Page:Punch Vol 148.djvu/140

Patriotic Old Person (to individual bespattered by passing motor-bus). "There, young feller! It'd never 'ave bin noticed if you'd bin in khaki!"

My dear Mr. Punch,—Although, being no longer a soldier in anything but name (and pay), I pursue in India the inglorious vocation of a clerk, I am nevertheless still in a position to perceive the splendid qualities of the British Officer. Always a humble admirer of his skill and bravery in the field, I have now in addition a keen appreciation of his imperturbable sangfroid when confronted with conditions of great difficulty in the office.

I am working in the Banana (to circumvent the Censor I am giving it an obviously fictitious name) Divisional Area Headquarters Staff Office, which is situated in the town of———Suppose we call it Mango. There are four brigades in the Banana Divisional Area, one of of which is the Mango Brigade. Now it so happens that the General Officer Commanding the Banana Divisional Area is at present also the General Officer Commanding the Mango Brigade; consequently this is the sort of thing which is always happening. The G.O.C. of the Mango Brigade writes to himself as G.O.C. of the Banana Divisional Area: "May I request the favour of a reply to my Memorandum No. 25731/24/Mobn., dated the 3rd January, 1915, relating to paragraph 5 of Army Department letter No. S.M—43822/19 (A.B.C.), dated the 12th December, 1914, which amplifies the Annexure to Clause 271, Section 18 (c), of A.R.I., Vol. XXIII.?" Next morning he goes into the Divisional Office and finds himself confronted by this letter. A mere civilian might be tempted to take a mean advantage of his unusual situation. Not so the British Officer. The dignified traditions of the Indian Army must not lightly be set aside. The G.O.C. of the Brigade and the G.O.C. of the Divisional Area must be as strangers for the purposes of official correspondence.

So he writes back to himself:—"Your reference to Army Department letter No. S.M.—43822/19 (A.B.C.), dated the 12th December, 1914, is not understood. May I presume that you allude to Army Department letter No. P.T. 58401/364 (P.O.P.), dated the 5th November, 1914, which deals with the Annexure to Clause 271, Section 18 (c), of A.R.I., Vol. XXIII.?"

Later on he goes to the Brigade Office and writes.—"... I would respectfully point out that Army Department letter No. S.M.—43822/19 (A.B.C.), dated the 12th December, 1914, cancels Army Department letter No. P.T. 58401/364 (P.O.P.), dated the 5th November, 1914."

At his next visit to the Divisional Office he writes back again:—"... Army Department letter No. S.M.—43822/19 (A.B.C.), dated the 12th December, 1914, does not appear to have been received in this office. Will you be so good as to favour me with a copy?"

So it goes on, and our dual G.O.C., like the gallant soldier he is, never flinches from his duty, never swerves by a hair's-breadth from his difficult course. This surely is the spirit which has made the Empire.

But I expect you are weary of this subject. Still, you must please not forget that we are officially on active service, and active service means perhaps more than you people at home imagine. Last Sunday, after tiffin, I came upon one of my colleagues lounging in an easy-chair, one of those with practical extensions upon which you can stretch your legs luxuriously. With a cigarette between his lips and an iced drink beside him, he sat reading a magazine—a striking illustration of the fine resourcefulness of the Territorials in adapting themselves to novel conditions.

"What I object to about active service," he said, as I came up, "is the awful hardship we have to put up with. When we were mobilised I didn't anticipate that our path would be exactly strewn with roses, but I confess I never expected this. I shall write to The Times. The public ought to know about it; " and he settled himself more deeply into his chair, blew out a cloud of smoke, and with a resolute expression sipped his iced lemonade.

Mr. Punch, you will be pained to hear that I have lost my hard-earned reputation for sobriety through no fault of my own. A few days ago I went up to the barracks to draw my regimental pay, and found that a number of articles of clothing, issued by the Army authorities, had accumulated for me during my absence—a pair of khaki shorts, a grey flannel shirt with steel buttons the size of sixpences, a pair of worsted socks and three sheets (yes, sheets for the bed; so luxuriously do we fare in India). Perhaps you can guess what happened.

"Oh, by the way, have you drawn your clothing?" asked the Lieutenant, when he had paid me.

"Yes, Sir," I replied.

"What have you got?"

"Sheets, shirt, shorts and shocks—shots, sheeks and shirks———"

"That will do," he interrupted sternly. "You had better come to me again when you are in a condition to express yourself clearly."

Thus easily is a reputation acquired by years of self-control destroyed by the pitfalls of our native tongue. On the other hand, some people have enviable reputations thrust upon them. This is the case with my friend, Private Walls. The other night, half of what remains of the Battalion were called out to repel an expected attack on the barracks by the other half. Walls chanced to be placed in a rather isolated position, and, armed with six rounds of blank, he took cover behind a large boulder, after receiving whispered orders from his officer not to fire if he suspected the approach of the enemy, but to low like an ox, when assistance would immediately be sent to him.

Though a little diffident of his powers of lowing, Walls determined to do his best, and fell sound asleep.

Now, if you or I had been in his position, an officer would certainly have discovered us in no time, and dire