IV THE BELOVED CAPTAIN: Difference between revisions
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smile. Anyway, in that faith let me die, if death should come | smile. Anyway, in that faith let me die, if death should come | ||
my way; and so, I think, shall I die content. | my way; and so, I think, shall I die content. | ||
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Latest revision as of 09:22, 18 September 2008
THE BELOVED CAPTAIN
HE came in the early days, when we were still at recruit drills
under the hot September sun. Tall, erect, smiling: so we first
saw him, and so he remained to the end. At the start he knew as
little of soldiering as we did. He used to watch us being drilled
by the sergeant; but his manner of watching was peculiarly his
own. He never looked bored. He was learning just as much as we
were, in fact more. He was learning his job, and from the first
he saw that his job was more than to give the correct orders.
His job was to lead us. So he watched, and noted many things,
and never found the time hang heavy on his hands. He watched our
evolutions, so as to learn the correct orders; he watched for
the right manner of command, the manner which secured the most
prompt response to an order; and he watched every one of us for
our individual characteristics. We were his men. Already he took
an almost paternal interest in us. He noted the men who tried
hard, but were naturally slow and awkward. He distinguished them
from those who were inattentive and bored. He marked down the
keen and efficient amongst us. Most of all he studied those who
were subject to moods, who were sulky one day and willing the
next. These were the ones who were to turn the scale. If only
he could get these on his side, the battle would be won.
For a few days he just watched. Then he started work. He picked
out some of the most awkward ones, and, accompanied by a corporal,
marched them away by themselves. Ingenuously he explained that
he did not know much himself yet; but he thought that they might
get on better if they drilled by themselves a bit, and that if
he helped them, and they helped him, they would soon learn. His
confidence was infectious. He looked at them, and they looked
at him, and the men pulled themselves together and determined
to do their best. Their best surprised themselves. His patience
was inexhaustible. His simplicity could not fail to be understood.
His keenness and optimism carried all with them. Very soon the
awkward squad found themselves awkward no longer; and soon after
that they ceased to be a squad, and went back to the platoon.
Then he started to drill the platoon, with the sergeant standing
by to point out his mistakes. Of course he made mistakes, and
when that happened he never minded admitting it. He would explain
what mistakes he had made, and try again. The result was that
we began to take almost as much interest and pride in his progress
as he did in ours. We were his men, and he was our leader. We
felt that he was a credit to us, and we resolved to be a credit
to him. There was a bond of mutual confidence and affection between
us, which grew stronger and stronger as the months passed. He
had a smile for almost everyone; but we thought that he had a
different smile for us. We looked for it, and were never disappointed.
On parade, as long as we were trying, his smile encouraged us.
Off parade, if we passed him and saluted, his eyes looked straight
into our own, and his smile greeted us. It was a wonderful thing,
that smile of his. It was something worth living for, and worth
working for. It bucked one up when one was bored or tired. It
seemed to make one look at things from a different point of view,
a finer point of view, his point of view. There was nothing feeble
or weak about it. It was not monotonous like the smile of "Sunny
Jim." It meant something. It meant that we were his men,
and that he was proud of us, and sure that we were going to do
jolly well---better than any of the other platoons. And it made
us determine that we would. When we failed him, when he was disappointed
in us, he did not smile. He did not rage or curse. He just looked
disappointed, and that made us feel far more savage with ourselves
than any amount of swearing would have done. He made us feel that
we were not playing the game by him. It was not what he said.
He was never very good at talking. It was just how he looked.
And his look of displeasure and disappointment was a thing that
we would do anything to avoid. The fact was that he had won his
way into our affections. We loved him. And there isn't anything
stronger than love, when all's said and done.
