JOHN BROWN

CONFESSIONS OF A NEW ARMY CADET

BY

R. W. CAMPBELL

Author of ‘Private Spud Tamson;’ ‘Sgt. Spud Tamson, V.C.;’ ‘Donald and Helen;’ ‘The Mixed Division;’ ‘The Kangaroo Marines;’ and ‘Dorothy, V.A.D., and the Doctor’

LONDON: 38 Soho Square, W.1

W. & R. CHAMBERS, LIMITED

EDINBURGH: 339 High Street

1919

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Edinburgh Printed by W. & R. Chambers, Limited.

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DEDICATED TO THE OFFICERS OF THE 51ST AND 52nd DIVISIONS MANY OF WHOM I HAD THE GREAT HONOUR AND PLEASURE TO INSTRUCT IN THE RUDIMENTS OF WAR

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CONTENTS.

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LIST OF BOOKS BY THE SAME AUTHOR.

[1]

JOHN BROWN.

CHAPTER I.

THE CADET SCHOOL.

I.

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[2] 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[3] 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[4] 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[5] 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.

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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[7] 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.

II.

Next morning we were routed out at reveille, and hunted off to tub ourselves in an open-air wash-house. One fellow, ‘Ginger Thomson,’ objected. We carried him out and flung him into the bath—clothes and all. There was no early parade that day, so we got ready for the commandant’s inspection at 10 A.M. This was a real good show. We were formed up in close column of platoons. At 10 A.M. (to the minute) Colonel Eat-All came bouncing on to the parade-ground—like a great Rugby football—dressed in khaki and splashed with ribbons. He had every decoration from the Order of the Blue Nile to a Companionship of Serajobitch (with swords). My word, he looked his part! I trembled.

‘Well, gentlemen,’ he said, ‘I’m glad to meet you. I hope we’ll get on together, but I’ll have no nonsense, no slacking, and no back-answers. I’ve trained lions, burglars, and Gurkhas, and have commanded everything[8] from mule transport to camel corps. You’re here to work—work. And when I’ve finished with you, you’ll be fit to scale the Alps, and eat Germans or smelling Bulgars. You won’t get strategy out of the Bystander or tactics from the Pink-Un. The infantry drill book is better than Nat Gould, and Needham’s Tactics more important than the sexual stuff of Oscar Wilde. Keep out in the open air, and don’t hug the stove and the tea-pot. Get your tummies hard, so that you can live on boot-leather, horse-flesh, and cinders. War is to the strong, and you’ve got to be supermen—and gentlemen. We produce no jelly-fish in this emporium. We want “white men” and leaders. We’re up against the Hun. He isn’t a d—— fool! Get that out of your headpieces. If you are going to beat him, you have got to know the tricks of Boney, the science of

Maude, and the dare-devil tactics of Allenby. You can get all this here, if you pay attention and carry out your job. Good luck to you!’ And off he stamped, to the amusement of all. As he passed my platoon he caught sight of me. My mouth was open.

‘What’s your name, my lad?’

‘John Brown, sir.’

‘Well, if you keep your mouth open like that in Mesopotamia, you’ll catch everything[9] from black cholera to cerebro-spinal meningitis. Keep your mouth shut—John Brown!’

From that day every cadet in the battalion took up the gag of, ‘Keep your mouth shut—John Brown!’

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CHAPTER II.

THE SERGEANT-MAJOR FROM THE GUARDS.

Cadet schools are not perfect military academies; nevertheless, they are interesting resorts. This school was not only a fount of learning, but a school for manners and—in a way—a minor university. Although, as I have said, I was a student of ‘osophies and ‘ologies before the war, the discovery that my knowledge was limited soon came to me. This is a happy condition, and the only basis whereon to achieve future success. For all that, I am no groveller at the feet of lecturers. An officer must form his own opinions, and if I am going to be of any use in this military business, I must riddle the wheat from the chaff, and gather the harvest into my store. To be independent in thought is not uppish. It is personality! Personality is the whole thing in war, but never despise—the other fellow.

