This unfortunate officer had dropped his eyeglass, and was now groping for it on the muddy ground, one of my mates helping him in the search.

Other officers took up the job of company commander in turn, and all suffered.  One, who was a dapper little fellow, speedily earned the nickname of “Tailor’s Dummy;” another, when giving a platoon the wrong direction in dressing, was told to be careful, and not shove the regiment over.  A third, a Welshman, with the black ribbons, got angry with a section for some slight mistake made by two of its number, and was told to be careful and not annoy the men.  He had only got them on appro’.

Spick and span in their new uniforms, they came to drill daily on our parade ground.  Slowly the change took place.  They were “rookies” no longer, and the adjutant’s sarcasm was a thing of the past.  Commands were pronounced distinctly and firmly; the officers were trained men, ready to lead a company of soldiers anywhere and to do anything.

No man who has trained with the new armies can be lacking in respect for the indefatigable N.C.O., upon whom the brunt of the work has fallen.  With picturesque scorn and sarcasm he has formed huge armies out of the rawest of raw material, and all in a space of less than half a year.  His methods are sometimes strange and his temper short; yet he achieves his end in the shortest time possible.  He is for ever correcting the same mistakes and rebuking the same stupidity, and the wonder is, not that he loses his temper, but that he should ever be able to preserve it.  He understands men, and approaches them in an idiom that is likely to produce the best results.

“Every man of you has friends of some sort,” said the musketry instructor, as we formed up in front of him on the parade ground, gripping with nervous eagerness the rifles which had just been served out from the quartermaster’s stores.  We were recruits, raw “rookies,” green to the grind, and chafing under discipline.  “And some sort of friends it would be as well as if you never met them,” the instructor continued.  “They’d play you false the minute they’d get your back turned.  But you’ve a friend now that will always stand by you and play you fair.  Just give him a chance, and he’ll maybe see you out of many a tight corner.  Now, who is this friend I’m talking about?” he asked, turning to a youth who was leaning on his rifle.  “Come, Weary, and tell me.”

“The rifle,” was the answer.

“The crutch?”

“No, the rifle.”

“I see that, boy, I see that!  But, damn it, don’t make a crutch of it.  You’re a soldier now, my man, and not a crippled one yet.”

Thus was the rifle introduced to us.  We had long waited for its coming, and dreamt of cross-guns, the insignia of a crack shot’s proficiency, while we waited.  And with the rifle came romance, and the element of responsibility.  We were henceforward fighting men, numbered units, it was true, with numbered weapons, but for all that, fighters—­men trained to the trade and licensed to the profession.