98
PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.
February 3, 1915
Time: 7.30 P.M. Scene: A large disused barn, where forty members of the local Volunteer Training Corps are assembled for drill. They are mostly men well over thirty-eight years of age, but there is a sprinkling of lads of under nineteen, while a few are men of "military age" who for some good and sufficient reason have been unable to join the army. They are all full of enthusiasm, but at present they possess neither uniform nor arms. Please note that in the following dialogue the Sergeant alone speaks aloud; the other person thinks, but gives no utterance to his words.
The Sergeant. Fall in! Fall in! Come smartly there, fall inAnd recollect that when you've fallen inYou stand at ease, a ten-inch space betweenYour feet—like this; your hands behind your back—Like this; your head and body both erect;Your weight well poised on both feet, not on one.Dress by the right, and let each rear rank manQuick cover off his special front rank man.That's it; that's good. Now when I say, "Squad, 'shun,"Let every left heel swiftly join the rightWithout a shuffling or a scraping soundAnd let the angle of your two feet beJust forty-five, the while you smartly dropHands to your sides, the fingers lightly bent,Thumbs to the front, but every careful thumbKept well behind your trouser-seams. Squad, 'shun!
The Volunteer. Ha! Though I cannot find my trouser-seams,I rather think I did that pretty well.Thomas, my footman, who is on my left,And Batts, the draper, drilling on my right,And e'en the very Sergeant must have seenThe lithe precision of my rapid spring.
The Sergeant. When next I call you to attention, noteYou need not slap your hands against your thighs.It is not right to slap your thighs at all.
The Volunteer. He's looking at me; I am half afraidI used unnecessary violenceAnd slapped my thighs unduly. It is badThat Thomas should have cause to grin at meAnd lose his proper feeling of respect,Being a flighty fellow at the best;And Batts the draper must not—
The Sergeant.Stand at ease!
The Volunteer. Aha! He wants to catch me, but he—
The Sergeant.'Shun!
The Volunteer. Bravo, myself! I did not slap them then.I am indubitably getting on.I wonder if the Germans do these things,And what they sound like in the German tongue.The Germans are a———
The Sergeant. Sharply number offFrom right to left, and do not jerk your heads.[They number off.
The Volunteer. I'm six, an even number, and must doThe lion's share in forming fours. What luckFor Batts, who's five, and Thomas, who is seven.They also serve, but only stand and wait,While I behind the portly form of BattsInsert myself and then slip out againClear to the front, observing at the wordThe ordered sequence of my moving feet.Come let me brace myself and dare———
The Sergeant. Form fours!
The Volunteer. I cannot see the Sergeant; I'm obscuredBehind the acreage of Batts's back. Indeed it is a very noble backAnd would protect me if we charged in foursAgainst the Germans, but I rather thinkWe charge two deep, and therefore———
The Sergeant. Form two deep!
The Volunteer. Thank Heaven I'm there, although I mixed my feet!I am oblivious of the little thingsThat mark the due observance of a drill;And Thomas sees my faults and grins again.Let him grin on; my time will come once moreAt dinner, when he hands the Brussels sprouts.[The drill proceeds.Now we're in fours and marching like the wind.This is more like it; this is what we needTo make us quit ourselves like regulars.Left, right, left, right! The Sergeant gives it outAs if he meant it. Stepping out like thisWe should breed terror in the German hordesAnd drive them off. The Sergeant has a gleamIn either eye; I think he's proud of us.Or does he meditate some stratagemTo spoil our marching?
The Sergeant. On the left form squad!
The Volunteer. There! He has done it! He has ruined us!I'm lost past hope, and Thomas, too, is lost;And in a press of lost and tangled menThe great broad back of Batts heaves miles away.[The Sergeant explains and the drill proceeds.
The Volunteer. No matter; we shall some day learn it all,The standing difference 'twixt our left and right,The bayonet exercise, the musketry,And all the things a soldier does with ease.I must remember it's a long, long wayTo Tipperary, but my heart's———
The Sergeant. Dismiss!R. C. L.
At long last the War Office is waking up to the value of bands for military purposes, and a good deal of interest will be aroused by the discussion now proceeding as to the best airs for use on the march.
The following suggestions have been hastily collected by wireless and other means:—
From the Trenches: "Why not try 'Come into the garden mud'?”
From a very new Subaltern: "I had thought of 'John Brown's Body,' but personally I am more concerned just now with Sam Browne's Belt."
From a Zeppelin-driver: "There's an old Scotch song that I have tried successfully on one of our naval lieutenants. It runs like this:—
O, I'll tak the high road and you 'll tak' the low road,An' I'll be in Yarmouth afore yo."
From the Captain of the Sydney: "What's the matter with The 'Jolly Müller'?"
From President Wilson: "Have you thought of 'The little rift within the lute,' as played by our Contra-band?"
From Admiral von Tirpitz: A familiar air with me is 'Crocked in the cradle of the deep.'"
From Sir Edward Grey: "If it could be done diplomatically, I should like to see recommended, 'Dacia, Dacia,
give me your answer, do.'"
From the Crew of the Lion: "For England, Home, and Beatty."
From an East Coast Mayor: "Begone, dull scare!"
From the King of Rumania: "Now we shan't be long."