The Last Million: How They Invaded France—and England. Ian Hay
is just what most of us ask who don’t know,” he said. “But I have seen enough service to have learned one thing, and that is that a dirty soldier is a bad soldier, all the world over. If a man is encouraged to neglect his personal appearance, he starts to neglect his work—gets careless with the cleaning of his rifle, and so forth. If a man takes no pride in his appearance, he takes no pride in his duty. The other way round, the best soldier is the soldier who keeps himself smart.”
“That is just what I think,” interpolated Miss Lane, virtuously. (She had succeeded during the Major’s homily in surreptitiously powdering her nose, and felt ready to take Florence Nightingale’s place at a moment’s notice.)
“We certainly found it so,” said Norton. “In fact, after a short experience of trench warfare we revived all the old peace-time stunts. The order was given that every man in the trenches was to be shaved by a certain hour each day. (Of course, if the Boche attacked in mass, the ceremony was liable to postponement.) In billets behind the line every one was expected to make himself as smart as possible—brush his uniform, shine his shoes, and so on. The band played for an hour every evening. Saluting and other little ceremonies like that were insisted on. These things all together had a tremendous effect. I don’t know why, but it was so. For one thing, it made life behind the lines more tolerable—more refreshing. In the line itself, it made officers more concise in giving their orders, and men more alert and intelligent in carrying them out. In fact, the greater the fuss a regiment made about its appearance—‘eye-wash,’ we called it—the better its work in the field.”
“Things worked out that way with us too, even in home training,” corroborated Powers.
“So I noticed. I was in four or five big camps, in different States, and I found that the rate of progress in training varied almost directly with the discipline.”
“Which camp did you like best?”
The British officer turned to Miss Lane, and shook his head. “No, you don’t, Miss Lane!” he replied. “I belong to the most tactless race in the world, but I know enough to keep out of trouble of that kind! I had a gorgeous time in all of them.”
At this point a timely bugle blew for boat drill, and the harassed veteran stumped off.
Boat drill occurs at frequent intervals, and is still sufficient of a novelty to be regarded as an amusement.
By all, that is, except the habitués—the crew, the stewards, and that anæmic race of troglodytes which only emerges from the lower depths of the ship under the stress of great emergency—the army of dish-washers and potato-peelers. These fall in at their posts with the half-ashamed self-consciousness of big boys who have been compelled by an undiscriminating hostess to participate in children’s games. They grin sheepishly, shiver ostentatiously in the fresh breeze, and offer profane but amusing comments in an undertone to one another.
But few of the present passengers have ever been on board a ship before. Indeed, many of us never saw the ocean until last week. War and its appurtenances are for the present a game, full of interesting surprises and wonderful thrills. It is surprising, for instance, however good your appetite may have been in camp, to find how much more you can eat on board ship; and it is thrilling, if you happen to be a rustic beauty from a very small town in Central Iowa, to find yourself dancing the one-step, in a life-jacket, with a total stranger in uniform, upon an undulating deck to the music of a full military band.
So most of us have entered upon the business with all the misguided enthusiasm of the gentleman who once blacked himself all over to play “Othello.” Some of us sleep in our clothes; others carry all their valuables about their person; not a few donned patent life-saving contraptions before we cleared Sandy Hook. But no one appears the least nervous: there is a pleasurable excitement about everything. And we listen with intense respect to the blood-curdling reminiscences of the crew, particularly the stewards. All our cabin stewards have been torpedoed at least three times, and every single one of them was on board the Lusitania when she was sunk. The survivors of the Lusitania must be almost as numerous by this time as the original ship’s company of the Mayflower.
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