"Because a Company
commander
has to know these things--because, if he
does not know, he may have crime--ay, murder--brewing under his very
nose and yet not see that it's there.
does not know, he may have crime--ay, murder--brewing under his very
nose and yet not see that it's there.
Kipling - Poems
" or Hogan-Yale of the White
Hussars, leading his squadron for all it was worth, with the price of
horseshoes thrown in; or "Tick" Boileau, trying to live up to his fierce
blue and gold turban while the wasps of the Bengal Cavalry stretched
to a gallop in the wake of the long, lollopping Walers of the White
Hussars.
They fought through the clear cool day, and Bobby felt a little thrill
run down his spine when he heard the tinkle-tinkle-tinkle of the empty
cartridge-cases hopping from the breech-blocks after the roar of the
volleys; for he knew that he should live to hear that sound in action.
The review ended in a glorious chase across the plain--batteries
thundering after cavalry to the huge disgust of the White Hussars, and
the Tyneside Tail Twisters hunting a Sikh Regiment, till the lean lathy
Singhs panted with exhaustion. Bobby was dusty and dripping long before
noon, but his enthusiasm was merely focused--not diminished.
He returned to sit at the feet of Revere, his "skipper," that is to say,
the Captain of his Company, and to be instructed in the dark art and
mystery of managing men, which is a very large part of the Profession of
Arms.
"If you haven't a taste that way," said Revere, between his puffs of
his cheroot, "you'll never be able to get the hang of it, but remember
Bobby, 'tisn't the best drill, though drill is nearly everything, that
hauls a Regiment through Hell and out on the other side. It's the man
who knows how to handle men--goat-men, swine-men, dog-men, and so on. "
"Dormer, for instance," said Bobby. "I think he comes under the head of
fool-men. He mopes like a sick owl. "
"That's where you make your mistake, my son. Dormer isn't a fool yet,
but he's a dashed dirty soldier, and his room corporal makes fun of his
socks before kit-inspection. Dormer, being two-thirds pure brute, goes
into a corner and growls. "
"How do you know? " said Bobby, admiringly.
"Because a Company commander has to know these things--because, if he
does not know, he may have crime--ay, murder--brewing under his very
nose and yet not see that it's there. Dormer is being badgered out of
his mind--big as he is--and he hasn't intellect enough to resent it.
He's taken to quiet boozing and, Bobby, when the butt of a room goes on
the drink, or takes to moping by himself, measures are necessary to pull
him out of himself. "
"What measures? 'Man can't run round coddling his men forever. "
"No. The men would precious soon show him that he was not wanted.
You've got to"--Here the Color-sergeant entered with some papers; Bobby
reflected for a while as Revere looked through the Company forms.
"Does Dormer do anything, Sergeant? " Bobby asked, with the air of one
continuing an interrupted conversation.
"No, sir. Does 'is dooty like a hortomato," said the Sergeant, who
delighted in long words. "A dirty soldier, and 'e's under full stoppages
for new kit. It's covered with scales, sir. "
"Scales? What scales?
Hussars, leading his squadron for all it was worth, with the price of
horseshoes thrown in; or "Tick" Boileau, trying to live up to his fierce
blue and gold turban while the wasps of the Bengal Cavalry stretched
to a gallop in the wake of the long, lollopping Walers of the White
Hussars.
They fought through the clear cool day, and Bobby felt a little thrill
run down his spine when he heard the tinkle-tinkle-tinkle of the empty
cartridge-cases hopping from the breech-blocks after the roar of the
volleys; for he knew that he should live to hear that sound in action.
The review ended in a glorious chase across the plain--batteries
thundering after cavalry to the huge disgust of the White Hussars, and
the Tyneside Tail Twisters hunting a Sikh Regiment, till the lean lathy
Singhs panted with exhaustion. Bobby was dusty and dripping long before
noon, but his enthusiasm was merely focused--not diminished.
He returned to sit at the feet of Revere, his "skipper," that is to say,
the Captain of his Company, and to be instructed in the dark art and
mystery of managing men, which is a very large part of the Profession of
Arms.
"If you haven't a taste that way," said Revere, between his puffs of
his cheroot, "you'll never be able to get the hang of it, but remember
Bobby, 'tisn't the best drill, though drill is nearly everything, that
hauls a Regiment through Hell and out on the other side. It's the man
who knows how to handle men--goat-men, swine-men, dog-men, and so on. "
"Dormer, for instance," said Bobby. "I think he comes under the head of
fool-men. He mopes like a sick owl. "
"That's where you make your mistake, my son. Dormer isn't a fool yet,
but he's a dashed dirty soldier, and his room corporal makes fun of his
socks before kit-inspection. Dormer, being two-thirds pure brute, goes
into a corner and growls. "
"How do you know? " said Bobby, admiringly.
"Because a Company commander has to know these things--because, if he
does not know, he may have crime--ay, murder--brewing under his very
nose and yet not see that it's there. Dormer is being badgered out of
his mind--big as he is--and he hasn't intellect enough to resent it.
He's taken to quiet boozing and, Bobby, when the butt of a room goes on
the drink, or takes to moping by himself, measures are necessary to pull
him out of himself. "
"What measures? 'Man can't run round coddling his men forever. "
"No. The men would precious soon show him that he was not wanted.
You've got to"--Here the Color-sergeant entered with some papers; Bobby
reflected for a while as Revere looked through the Company forms.
"Does Dormer do anything, Sergeant? " Bobby asked, with the air of one
continuing an interrupted conversation.
"No, sir. Does 'is dooty like a hortomato," said the Sergeant, who
delighted in long words. "A dirty soldier, and 'e's under full stoppages
for new kit. It's covered with scales, sir. "
"Scales? What scales?
