RATTLE-SNAKE PETE
Verytall, thin, and cadaverous, with a strong aquiline nose, deep-set, piercing black eyes, bushy eyebrows matching them in colour, and a heavy, fiercely waxed moustache, streaked with grey, he was a man who commanded respect, if not fear.
In spite of his sixty years he was as straight as the proverbial poker, and as “nippy on his pins” as a boy a third of his age. Two ribbons rested on his left breast—the long service ribbon and that of the North-West Rebellion. His voice was not harsh, nor was it melodious, but it could be heard a mile off and struck pure terror into the heart of the evil-doer when he heard it! Rattle-Snake Pete was, as a matter of fact, our Company Sergeant-Major.
Withering was the scorn with which he surveyed a delinquent “rooky,” while his eyes shot flame, and in the terrified imagination of the unfortunate being on whom thatfierce gaze was bent his ears seemed to curve upwards into horns, until he recalled the popular conception of Mephistopheles! We called him—when he was safely beyond hearing—Rattle-Snake Pete, but that worthy bravo was far less feared than was his namesake.
First of all, the Sergeant-Major was a real soldier, from the nails in his boots to the crown of his hat. Secondly, he was a man of strong prejudices, and keen dislikes, and, lastly, a very human, unselfish, kind-hearted man.
Discipline was his God, smartness on parade and off the greatest virtue in man, with the exception of pluck. He ruled with a rod of iron, tempered by justice, and his keenness was a thing to marvel at. At first we all hated him with a pure-souled hate. Then, as he licked us into shape, and the seeds of soldiering were sown, we began to realise that he was right, and that we were wrong—and that, after all, the only safe thing to do was to obey!
One day a man was slow in doing what his corporal told him to do. As was his habit, the S.-M. came on the scene suddenly, a lean tower of steely wrath. After he had pouredout the vials of his displeasure on the head of the erring one, he added: “I’ll make you a soldier, lad, or I’ll break your heart!” He meant it; he could do it; we knew he could, and it resulted in our company being the best in the regiment.
Shortly before we moved to France, a personage and his consort inspected us. He shook hands with Rattle-Snake, and spoke to him for several moments.
“How old are you?”
“Forty-five, Your Majesty.”
“Military age, I suppose?” queried the Personage with a kindly smile.
“Yes, sir.”
Never in his life was Rattle so happy as he was that day, and we felt rather proud of him ourselves.
OurSergeant-Major had shaken hands with the King!
Those who had stood near enough to hear what had passed achieved a temporary fame thereby, and in tent and canteen the story was told, with variations suited to the imagination of the raconteur, for days after the event.
When we moved to France Rattle-Snake Pete came with us. I think the doctor saw it would have broken his heart not to come, although at his age he certainly should not have done so. But come he did, and never will the writer forget the day Rattle pursued him into an old loft, up a broken, almost perpendicular ladder, to inquire in a voice of thunder why a certain fatigue party was minus a man.
“Come you down out of there, lad, or you’ll be for it!” And, meekly as a sucking-dove, I came!
He was wounded at the second battle of Ypres, and, according to all accounts, what he said about the Germans as he lay on that battle-field petrified the wounded around him, and was audible above the roar of bursting Jack Johnsons.
They sent him to hospital in “Blighty,” an unwilling patient, and there he has been eating out his heart ever since, in the face of adamantine medical boards.
One little incident. We were billeted in an old theatre, years ago it seems now, at Armentières. We had marched many kilometresin soaking rain that afternoon, and we were deadly weary. Rattle, though he said no word, was ill, suffering agonies from rheumatism. One could see it. Being on guard, I was able to see more than the rest, who, for the most part, slept the sleep of the tired out. One fellow was quite ill, and he tossed and turned a good deal in his sleep. Rattle was awake too, sitting in front of the dying embers in the stove, his face every now and then contorted with pain. Often he would go over to the sick man and arrange his bed for him as gently as a woman. Then he himself lay down. The sick man awoke, and I heard his teeth chatter. “Cold, lad?” said a deep voice near by. “Yes, bitter cold.” The old S.-M. got up, took his own blanket and put it over the sick man. Thereafter he sat until the dawn broke on a rickety chair in front of the dead fire.