Following the First World War, many tried their hands at literary pursuits, from the well-known war poets to others who wrote the stories of their service. Following these better known examples, there were also some who tried to fill in every imaginable niche, penning works of interest for those with a lingering interest in understanding the late war and its soldiers. One of these was John Hay, with his volume "Humour in the Army" (pub. by Hazell, Warson & Viney, Ltd., 1931).

From "Humour in the Army" we get this advice on identifying officers out of uniform in order to salute them:

The order that a soldier should salute all officers whom he knows to be such, whether in uniform or plain clothes, is one that gives a good deal of trouble to the ordinary soldier. Unfortunately, unless he has a good memory for faces, he is very liable to omit to salute Captain Ironbrace, who has come out in a dirty flannel suit, while on the other hand he may give a seven-horsepower salute to a smartly dressed individual who turns out to be the colonel's batman on leave or the assistant in the regimental barber's shop.

Posted by regimentalrogue at 12:01 AM EDT

Updated: Wednesday, 5 June 2013 10:15 AM EDT

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"Well, if you knows of a better 'ole, go to it." A cartoon by Capt Bruce Bairnsfather, from Fragments From France, published by The Bystander.

Billets and Batmen; Being a Few Reminiscences of the Lighter Side of War (Excerpts)

By "Nobby"

Published in the Canadian Defence Quarterly, Vol. XI, No. 1, October, 1933

…it was not until I went to France that I was taken charge of by Bill. He was an time-expired R.E. who was homesteading in Canada when the war started, and although well over fifty, he had lied his way back into the Army. But though the spirit was willing, his feet let him down and so he became a bright particular star in the Corps of Batmen. He was a fine, upstanding old chap of over six feet, with a complexion that was the co-operative achievement of Indian suns and British beer, and the typical huge drooping moustache of the old army.

So long as I was on this cushy job Bill was quite content to remain in billets, but if I had a re reconnaissance to make or some front line wire to put up, he would contrive to get my runner, who was quite a youngster, out of the way when I wanted him, and would turn up himself with a rifle slung over his shoulder.

"Where's Tompkins," I would enquire.

"I sent 'im down for rations" (or something else) "sir, so I'll come along myself."

During the following summer, we had just come out of the line for the usual alleged rest, when a full parade was ordered, as the G.O.C. in C. was coming to look us over. It happened that by reason of leave and casualties, I was acting as second-in-command of the company and therefore in charge of the mounted section. So I went into conference with Bill …

"I'll have to look pretty posh tomorrow, Bill, because the G.O.C. is going to inspect us."

"All right, Sir, you just leave it to me," said he, "I'll 'ave yer lookin' like a bleedin' rainbow."

And so he did. I positively glittered. I learned later that he had taken my charge from the lines the night before and kept it in his billet with him until the parade the next day. the mare' coat was something to admire, Bill having spent most of the night polishing her up with by best, and only, silk handkerchief, while in place of the steel bit and stirrups, these were nickel plated, borrowed (?) from some Artillery lines a mile or so away.

It was Bill's habit, when we moved out to rest, to make a reconnaissance of the village. In the evening he would come to me, ostensibly to see if my billet was to my liking.

"Got a spare water bottle, Sir?" he would ask.

"What for, Bill?"

"Well, Sir, I've 'eard as 'ow there's a good drop of beer to be 'ad in this 'ere village, and I thogh p'raps you'd like to try it."

"All right, Bill, how much?"

"Well, Sir, wot about ten francs?"

Now ten francs would buy nearly all the beer in the village, but I guess that was what Bill had in mind.

Anyway, presently he would depart with several water bottles slung around him, to return later in a cheerful frame of mind, but he would never forget to deliver my beer to me.

Posted by regimentalrogue at 12:01 AM EDT

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Stories abound of generals who, when inspecting units under their command, fall into the habit of always looking at the same items to check attention to detail and overall efficiency. They seldom realize that they become known by these very personal inspection expectations, or how focused units might become on satisfying these singular points of interest with lesser regard to the big picture that is seemingly overlooked. From the New "Punch" Library, a 20 volume set of books published in 1935 with the cartoons and excerpts from Punch magazine from 1900 onwards, is a delightful volume titled "Mr. Punch and the Services." Within its pages, we find this tale of an inspecting Brigadier and his personal bugbear:

The Door that was Locked

The trouble with our Brigadier is that his early training was neglected by a too fond mother or too lazy nurse, and we have to duffer for it. There is no doubt whatsoever that as a small boy he used to throw himself on the ground and howl with rage every time he was baulked; and the passage of fifty years has not altered his character to any marked degree; he has broken himself of the habit of throwing himself on the floor, but he still howls at the top of his voice if thwarted, and attempts to sooth him merely cause him to yell louder.

