the battalion on ‘heef,’ but lived in barracks and made much money by playing at parties in town.
“If we want anything more than drums and fifes on ‘heef’ we sing,” said
Pigeon. “Singin’ helps the wind.”
I rejoiced to the marrow of my bones thus to be borne along on billows of surging music among magnificent men, in sunlight, through a crowded town whose people, I could feel, regarded us with comradeship, affection — and more.
“By Jove,” I said at last, watching the eyes about us, “these people are looking us over as if we were horses.”
“Why not? They know the game.”
The eyes on the pavement, in the trams, the cabs, at the upper windows, swept our lines back and forth with a weighed intensity of regard which at first seemed altogether new to me, till I recalled just such eyes, a thousand of them, at manoeuvres in the Channel when one crowded battleship drew past its sister at biscuit-toss range. Then I stared at the ground, overborne by those considering eyes.
Suddenly the music changed to the wail of the Dead March in “Saul,” and once more — we were crossing a large square — the regiment halted.
“Damn!” said Pigeon, glancing behind him at the mounted company. “I believe they save up their Saturday corpses on purpose.”
“What is it?” I asked.
“A dead Volunteer. We must play him through.” Again I looked forward and saw the top of a hearse, followed by two mourning-coaches, boring directly up the halted regiment, which opened out company by company to let it through.
“But they’ve got the whole blessed square to funeralise in!” I exclaimed.
“Why don’t they go round?”
“Not so!” Pigeon replied. “In this city it’s the Volunteer’s perquisite to be played through by any corps he happens to meet on his way to the cemetery. And they make the most of it. You’ll see.”
Complete Works of Rudyard Kipling (Illustrated) Page 386