Sec.2

On August 3, 1914, eleven months before my solemn admission into Devonport Dockyard, I was a young schoolboy on my holidays, playing tennis in a set of mixed doubles.  About five o’clock a paper-boy entered the tennis-club grounds with the Evening News.  My male opponent, although he was serving, stopped his game for a minute and bought a paper.

“Hang the paper!” called I, indifferent to the fact that the Old World was falling about our ears and England’s last day of peace was going down with the afternoon sun.  “Your service.  Love—­fifteen.”

“By Jove,” he cried, after scanning the paper, “we’re in!”

“What do you mean,” cried the girls, “have the Germans declared war on us?”

“No.  But we’ve sent an ultimatum to Germany which expires at twelve to-night.  That means Britain will be in a state of war with Germany as from midnight.”  The hand that held the paper trembled with excitement.

“How frightfully thrilling!” said one girl.

“How awful!” whispered the other.

“How ripping!” corrected I.  “Crash on with the game.  Your service.  Love—­fifteen.”

Five days later it was decided that I should not return to school, but should go at once into the army.  So it was that I never finished up in the correct style at Kensingtowe with an emotional last chapel, endless good wishes and a lump in my throat.  I just didn’t go back.

Instead, an influential friend, who knew the old Colonel of the 2nd Tenth East Cheshires, a territorial battalion of my grandfather’s regiment, secured for me and, at my request, for Doe commissions in that unit.  His Majesty the King (whom, and whose dominions, might God preserve in this grand moment of peril) had, it seemed, great faith in the loyalty and gallantry of “Our trusty and well-beloved Rupert Ray,” as also of “Our trusty and well-beloved Edgar Gray Doe,” and was pleased to accept our swords in the defence of his realm.

So one day we two trusty and well-beloved subjects, flushed, very nervous, and clad in the most expensive khaki uniforms that London could provide, took train for the North to interview the Colonel of the 2nd Tenth.  He was sitting at a littered writing-table, when we were shown in by a smart orderly.  We saw a plump old territorial Colonel, grey-haired, grey-moustached, and kindly in face.  His khaki jacket was brightened by the two South African medal ribbons; and we were so sadly fresh to things military as to wonder whether either was the V.C.  We saluted with great smartness, and hoped we had made the movement correctly:  for really, we knew very little about it.  I wasn’t sure whether we ought to salute indoors; and Doe, having politely bared his fair head on entering the office, saluted without a cap.  I blushed at my bad manners and surreptitiously removed mine.  Not knowing what to do with my hands, I put them in my pockets.  I knew that, if something didn’t happen quickly, I should start giggling.  Here in the presence of our new commanding officer I felt as I used to when I stood before the head master.