Like all Generals who duty it is to inspect battalions, he has his pet "stunts" and anathemas; and it has long been accepted a the first duty of Commanding Officers and Adjutants that they should make themselves acquainted with the speciality of the Brigadier immediately they arrive at a new station. The little points in question are nearly always something absurdly trivial; such as the carrying of a spare pair of bootlaces by all ranks or the complete absence of cobwebs in barracks, and the really efficient adjutant knows that there is only one thing worse than every man on parade being deficient in spare bootlaces, and that is for every man at once to produce from an accessible part of his clothing these necessary adjuncts to his footwear. To do this is to rob the tiger of his prey, and is always regarded as silent insolence. It must be borne in mind that the Brigadier has got up early that morning to fulminate over at least one man deficient in laces, and to deprive him of this pleasure is merely asking for it; so let him have one deficiency or one small cobweb as the case may be for your sake and everybody else's.

Out Brigadier's pet aversion is a locked door. It seems that in the early days of his inspecting career he came across a locked door adjoining the sergeant-major's bunk and demanded the key. This was found after a long search and much protestation, and on opening the door the Brigadier was richly rewarded, for the room was a masterpiece. It was filled with every conceivable form of insult, from dirty clothes to rusty rifles, and on top of a disgraceful bed was a bull-terrier with a little of pups. There was an historic scene—the Colonel was retired, the Second-in-Command passed over and the Adjutant went to the other battalion in Shanghai; and since then our Brigadier has had one idea in his head and only one—every battalion has a locked door and behind it corruption unspeakable. He is so intent on finding one that he will overlook everything else during his quest; and the secret of success during an inspection is t see that he discovers one with just a taste of disorder in the room—a mere rub of garlic around the bowl.

We were inspected last week, and there is a nervous restrained attitude about everyone, for no one knows what the future holds. In the first place it must be understood that our barracks were built in the days of the Peninsular War, and to make them habitable the Works Department have added and pulled down bits at various times, so that the original lay-out of the buildings has been lost entirely, and the natural appearance is an untidy one. This is not exactly our fault, but our Brigadier is quite capable of holding the Commanding Officer responsible for what happened in 1812 if he is in the wrong mood.

Our Adjutant had arranged everything for a most successful inspection—minor details like drill and kit inspection, reserve ammunition, and Quartermaster's stores were beyond reproach, and the most important point—the locked door—had been most carefully staged. It was that of a small room in "D" Company's block, and the furnishing of it lacked no detail. It was spotlessly clean and swept, it contained a tiny bed, a table, a chair and well-oiled rifle. For a moment the Adjutant had thought the rifle might be a trifle rusty, but decided this would be too drastic, and had finally selected a cigarette-end lying on the table as just that little touch of disorder to give the Brigadier entire satisfaction—the olive in the cocktail, as it were.

Everything went swimmingly till we arrived at "C" Company's rooms, and then the Brigadier, somewhat nettled at having been baulked for so long in a barracks that seemed to be all doors, stalked on ahead and rattled the handle of the door at the far end—and it was locked!

"How often have I said that every door in the barracks must be open when I inspect?" he roared, "Open it at once!"

"But Sir——," began the Commanding Officer.

"Don't argue with me, Sir!" yelled the Brigadier, hammering on the door with his stick. "Open it at once. Fetch the key! Who's got it? Send for the Armourer-Sergeant!"

"But Sir," interposed the Adjutant, "There is no key."

"Don't answer me, Sir. Every door has a key!" yelled the Brigadier. "fetch the Armourer-Sergeant and break it down at once."

The Armourer-Sergeant having been produced got busy with screw-driver and brace-bit till suddenly the door creaked on its hinges and moved slightly in a cloud of dust and plaster. The Brigadier, intent on being the first to view the disorder he counted on finding inside, pushed his way to the front. The door creaked again and suddenly swung open; the Brigadier stepped forward into a blaze of sunshine and disappeared completely from view. Looking out over the threshold of the door, closed for some forty years, we saw him lying twenty feet below in Sergeant-Major Bartlett's lettuce-bed, the bright green of the plants contrasting delightfully with his purple face.

Posted by regimentalrogue at 12:01 AM EDT

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The following is a Bairnsfather comic from the Bystander's "Fragments from France." Captain Bruce Bairnsfather was one of the most famous British cartoonists of the First World War, capturing many aspects of trench life in his drawings of "Old Bill" and other stereotypical characters of the Great War.

Besides being featured in the "Fragments from France" booklets, Bairnsfather also wrote and illustrated two books reflecting on his service in the Great War: "From Mud to Mufti" and "Bullets and Billets."

Posted by regimentalrogue at 12:01 AM EST

Updated: Friday, 12 April 2013 3:29 PM EDT

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