II.

Physical Training Sergeant-Instructor.—­Forward be—­end.  Ster—­retch.  Be—­end.  Ster—­retch.  Feet together—­place.  ’Ands—­down.  Stan—­zee.  Squad —­’shun.  Fingers straight, that man.  Wotjer say?  WOT?  I can’t ’elp wot the drill-sergeant tells yer.  When I sez “’Shun” I want fingers straight down.  On the command “Sitting—­down” every man sits down tailor-fashion.  Sitting—­down. [This is the position in which Swedish drill squads hear words of wisdom.] Listen.  An’ look at me over there—­not that I likes the look of yer—­’as to put up with that, but when I torks I wants attention.  Let me arsk yer this.  Wot sort of men do we want in France?  Why, fit men.  ’Ow do yer get fit? I makes yer fit.  ’Ow?  Why, physical.  Wot’s the good of a bloke in the trenches if he’s sick parade every bloomin’ day?  Arsk any of the serjents who is it wakes blokes up and makes ’em live men? Me. In about six weeks you will be able to run ten miles before brekfast in full marchin’ order, carryin’ 120 rounds, gettin’ over six-foot walls and jumpin’ eight-foot ditches.  Don’t look frightened, Private West.  I ‘ave seen weedier and uglier-lookin’ blokes than you do it when I’ve done with ’em.  One more thing....

III.

Musketry Officer.—...  Therefore you see an infantry soldier has one weapon and one only—­the rifle.  You fellows will be out at the Front pretty soon.  Now, if a man gets up the line, no matter how strong he is, how well drilled, if he can’t use his rifle he might just as well not be there for all the good he is to his country.  All the money that’s been spent on his trainin’, food, clothin’—­absolutely wasted; might as well have been thrown into the sea.  Why, the other day a party of our fellows were heavin’ bombs at about twenty Bosches—­threw hundreds; couldn’t reach ’em.  And one sniper went out and killed the lot in two minutes.  And so ...

IV.

Sergeant-Instructor of Bayonet-Fighting.—­On guard.  Long point.  Withdraw.  On guard.  Rest.  Now, when I snap my fingers I want to see you come to the high port and get roun’ me like lightning.  Some of you men seem to be treatin’ this bizness in a light-’earted way.  We don’t do this work to prevent you gettin’ into mischief.  Not much.  Wotjer join the army for?  To fight.  Right.  I shows yer how to fight.  ’Ow many Fritzes jer think I’ve killed, by teachin’ rookies the proper use of the baynit?  This is the goods.  ‘Ow are we goin’ to win this bloomin’ war?  With the rifle?  No.  With bombs?  No.  With machine guns?  No.  ‘Ow then?  By turnin’ ’em out with the baynit.  Cold steel.  That’s it.  An’ I’ll show yer where to pop it in, me lads—­three inches of it.  That’s all you want—­three inches ... (For sheer bloodthirstiness there is no patter like that of the Bayonet Department.)