--not that
I likes the look of yer--'as to put up with that, but when I torks I wants
attention. Let me arsk yer this. Wot sort of men do we want in France? Why,
fit men. 'Ow do yer get fit? _I_ makes yer fit. 'Ow? Why, physical. Wot's
the good of a bloke in the trenches if he's sick parade every bloomin' day?
Arsk any of the serjents who is it wakes blokes up and makes 'em live men?
_Me._ In about six weeks you will be able to run ten miles before brekfast
in full marchin' order, carryin' 120 rounds, gettin' over six-foot walls
and jumpin' eight-foot ditches. Don't look _frightened_, Private West. I
'ave seen weedier and uglier-lookin' blokes than you do it when _I_'ve done
with 'em. One more thing....

III.

_Musketry Officer._--... Therefore you see an infantry soldier has one
weapon and one only--the _rifle_. You fellows will be out at the Front
pretty soon. Now, if a man gets up the line, no matter how strong he is,
how well drilled, if he can't use his rifle he might just as well not be
there for all the good he is to his country. All the money that's been
spent on his trainin', food, clothin'--absolutely wasted; might as well
have been thrown into the sea. Why, the other day a party of our fellows
were heavin' bombs at about twenty Bosches--threw _hundreds_; couldn't
reach 'em. And _one_ sniper went out and killed the lot in two minutes. And
so ...

IV.

_Sergeant-Instructor of Bayonet-Fighting._--On guard. Long point. Withdraw.
On guard. Rest. Now, when I snap my fingers I want to see you come to the
high port and get roun' me _like lightning_. Some of you men seem to be
treatin' this bizness in a light-'earted way. We don't do _this_ work to
prevent you gettin' into mischief. Not much. Wotjer join the army for? To
fight. Right. I shows yer how to fight. 'Ow many Fritzes jer think I've
killed, by teachin' rookies the proper use of the baynit? This is _the
goods_. 'Ow are we goin' to win this bloomin' war? With the rifle? No. With
bombs? No. With machine guns? No. 'Ow then? By turnin' 'em out with the
baynit. Cold steel. That's it. An' I'll show yer where to pop it in, me
lads--three inches of it. That's all you want--three inches ... (_For sheer
bloodthirstiness there is no patter like that of the Bayonet Department._)

V.

_Bombing Officer._--Sit down. Smoke if you want to--and listen. My job is
to teach you fellers all about what has turned out to be of the highest
importance in this trench warfare, nam