Now I have to make a confession. Before the war, when I was blundering around with golf-clubs and feminine charmers, the Brigade of Guards often passed my way. This seemed[11] a wonderful machine, officered by men whom I imagined to be Beau Brummells and Byrons. Well-drilled automatons was all I thought of them. To me they were just fancy soldiers and ornaments of the Court. But who would say that now? Think of Ypres! And remember Cambrai! When the line was broken and my brigade was ‘bu’st,’ they came up like Trojans. They crossed the lines of trenches almost dressing by the right. Their faces were set, their bayonets shone, and they dived into hell and destruction with a valour that was amazing. They saved the British Army—and fifty men on the General Staff their jobs.

Salute the Guards!

Now, at this school where I, John Brown, was sent to learn the arts of war, our sergeant-major was from the Scots Guards. He was a wonderful man! When he drilled us I hated him like the Kaiser, but when he had finished with us I felt a smarter man. Beefy Jones and I agreed that Sergeant-Major Kneesup was much too German, and yet, somehow, we wouldn’t have given him to the Germans for quids. Oh, he was a big fish on parade. In appearance he was like a well-cut statue. His eyes were of the X-ray kind. He could tell when there was a hole in your[12] socks, or cotton-wool (instead of a heavy great-coat) in your pack. When he shouted he was like a fog-horn, and every command was finished with a click that gave you the jumps. Before we went on parade we cursed him, and vowed we would see him far enough before we jumped about like automatic toys; but when we got there he simply threw us about like kids. The man was a marvel.

That first parade! Oh, what a nightmare! Some of us were a bit late, for in the army you’ve got to be standing on parade five minutes before the hour allotted. The S.M. said nothing, but when the hour struck he bellowed ‘Shun!’ in a way that made half of us drop our rifles with fright.

‘Pick ‘em up! Pick ‘em up! Look sharp!’

I gripped my gun with a shiver, and knew the squad were about to enter Dante’s Inferno.

‘Squad!... Shun!... As you were!’ he roared. ‘When I say “Shun!” come up to it.... There’s cobwebs in your brains, and wax in your ears.... Stand still, that man with the egg on his mouth, and hair like Caruso.... I can see all of you.... I am a blankety octopus, I am.

‘Squad!... Shun!... Still!... Not a move!... There’s a long-nosed gentleman twiddling his little fingers as if he’s got St[13] Vitus Dance.... This isn’t a home for epileptics or a sanatorium for delirium tremens.... It’s an officers’ school, and I belong to the Brigade of Guards.... Twenty-five years’ service, five medals, and the D.C.M.... I’ve drilled kings, princes, field-marshals, yokels, and hobos; and, by Gawd! I’ll drill you off the face of the earth.... By the right—quick march!’ And off we stepped.

‘He’s a bit thick,’ mumbled Beefy to me.

Now, Beefy had hardly worked his lips when he made the remark, but the eagle eye of that S.M. had caught the culprit.

‘Squad—halt!’

We stopped in terror, and poor old Beefy began to perspire with fright.

‘Now, I’ll have no talking on the march, and no back-answers.... Discipline is discipline! If you can’t keep your mouth shut on the square, you’ll jabber on a night attack.... I’m the gramophone in this business.... I can read your thoughts and see your brains.... To me you’re all as plain as a pikestaff.... I’ve only seen you ten minutes, but I’ve ticked off the lame, the lazy, the insubordinate, and the mad.... I’m Sherlock Holmes, I am. By the right—quick march!... A full step now! Shoulders square.... Heads erect.... March like the Guards.... Left—right—left....[14] Left.... Left—right—left.... Right—form!... Slowly now—slowly!... Swing round like a gate! Get back, that man with the nicotine on his fingers and the brilliantine running down his neck.... Forward—by the right!

‘Keep your dressing, there. By Gawd! I could get the Chinese Militia or the Boys’ Brigade to beat you at this game. Heads up, or you’ll drop your eyeballs.... Straighten your legs like sticks, and don’t double your backs like dudes in Bond Street. About turn!... By the left.... Keep your hands down.... Never mind the sweat on the brow.... Let the flies lick it off.... Keep up. Keep up.... You’d never make a show at Buckingham Palace or Hyde Park.... If you can’t drill, you can’t beat the Germans.... Keep your dressing, there!... When the Brigade of Guards went into action at Ypres, they marched by the right and filled the gaps of the dead to keep a straight line.... When I fought at Belmont and Graspan, my company marched into action with whiskers, eyeballs, and tummies all in line.... That’s the thing to put the fear of God into the enemy. Squad—halt!... Not a move!... Order—arms!... Stand at—ease! As you were! Who said “easy”?... None of your infantry[15] dodges here. That’s all right for an armed mob—not for me. Squad—stand easy!’

