SOFT JOBS
Thiswar has produced a new type of military man—so-called—to wit: the seeker after soft jobs. He flourishes in large numbers in training areas; he grows luxuriantly around head-quarters staffs, and a certain kind of hybrid—a combination of a slacker and a soldier—is to be found a few miles to the rear of the firing-line in France and Flanders. There are some of him in every rank, from the top of the tree to the bottom. If he is a natural-born soft-jobber he never leaves his training area—not even on a Cook’s tour. Should the virus be latent, he will develop an attack, acute or mild, after one tour in the trenches, or when one of our own batteries has fired a salvo close by him.
If he is affected by very mild germs he may stand a month or two in the firing-line in some sector where fighting troops are sent for a rest and re-organisation. Broadly speaking, therefore, he belongs to one of threeclasses, of which the second class is perhaps the worst.
There are some men who join the army without the least intention of ever keeping less than the breadth of the English Channel between themselves and fighting territory. Not for them the “glorious” battle-fields, not for them the sweat and toil and purgatory of fighting for their country. Nothing at all for them in fact, save a ribbon and a barless medal, good quarters, perfect safety, staff pay, weekend leave, with a few extra days thrown in as a reward for their valuable services, and—a soft job!
They are the militaresques of our armies. The men who try hard to be soldiers, and who only succeed in being soldier-like beings erect upon two legs, with all the outward semblance of a soldier. Yet eventheirlives are not safe. They run grave risks by day and by night in the service of their country.
Zeppelins!
There is an air of bustle and excitement around the officers’ quarters in the training camp to-day. Batmen—hoary-haired veterans with six ribbons, whom no M.O. could beinduced to pass for active service, even by tears—rush madly hither and thither, parleying in odd moments of Ladysmith, Kabul to Kandahar, and “swoddies.” Head-quarters look grave, tense, strained.
In the ante-room to the mess stand soda syphons and much “B. & W.” There are gathered there most of the officers of two regiments—base battalions, with permanent training staffs. In the five seats of honour recline nonchalantly two majors, one captain, and two subalterns. (O.C. Lewis gun school, O.C. nothing in particular, Assistant O.C. Lewis gun school, Assistant Assistant Lewis gun school, Deputy Assistant Adjutant.) They are smoking large, fat cigars, and consuming many drinks. Are they not the heroes of the hour? When the sun rises well into the heavens to-morrow they will set forth on a desperate journey.
They are going on a Cook’s tour of two weeks’ duration to the trenches! (So that they can have the medal!) In the morning, with bad headaches, they depart. In Boulogne they spend twelve hours of riotous life. (“Let us eat and drink,” says the O.C. nothing inparticular, “for to-morrow, dont-cher-know!”) They arrive in due course at Battalion battle H.Q. The majors have the best time, as they stay with the C.O., drink his Scotch, and do the bombing officer and the M.G.O. out of a bed.
The rest of them are right up among the companies, where they are an infernal nuisance. About 11 “pip emma” Fritz starts fire-works, and finishes up with a bombing attack on the left flank. The O.C. nothing in particular stops at B.H.Q. The O.C. Lewis gun school mistakes the first general head-quarters line (one kilometre in rear) for the front line, and goes back with shell-shock, having been in the centre of a barrage caused by one 5.9 two hundred yards north. The Assistant Assistant gets into the main bomb store in the front line, and stops there, and the Assistant O.C. Lewis gun school remains in Coy. H.Q. and looks after the batmen. The Deputy Assistant Adjutant gets out into the trench, finds some bombers doing nothing, gets hold of a couple of bombs, makes for the worst noise, and carries on as a soldier should.
After the show the O.C. nothing in particular tells the Colonel allhistheories on counter-attack, and goes sick in the morning for the remaining period of his tour; the other twain stand easy, and the Deputy Assistant Adjutant makes an application for transfer to the Battalion. Incidentally he is recommended for the military cross.
When the four previously mentioned return to England they all of them apply for better soft jobs, on the strength of recent experiences at the front. The one man who threw up his soft job to become junior subaltern in a fighting regiment is killed in the next “show” before his recommendation for a decoration has been finally approved.
Fiat justitia, ruat cœlum.