He was good to look on. He was big and tall, and held himself
upright. His eyes looked his own height. He moved with the grace
of an athlete. His skin was tanned by a wholesome outdoor life,
and his eyes were clear and wide open. Physically he was a prince
among men. We used to notice, as we marched along the road and
passed other officers, that they always looked pleased to see
him. They greeted him with a cordiality which was reserved for
him. Even the general seemed to have singled him out, and cast
an eye of special approval upon him. Somehow, gentle though he
was, he was never familiar. He had a kind of innate nobility which
marked him out as above us. He was not democratic. He was rather
the justification for aristocracy. We all knew instinctively that
he was our superior---a man of finer temper than ourselves, a
"toff" in his own right. I suppose that that was why
he could be so humble without loss of dignity. For he was humble
too, if that is the right word, and I think it is. No trouble
of ours was too small for him to attend to. When we started route
marches, for instance, and our feet were blistered and sore, as
they often were at first, you would have thought that they were
his own feet from the trouble he took. Of course after the march
there was always an inspection of feet. That is the routine. But
with him it was no mere routine. He came into our rooms, and if
anyone had a sore foot he would kneel down on the floor and look
at it as carefully as if he had been a doctor. Then he would prescribe,
and the remedies were ready at hand, being borne by the sergeant.
If a blister had to be lanced he would very likely lance it himself
there and then, so as to make sure that it was done with a clean
needle and that no dirt was allowed to get in. There was no affectation
about this, no striving after effect. It was simply that he felt
that our feet were pretty important, and that he knew that we
were pretty careless. So he thought it best at the start to see
to the matter himself. Nevertheless, there was in our eyes something
almost religious about this care for our feet. It seemed to have
a touch of the Christ about it, and we loved and honored him the
more.
We knew that we should lose him. For one thing, we knew that
he would be promoted. It was our great hope that some day he would
command the company. Also we knew that he would be killed. He
was so amazingly unself-conscious. For that reason we knew that
he would be absolutely fearless. He would be so keen on the job
in hand, and so anxious for his men, that he would forget about
his own danger. So it proved. He was a captain when we went out
to the front. Whenever there was a tiresome job to be done, he
was there in charge. If ever there were a moment of danger, he
was on the spot. If there were any particular part of the line
where the shells were falling faster or the bombs dropping more
thickly than in other parts, he was in it. It was not that he
was conceited and imagined himself indispensable. It was just
that he was so keen that the men should do their best, and act
worthily of the regiment. He knew that fellows hated turning out
at night for fatigue, when they were in a "rest camp."
He knew how tiresome the long march there and back and the digging
in the dark for an unknown purpose were. He knew that fellows
would be inclined to grouse and shirk, so he thought that it was
up to him to go and show them that he thought it was a job worth
doing. And the fact that he was there put a new complexion on
the matter altogether. No one would shirk if he were there. No
one would grumble so much, either. What was good enough for him
was good enough for us. If it were not too much trouble for him
to turn out, it was not too much trouble for us. He knew, too,
how trying to the nerves it is to sit in a trench and be shelled.
He knew what a temptation there is to move a bit farther down
the trench and herd together in a bunch at what seems the safest
end. He knew, too, the folly of it., and that it was not the thing
to do--not done in the best regiments. So he went along to see
that it did not happen, to see that the men stuck to their posts,
and conquered their nerves. And as soon as we saw him, we forgot
our own anxiety. It was: "Move a bit farther down., sir.
We are all right here; but don't you go exposing of yourself."
We didn't matter. We knew it then. We were just the rank and file,
bound to take risks. The company would get along all right without
us. But the captain, how was the company to get on without him?
To see him was to catch his point of view, to forget our personal
anxieties, and only to think of the company, and the regiment,
and honor.
There was not one of us but would gladly have died for him.
We longed for the chance to show him that. We weren't heroes.
We never dreamed about the V. C. But to save the captain we would
have earned it ten times over, and never have cared a button whether
we got it or not. We never got the chance, worse luck. It was
all the other way. We were holding some trenches which were about
as unhealthy as trenches could be. The Bosches were only a few
yards away, and were well supplied with trench mortars. We hadn't
got any at that time. Bombs and air torpedoes were dropping round
us all day. Of course the captain was there. It seemed as if he
could not keep away. A torpedo fell into the trench, and buried
some of our chaps. The fellows next to them ran to dig them out.
Of course he was one of the first. Then came another torpedo in
the same place. That was the end.
But he lives. Somehow he lives. And we who knew him do not
forget. We feel his eyes on us. We still work for that wonderful
smile of his. There are not many of the old lot left now; but
I think that those who went West have seen him. When they got
to the other side I think they were met. Someone said: "Well
done, good and faithful servant." And as they knelt before
that gracious pierced Figure, I reckon they saw nearby the captain's
smile. Anyway, in that faith let me die, if death should come
my way; and so, I think, shall I die content.