“—­And I’ll be in Scotland before ye. 
  But me and my true love will never meet again
  On the bonny, bonny baanks—­”

A shrill whistle sounds far ahead.  It means “March at Attention.”  “Loch Lomond” dies away with uncanny suddenness—­discipline is waxing stronger every day—­and tunics are buttoned and rifles unslung.  Three minutes later we swing demurely on to the barrack-square, across which a pleasant aroma of stewed onions is wafting, and deploy with creditable precision into the formation known as “mass.”  Then comes much dressing of ranks and adjusting of distances.  The Colonel is very particular about a clean finish to any piece of work.

Presently the four companies are aligned:  the N.C.O.’s retire to the supernumerary ranks.  The battalion stands rigid, facing a motionless figure upon horseback.  The figure stirs.

“Fall out, the officers!”

They come trooping, stand fast, and salute—­very smartly.  We must set an example to the men.  Besides, we are hungry too.

“Battalion, slope arms! Dis-miss!”

Every man, with one or two incurable exceptions, turns sharply to his right and cheerfully smacks the butt of his rifle with his disengaged hand.  The Colonel gravely returns the salute; and we stream away, all the thousand of us, in the direction of the savoury smell.  Two o’clock will come round all too soon, and with it company drill and tiresome musketry exercises; but by that time we shall have dined, and Fate cannot touch us for another twenty-four hours.

III

GROWING PAINS

We have our little worries, of course.

Last week we were all vaccinated, and we did not like it.  Most of us have “taken” very severely, which is a sign that we badly needed vaccinating, but makes the discomfort no easier to endure.  It is no joke handling a rifle when your left arm is swelled to the full compass of your sleeve; and the personal contact of your neighbour in the ranks is sheer agony.  However, officers are considerate, and the work is made as light as possible.  The faint-hearted report themselves sick; but the Medical Officer, an unsentimental man of coarse mental fibre, who was on a panel before he heard his country calling, merely recommends them to get well as soon as possible, as they are going to be inoculated for enteric next week.  So we grouse—­and bear it.

There are other rifts within the military lute.  At home we are persons of some consequence, with very definite notions about the dignity of labour.  We have employers who tremble at our frown; we have Trades Union officials who are at constant pains to impress upon us our own omnipotence in the industrial world in which we live.  We have at our beck and call a Radical M.P. who, in return for our vote and suffrage, informs us that we are the backbone of the nation, and that we must on no account permit ourselves to be trampled upon by the effete and tyrannical upper classes.  Finally, we are Scotsmen, with all a Scotsman’s curious reserve and contempt for social airs and graces.