ely, 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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