THE COMPLETE MILITARY WORKS OF RUDYARD KIPLING. Rudyard 1865-1936 Kipling

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СКАЧАТЬ funny. said the master builder. Of course in his own business he d chuck his job sooner than do wood-work. But it s all funny. .

      What I grudge, a sergeant struck in, is havin to put mechanics to loading and unloading beef. That s where modified conscription for the beauties that won t roll up ld be useful to us. We want hewers of wood, we do. And I d hew em! .

      I want that file. This was a private in a hurry, come from beneath an unspeakable Bulford. Some one asked him musically if he would tell his wife in the morning who he was with to-night.

      You’ll find it in the tool-chest. said the sergeant. It was his own sacred tool-chest which he had contributed to the common stock. .

      And what sort of men have you got in this unit? I asked.

       Every sort you can think of. There isn’t a thing you couldn t have made here if you wanted to. But - the corporal, who had been a fitter, spoke with fervour you can’t expect us to make big-ends, can you? That five-ton Bulford lorry out there in the wet.

      And she isn’t the worst, said the master builder. But it’s all part of the game. And so funny when you come to think of it. Me painting carts, and certificated plumbers loading frozen beef!’

       What about the discipline? I asked.

       The corporal turned a fitter’s eye on me. The mechanism is the discipline, said he, with most profound truth. Jockeyin a sick car on the road is discipline, too. What about the discipline? He turned to the sergeant with the carpenter’s chest. There was one sergeant of Regulars, with twenty years’ service behind him and a knowledge of human nature. He struck in.

      You ought to know. You’ve just been made corporal, said that sergeant of Regulars.

      Well, there’s so much which everybody knows has got to be done that - that - why, we all turn in and do it, quoth the corporal. I don’t have any trouble with my lot.

      Yes; that s how the case stands, said the sergeant of Regulars. Come and see our stores. They were beautifully arranged in a shed which felt like a monastery after the windy, clashing world without; and the young private who acted as checker - he came from some railway office - had the thin, keen face of the cleric.

      We re in billets in the town said the sergeant who had been a carpenter. But I m a married man. I shouldn t care to have men billeted on us at home, an I don’t want to inconvenience other people. So I’ve knocked up a bunk for myself on the premises. It’s handier to the stores, too.

       ‘The Humour of It’

      We entered what had been the local garage. The mechanical transport were in full possession, tinkering the gizzards of more cars. We discussed chewed-up gears (samples to hand), and the civil population’s old-time views of the military. The corporal told a tale of a clergyman in a Midland town who, only a year ago, on the occasion of some manoeuvres, preached a sermon warning his flock to guard their womenfolk against the soldiers.

      And when you think - when you know,’ said the corporal, what life in those little towns really is! ‘ He whistled.

      See that old landau, said he, opening the door of an ancient wreck jammed against a wall.

      That s two of our chaps dressing-room. They don t care to be billeted, so they sleep tween the landau and the wall. It s handier for their work, too. Work comes in at all hours. I wish I was cavalry. There’s some use in cursing a horse.

      Truly, it’s an awful thing to belong to a service where speech brings no alleviation.

      You! A private with callipers turned from the bench by the window. You’d die outside of a garage. But what you said about civilians and soldiers is all out of date now.

      The sergeant of Regulars permitted himself a small, hidden smile. The private with the callipers had been some twelve weeks a soldier. I don’t say it isn’t, said the corporal, I’m saying what it used to be.

      We-ell, the private screwed up the callipers, didn’t you feel a little bit that way yourself - when you were a civilian? I - I don’t think I did. The corporal was taken aback. I don’t think I ever thought about it. Ah! There you are! said the private, very drily. Some one laughed in the shadow of the landau dressing-room. Anyhow, we’re all in it now, Private Percy. said a voice.

      There must be a good many thousand conversa- tions of this kind being held all over England now- adays. Our breed does not warble much about patriotism or Fatherland, but it has a wonderful sense of justice, even when its own shortcomings are concerned.

      We went over to the drill-shed to see the men paid. The first man I ran across there was a sergeant who had served in the Mounted Infantry in the South African picnic that we used to call a war. He had been a private chauffeur for some years - long enough to catch the professional look, but was joyously reverting to service type again. The men lined up, were called out, saluted emphatically at the pay-table, and fell back with their emoluments. They smiled at each other. An it’s all so funny, murmured the master builder in my ear. ‘About a quarter - no, less than a quarter of what one ud be making on one’s own ! ‘

      Fifty bob a week, cottage, and all found, I was. An’ only two cars to look after. said a voice Behind. An if I d been asked - simply asked - to lie down in the mud all the afternoon –– ! The speaker looked at his wages with awe. Some one wanted to know, sotto voce, if that was union rates, and the grin spread among the uniformed experts. The joke, you will observe, lay in situations thrown up, businesses abandoned, and pleasant prospects cut short at the nod of duty.

      Thank Heaven! said one of them at last, it’s too dark to work on those blessed Bulfords any more to-day. We’ll get ready for the concert.

      But it was not too dark, half an hour later, for my car to meet a big lorry storming back in the wind and the wet from the northern camps. She gave me London allowance - half one inch between hub and hub - swung her corner like a Brooklands professional, changed gear for the uphill with a sweet click, and charged away. For aught I knew, she was driven by an ex- fifty-bob-a-week-a-cottage-and- all-found -er, who next month might be dodging shells with her and thinking it all so funny,’ Horse, Foot, even the Guns may sometimes get a little rest, but so long as men eat thrice a day there is no rest for the Army Service Corps. They carry the campaign on their all-sustaining backs.

      IV. Canadians in Camp

       Table of Contents

      Before you hit the buffalo, find out where the rest of the herd is.

       - Proverb.

      This particular fold of downs behind Salis- bury might have been a hump of prairie near Winnipeg. The team that came over the rise, widely spaced between pole-bar and whiffle- trees, were certainly children of the prairie. They shied at the car. Their driver asked them dis- passionately what they thought they were doing, anyway. They put their wise heads together, and did nothing at all. Yes. Oh, yes! said the driver. They were Western horses. They weighed better than twelve hundred apiece. He himself was from Edmonton way. The Camp? Why, the camp was right ahead along up this road. No chance to miss it, and, Sa-ay! Look out for our lorries!

      A fleet of them hove in sight going at the rate of knots, and keeping their left with a conscientiousness only learned when you come out of a country where nearly all the Provinces (except British Columbia) keep to СКАЧАТЬ