‘He’s the ruddy limit,’ said Beefy.

‘Yes. This isn’t a school. It’s a bally penitentiary,’ I said, wiping the perspiration off my brow. My shirt was sticking to my back, and I felt beastly uncomfortable. At the moment I hated Sergeant-Major Kneesup, but yet in my real heart I admired him. He was a man’s man, hard as nails, merciless to the inefficient, but the A and the Z of that wonderful system which has made the Brigade of Guards a terror to every despot in Germany. As we looked at him walking up and down the square he resembled a true-born aristocrat, and yet he was once a ploughman. A wonderful product of a hard, yet marvellous, system.

‘Squad—shun!... Stand—easy! Now, come round here, boys. I’m going to talk with you.’

The term ‘boys’ melted our fears, and we gathered about him.

‘It’s like this! A lot of you imagine when you get knocked about that it’s a sort of punishment; for I know your thoughts. I’ve been through all this. When I joined the Guards we did the old-fashioned slope. They used to stick you close to a wall, and if you were not[16] smart the wall tore all the skin off your fingers when you chucked the rifle up. That has been done away with, but the old-fashioned discipline remains. Some of you may think it brutal, but, believe me, it gets results. It makes men smart. It makes them obey. It turns them into gentlemen. I used to be a ploughman—now I’ve got a pension, a little pub, and a farm. I wouldn’t call the Kaiser my cousin, and I learned everything in the Guards.’

‘But don’t you think we need more intelligence and less of this Peninsular stuff, sergeant-major?’

‘Not a bit less. Men are still the same—very human. Let drill, discipline, and orders slide, and your men will get panicky for the want of it. Now take my tip: all of you boys are going to be officers, so model your drill on mine. Your men will hate you at first, just as you hate me when I’m knocking you about; but when your colonel turns round and says, “Lieutenant John Brown has the smartest-drilled platoon in this battalion,” the men will lick your boots for you. Tommy’s a funny fellow. He doesn’t really admire a slack officer. He likes the officer who knows his job. If you want to get them up to the scratch, drill like the Brigade of Guards[17].’

‘But, look here, sergeant-major, aren’t other corps as good as the Guards?’ I inquired.

‘Certainly, my boy. But still I must tell you this, that the Guards are nearly always kept in reserve, not because they are pets, but to save awkward situations. It’s not we that should be saying it, but you’ll admit that at Cambrai we managed to keep things right, eh?’

‘By Jove, you did!’ exclaimed a few of the cadets who had been there.

‘Whatever regiment you join, you’ve got to feel and believe that your regiment is It. Every regiment has different traditions. There’s the Old Devons, Wilts, Surreys, and all the Highland corps. They’re wonderful stuff. And if I dared to talk to them about the Guards they’d bash my head in. And quite right, too! That’s esprit de corps. But at the moment you are all cadets. You belong to no regiment, and if I can hand on any of the good ideas I’ve got from other good men, you will profit by it.’

‘But it’s ruddy hard to learn from you, sergeant-major,’ piped Beefy, who was still steaming with perspiration.

‘My dear boy, I’m mild compared to some. When I was a “rookie” I used to come in with my feet bleeding, my heart pumping like[18] an engine, and limbs like lead. You don’t really know what drill is. I’m mild—real mild. And when you’ve finished here we’ll all part good friends. Don’t worry! A number nine pill will help you through all right. You’re too fat. Now, fall in!’

For the next half-hour he knocked us about like ninepins. Every nerve, every muscle, was on the jump. He knew every trick of drill, and turned us inside-out. To an observer it must have been a treat to watch him. But to us it was more or less hell. Yet he quickened our wits and roused our ardour so that every man Jack said, ‘Well, it’s up to us to knock spots off the Guards.’ And that was his real and only aim, for he was a true soldier. He dismissed us with a smile, and said we weren’t really a bad lot. We rejoiced.