like brevity and
pointedness, delivered while we stood awkwardly at attention on the
barrack square.

"Lissen 'ere, you men! I've never saw such a raw, roun'-shouldered
batch o' rookies in fifteen years' service. Yer pasty-faced an' yer
thin-chested. Gawd 'elp 'Is Majesty if it ever lays with you to save
'im! 'Owever, we're 'ere to do wot we can with wot we got. Now, then,
upon the command, 'Form Fours,' I wanna see the even numbers tyke a pace
to the rear with the left foot, an' one to the right with the right
foot. Like so: 'One-one-two!' Platoon! Form Fours! Oh! Orful! Orful! As
y' were! As y' were!"

If there was doubt in the minds of any of us as to our rawness, it was
quickly dispelled by our platoon sergeants, regulars of long standing,
who had been left in England to assist in whipping the new armies into
shape. Naturally, they were disgruntled at this, and we offered them
such splendid opportunities for working off overcharges of spleen. We
had come to Hounslow, believing that, within a few weeks' time, we
should be fighting in France, side by side with the men of the first
British expeditionary force. Lord Kitchener had said that six months of
training, at the least, was essential. This statement we regarded as
intentionally misleading. Lord Kitchener was too shrewd a soldier to
announce his plans; but England needed men badly, immediately. After a
week of training, we should be proficient in the use of our rifles. In
addition to this, all that was needed was the ability to form fours and
march, in column of route, to the station where we should entrain for
Folkestone or Southampton, and France.

As soon as the battalion was up to strength, we were given a day of
preliminary drill before proceeding to our future training area in
Essex. It was a disillusioning experience. Equally disappointing was the
undignified display of our little skill, at Charing Cross Station, where
we performed before a large and amused London audience. For my own part,
I could scarcely wait until we were safely hidden within the train.
During the journey to Colchester, a re-enlisted Boer War veteran, from
the inaccessible heights of South African experience, enfiladed us with
a fire of sarcastic comment.

"I'm a-go'n' to transfer out o' this 'ere mob, that's wot I'm a go'n' to
do! Soldiers! S'y! I'll bet a quid they ain't a one of you ever saw a
rifle before! Soldiers? Strike me pink! Wot's Lord Kitchener a-doin' of,
that's wot I