V.

Bombing Officer.—­Sit down.  Smoke if you want to—­and listen.  My job is to teach you fellers all about what has turned out to be of the highest importance in this trench warfare, namely, bombs and grenades.  This is a trench war; has been for three years.  The nature of the fighting may alter, of course.  We all hope it will.  But we must think of trenches at the moment.  Now, the German is a clever feller, and he soon saw that you’d never kill off the enemy if you just sat down behind a parapet with a rifle in your hand.  So he started inventing and developing these things.  But we’re catching him up.  We’ve caught him up.  Now, this is a Mills ...

VI.

The Adjutant (after two hours’ extended order drill and attack practice).—­Just sit down.  Close in a bit.  Light your pipes if you wish.  Let me tell you that the sort of work we’ve been doing this afternoon is the only way we’re ever going to finish off the Hun—­absolutely.  You can never win a war by squatting down in a hole and lookin’ at the other fellow.  No, open fighting—­that’s what the new armies have got to learn.  I fear it’s been badly neglected; but not in this battalion.  Now, with regard to the screen of skirmishers, I want ...

VII.

Drill Sergeant.—­On ‘er left, form—­squad.  For—­erd, by the ri.’  Mark—­time.  For—­erd.  Wake up, Thomson; we don’t want no blinkin’ dreamers in the Army.  Pick up the step there, Number Three, fron’ rank.  ‘Ep, ri’; ‘ep, ri’; ‘ep, ri.  Sker-wad—­’alt.  Stan’ still.  ’Alt means ’alt.  No movin’ at all; just ’alt.  Right—­dress.  Eyes—­front.  ’Swer.  Eyes—­front.  Stanat—­’ipe.  ‘Swer.  Stanat—­’ipe.  Stan’ easy.  Now listen to me, me lads.  The chiefest dooty of a soljer is O-bedience.  Drill an’ discipline is ’ow you gets that.  Stop chewin, ‘Arris.  You’ll be losin’ your name again, me lad.  Don’t pay to lose your name twice—­not in this regiment it don’t.  You’ll learn a deal of other stuff ’ere; but take it from me it’s the barrick-square work wot makes a soljer.  Wot is a soljer?  Why, a drilled man.  ’Ow jer think I ’ave turned some ’undreds of blankety militiamen into the real thing?  If a bloke can’t stan’ still on parade I don’t want to hear about his doin’s on the range or ’ow he can chuck a Mills.  Sker-wad—­ ’shun.  Dis—­miss.  ‘Swer.  No call to go salootin’ me, Private McKenzie.  I ain’t an orficer—­yet.  Dis—­miss.

Private Jones (young and keen, and a trifle confused).—­Good ’evins, Bill; they carn’t all be bloomin’ well right, can they?

Lance-Corporal Smith.—­No, boy.  It’s the ’appy mejium we gets wiv ’em all, yer see.  That’s it—­the happy mejium.

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