NEW BRITISH TROOPS

Greymouth Evening Star, 30 October 1933, Page 3

NEW BRITISH TROOPS

MEN MORE REFINED “Britain’s New Model Army,” which has been engaged in manoeuvres mi Salisbury Plain, is described in an article by a special correspondent of the “Morning Post” who served in the Great War. “Well, gentlemen, you know the story of this war. After the battle of the last three days of August, Brownland began a general retirement and advanced guards of Whitechapel were in touch with them along a line between Southampton and Shipton Bellinger. The position now is The Staff Colonel turned to a generous map of Salisbury Plain, and the spectators had leaned forward like an obedient class. On my right was an officer from France; next to him a spruce observer from Italy; a shoulder badge with an eagle showed the United States was represented; and sitting opposite was a student of war from Japan. The assorted guests at Higher Training, 1933, or, more briefly, “The Manoeuvres,” came to attention. Brownland, as far as a layman could guess, were in for a thin time. The cardboard markers and bits of explanatory wool showed their sun was setting. The probable course of campaign was revealed. There was a great deal about cavalry, close reconnaissance, tanks, and crossing the Avon. Was everything clear? The visitors made scratches on pocket maps and assented. As they filed out on to the parched and shimmering Plain our instructor called—“ And please, gentlemen, do not congregate and give the show away before the advertised hours of starting.”

The battle in unprofessional eyes appeared a little illusory—for what is war without whizzbangs and plum and apple jam?—but I longed to hear more about the troops who were conducting it. On the way to G.H.Q. I had heard queer rumours about our New Model Army, such as that beer and swearwords were out of fashion, and that sergeant-majors had been 'seen to smile.

“MUCH THE SAME.” Unquestionably some troops I met on the road wore their caps at a very proper angle; so instead of hurrying up the line I paused to interrogate the Staff. “The average soldier? ‘ He’s much the same,” said a grizzled commander, who had the Mons Star. “But probably fitter —keener on game's, you know; and certainly more intelligent. He has to be. No, not so much beer as in the old days. But they’re dreadful fellows for tea, drink it at all hours in pailfuls.” “Do they still grouse?” I asked hopefully. “They do.” “And do you really think we can win the next war on tea and teaCcjlvCS “We trust there won’t be another war,” replied the Staff. Which was a tactful answer. It must not be thought the whole or Salisbury Plain is a stricken field. Not far from where the New Zealanders cut out their Kiwi on the hillside (it is still kept piously clean) a few men remain peacefully inside the permanent camps. Over one of these the gay flag of the N.A.A.F.I. canteen was floating. The interior was just the same — the long tables and forms, one or two sentimental picture's hanging up, _ a few off duty men luxuriating in shirt sleeves, and at the far end piles of rock cakes, apples, biscuits, soap, tooth-paste, and tinned fruit. For a moment all was comforting and familiar. And then I read the two notices.

They were attached to a line drawn taut above the counter, one to the right and one to the left. And one notice said:

TEA QUEUE. And the other: LEMONADE QUEUE. The Army of to-day is all wrong. As soon as I was in range of the placard on the right a fellow in a white coat planked down a cup of tea. I hurriedly moved aside. “Well, what do you want?” he demanded when I was equi-distant between the notices. “Tea or coffee?”

I bought him off with a packet of cigarettes. “Yes, they still smoke,” he told me, and fetched an indent. The order for Woodbines topped the list. That was something. But the tea urn on the counter seemed to me to enclose the ashes of old soldiers.

“In 1927.” whispered the barman or teapourer, “we had three men serving drinks and one chap refreshments. But Ao-day it’s the other way round.” “Do they eat anything?” I muttered.

“Chocolate and plain cakes,” hissed the barman, “and lots of fruit.” “I haven’t seen a crown and anchor board for years,” he went on “or a. pontoon school. They only play ‘Housey Housey.’ ” “The Army is more refined,” I suggested.

“Less horseplay,” he agreed. “Can they swear?” I asked cautious-

The barman considered. “Not,” he said at last, “'so rich.”

Wandering down the lines of huts I thought the faces compared with the old days were more thoughtful, cut finer. The difference is conveyed by saying that now we have an Army of racehorses instead of carthorses —<a better breed, no doubt, but slighter. Since the war-time camps have become fixtures, there have been considerable attempts at horticulture. Many of the flower borders, in spite of the drought, were highly creditable. Yet when I caught a youthful private earnestly watering a bed of antirrhinums which the afternoon had left in the shade, somehow it seemed distinctly odd.