their “patter,” and they are inclined to lay stress on the wrong syllables; but they move their squads about somehow.  Their seniors are dotted about the square, vigilant and helpful—­here prompting a rusty sergeant instructor, there unravelling a squad which, in a spirited but misguided endeavour to obey an impossible order from Second Lieutenant Bobby Little, has wound itself up into a formation closely resembling the third figure of the Lancers.

Over there, by the officers’ mess, stands the Colonel.  He is in uniform, with a streak of parti-coloured ribbon running across above his left-hand breast-pocket.  He is pleased to call himself a “dug-out.”  A fortnight ago he was fishing in the Garry, his fighting days avowedly behind him, and only the Special Reserve between him and embonpoint.  Now he finds himself pitchforked back into the Active List, at the head of a battalion eleven hundred strong.

He surveys the scene.  Well, his officers are all right.  The Second in Command has seen almost as much service as himself.  Of the four company commanders, two have been commandeered while home on leave from India, and the other two have practised the art of war in company with brother Boer.  Of the rest, there are three subalterns from the Second Battalion—­left behind, to their unspeakable woe—­and four from the O.T.C.  The juniors are very junior, but keen as mustard.

But the men!  Is it possible?  Can that awkward, shy, self-conscious mob, with scarcely an old soldier in their ranks, be pounded, within the space of a few months, into the Seventh (Service) Battalion of the Bruce and Wallace Highlanders—­one of the most famous regiments in the British Army?

The Colonel’s boyish figure stiffens.

“They’re a rough crowd,” he murmurs, “and a tough crowd:  but they’re a stout crowd.  By gad! we’ll make them a credit to the Old Regiment yet!”

II

THE DAILY GRIND

We have been in existence for more than three weeks now, and occasionally we are conscious of a throb of real life.  Squad drill is almost a thing of the past, and we work by platoons of over fifty men.  To-day our platoon once marched, in perfect step, for seven complete and giddy paces, before disintegrating into its usual formation—­namely, an advance in irregular echelon, by individuals.

Four platoons form a company, and each platoon is (or should be) led by a subaltern, acting under his company commander.  But we are very short of subalterns at present. (We are equally short of N.C.O.’s; but then you can always take a man out of the ranks and christen him sergeant, whereas there is no available source of Second Lieutenants save capricious Whitehall.) Consequently, three platoons out of four in our company are at present commanded by N.C.O.’s, two of whom appear to have retired from active service about the time that bows and arrows began to yield place to the arquebus, while the third has been picked out of the ranks simply because he possesses a loud voice and a cake of soap.  None of them has yet mastered the new drill—­it was all changed at the beginning of this year—­and the majority of the officers are in no position to correct their anachronisms.