one chance in two; you may go overseas, you may not. Suppose you do.
You still have one chance in two. You may go to the front, or you may
not. If you don't, you'll see a foreign country at Uncle Sam's
expense; if you do, you'll find out about war, which is the toughest
chance of them all. But up there, you still have one chance in two:
you may get hit, or you may not. If you breeze through it, you'll be a
better man for all the rest of your life. And if you get hit, you
still have one chance in two. You may get a small wound, and become a
hero to your family and friends. Or there is always the last chance
that it may take you out altogether. And while that is a little
rugged, it is at least worth remembering that very few people seem to
get out of this life alive."

There was as simple an idea as any military instructor ever unloaded,
and yet troops cheered this man wherever he went.

Lt. Col. H. M. Hutchinson, of the British Army, already described in
this book as an instructor who made a powerful impression on the
American Army in World War I because of his droll wit, was a master
hand at taking the oblique approach to teach a lesson. Old officers
still remember the manner and the moral of passages such as this one:

"On the march back from Mons--and I may say that a very good army
sometimes must retreat, though no doubt it wounds the sensibilities to
consider it--we did rather well. But I noticed often the confusion
caused by marching slowly up one side of a hill and dashing down the
other. It is a tendency of all columns on foot.

"A captain is sitting out in front on a horse, with a hell of a great
pipe in his mouth and thinking of some girl in a cafe, and of course
he moves slowly up the hill. He comes to the top and his pace
quickens. Well, then, what happens? The taller men are at the top of
the column, and they lengthen their stride--but what becomes of Nipper
and Sandy down in the twentieth squad? Half the time, you see, they
are running to catch up. So the effect is to jam the troops together
on an upgrade and to stretch them out going down--you know--like a
concertina."

Where then is the beginning of efficiency in the art of instruction?
It resides in becoming diligent and disciplined about self-instruction.
No man can develop great power as an instructor, or learn to talk
interestingly and convincingly, until he has begun to think deeply.
And depth of thought does not come of vigorous research on an