Page:Punch Vol 148.djvu/442
GETTING A MOVE ON.
We are the Fourth Loamshires. (Dear old Loamshire, my own county—I once passed through it in a train.) Of course there is no such place as Loamshire really, as your little boy would tell you, but I have to disguise the regiment. For why? The answer is "King's Regulations, para. 453, Communications to Press—Penalty, Death or such less punishment as the Court awards." So you will understand that this is purely fictitious—at any rate, until after the war. The name, the events, the documents, the conversations, they are all invented; nothing in the least like this ever happened or ever could happen. My only excuse for writing is that we subalterns have a couple of seconds all to ourselves every morning between the word "Fix" and the word "Bayonets," and that one must do something in one's leisure. "Platoon, at-ten-shun! Fix———" I take my note-book out, and proceed to put down for you this extremely imaginative story...
The rumour started, like all good rumours, in the Sergeants' Mess. "I hear we're going to Blinksea," said the Sergeant-Major, unbending for a moment. "Anywhere out of this blighted place," said the most lately promoted Corporal, just to show his independence. Next day it was all over the battalion.
A fortnight later it was officially announced in Orders. We were going to Blinksea on Monday, and the Blinkshires were coming to our own little watering-spot (Shellbeach) in exchange. They sent one Major and a few men as an advance party to Shellbeach, and we sent two Majors and a few men as an advance party to Blinksea; we were always a little prodigal with our Majors.
As soon as they were satisfied that the advance party had arrived, and that we had all sent our new address home to our wives and mothers, the Authorities postponed the move till Saturday week. We bore it stoically—particularly our Majors. Our Majors immediately wrote that it was hardly worth while coming back such a long way for such a few days; that Blinksea was a delightful spot with a first-class hotel and an excellent golf-course; and that they were longing to get to work again. So they stayed, and on the Wednesday the great pack-up began.
We all had our special jobs. Nobody was safe anywhere. Orderlies popped out from behind every bush and handed you a buff-coloured O.H.M.S. envelope. No, not an invitation to lunch from the King, as one would naturally hope; not likely; just a blunt note from the Adjutant telling you to load Barge No. 3 at Port Edward, or carry Barge No. 3 to Port Edward, or something equally heavy and disagreeable. About a hundred notes went out and not a "please' amongst them. Just a "You are instructed to take the Mess billiard-table down to the Pier. If you require assistance———" and so on. All quite firm.
It was a wonderful time. Even the Captains put their backs into it for once. They looked after the regimental lizard, or watched the Colonel's horse embarking, or told the subalterns to get on with it; no job was too strenuous for them. And by mid-day Friday it was done. Everything had gone—machine guns, horses, stores, ammunition, the safe (I carried this down myself; luckily it wasn't a very hot day), the officers' heavy luggage—it was all on the sea. And by the "officers' heavy luggage" I don't only mean their boots. The Colonel's man, always the first to set an example to the battalion, had left the Colonel with what he stood up in and (in case he got wet through on the Friday afternoon) the cord of his dressing gown; and the hint was taken by us others. I assure you we left ourselves very little to carry with us on the Saturday; the Adjutant himself only had a couple of "Memo." forms.
At two o'clock the Authorities rang up.
"Everything on board?"
"Everything, Sir," replied the Adjutant.
"Quite sure?"
"Everything, Sir, except the cord of the Colonel's dressing-gown and a couple of 'Memo.' forms."
"Well, get those on board, too," said the Authorities sharply.
So they went, too. We were now ready. We had taken an affectionate farewell of Shellbeach. The tradesmen had sent in their bills (and in some cases been paid). The Parson had preached a wonderful valedictory sermon, telling us what fine fellows we all were, wishing us luck in our new surroundings, and asking us not to forget him. At six o'clock on Saturday morning we were to be off.
And then the Authorities rang up again.
"Everything on board now?"
"Everything, Sir. It's nearly at Blinksea by this time."
"Right. Then now you'd better see how quickly you can get it all back again. The move is off."
The Adjutant bore up bravely.
"Is it off altogether," he asked, "or merely postponed again?
"Neither," said the Authorities "It is deferred."
*****
The only excitement left was to see what sort of recovery from an apparently hopeless position the Parson would make next Sunday. On the whole he did well. He preached a lengthy sermon upon the inscrutable decrees of Providence. A. A. M.
THE FIVE STAGES OF TABLE TALK.
Some forty years agone,
The willow and the leather
All other themes outshone;
We talked of Grace and Yardley,
How runs were made or poached,
But other topics hardly,
Well, hardly ever broached.
Some thirty years gone by,
To stubble, moor or heather
Our thoughts were wont to fly;
We talked of driving, beating,
Of stags and "bags" and "shoots,"
And various ways of treating
And waterproofing boots.
Some twenty years ago,
Birds of a kindred feather,
But sober, staid and slow,
We then looked back with pity
On sport and all its snares;
Our hearts were in the City,
Our talk of stocks and shares.
About ten years ago,
It mattered little whether
Consols were high or low;
We thought no more of stalking
And pastime we eschewed,
But all the time were talking
Of vintages and food.
We're drawing near the end,
Whene'er we dine together
And, heart to heart, unbend;
Leaving all other questions
To statesman, don and dean,
We talk of our digestions,
Of pills and paraffin.
New Light on Dr. Johnson.
"She had been married for two years to Mr. Thrale, and Johnson had recently lost his wife when they became acquainted. Dainty, lively, dimpled, with a round youthful face and big, intelligent eyes, they used to see each other continually, and discussed everything on Heaven and earth."—Everyman.
We always suspected that Mr. Percy Fitzgerald was wrong when he sculptured the doctor as a negroid dwarf, but we did not know he was quite so wrong as this.