THE RECRUITING SERGEANT ARRIVES.

Otago Witness, Issue 3244, 17 May 1916, Page 49

THE RECRUITING SERGEANT ARRIVES.

A MIRACLE AND A PROBLEM.

(By a Son of The Soil.)

The recruiting sergeant has arrived. A short time ago complaint was made in these columns that while a wave of Imperial revival and enthusiasm was sweeping over the City of Dunedin we quiet, bucolic people, segregated here in the Back o' Beyond, were left untouched by the great new revelation, curtained off from its influence and effects, as it were, by a selfish materialism that gave its days and nights to the old monotonous routine of buying and selling, of marrying and giving in marriage, of work and play, of eating and drinking, quite unconscious or unconcerned if beyond our peaceful horizon the Empire were making shipwreck and our brothers were going down in tho red tide of battle. Some there were of us who cried aloud in very agony to witness such cold and calculated apathy, such a betrayal of the noblest attributes of our British spirit. And our prayer was for some recruiting sergeant, some missionary of Empire, to come to us to rouso and stir us from our lethargy and case, and make us front squarely the realities of the situation; for in our hearts we knew that our manhood had only to realise the position to spring to the breach and take up the task winch is as much their birthright as is the proud liberty of British citizenship. Neither were we mistaken. Tho recruiting sergeant has arrived, and in a few days has wrought a change which is little short of miraculous; which also gives us the pride to hold our heads high, in the knowledge that our quiet district of Otago has done its duty, has perhaps, proportionately, done far more than its duty. THE ARRIVAL. He arrived by train, quietly and unobtrusively. There was no flourish of trumpet or rattle of drum to herald his coming. He possessed none of the paraphernalia of the stage or historic recruiting sergeant. He did not wear even the traditional coloured ribbons in his hat. When he stepped from the train you saw a smart, young, khaki-clad New Zealand soldier whose bearing had a subtle sense of experience and power about it. Later you would learn that he was a returned soldier, one who had fought through the hell of Gallipoii, and you would understand the mysterious glamour that clung to him — for he walked in the glory of the Anzacs. But glory was not his business or his theme, and he essayed the role of a twentieth century Peter the Hermit in a very modest manner, calling our men to crusade and battle in quiet, plain words that brooked no misunderstanding. He began work in the township, and worked outwards in a daily widening circle. Hie methods were quite unsensational and matter of fact. He made it his duty to see every eligible man. He talked to him quietly and seriously of the position, without any flamboyant appeals to Imperial sentiment or loyalty, told him what Britons and our Allies were doing, what Now Zealanders were doing, how they wanted his help, and then put the question, squarely and bluntly, "Will you come?" It was then tho miracle happened. THE MIRACLE. For it was a miracle. The men to whom the question was addrossed had throughout all these rod and raging months been deaf to every appeal. They had refused point blank to be removed from out tho quiet comfort of their ordered days. At best they would give a paltry subscription to some patriotic fund, after much coaxing and persuasion—and then fall back into their fieshpots again. Few of them took any interest in the war at all. They could tell if any of the looal soldiers had fallen' or boon wounded, but that was about all. It was just as if they felt that they really had no direct interest in the war beyond reaping the rich harvest for all classes which it has sent hitlierwards. To such men the recruiting sergeant's " Will you come?" broke upon their dreams of sensuous ease with the force of a cataclysm, and through the shattered fragments of their dreams they began to see the light and the reality "as through a glass darkly." The reply in nine oases out of ten was a prompt and emphatic "I will," and probably many of tho volunteers, now at last realising the true position, will regret bitterly that they did not volunteer before—wherein I shall be justified for the strictures in my previous article on the seeming callousness of youn.g men, apparently steeped to the lips in utter worldliness. The miracle wrougnt by the recruiting sergeant is this: He has breathed life into the dry bones that we thought dead beyond all hope of resuscitation. He has spoken a few words, and lo ! the patriotic zeal • of the people is immediately awake, and streams like a flame of fire across our valley. Men are now as anxious to volunteer as they have been determined hitherto not to volunteer. They press forward from shop and farm, swarming to the colours, determined that, if they aro late to arrive, their zeal and sincerity will, as far as possible, make up for lost time. This wonderful development, too, suggests a psychological problem which is difficult to determine. What is it that has converted the shirker of yesterday into the patriot of to-day? Wo believe that the whole bad business was due solely to a lack of imagination. They read about the war, but could not visualise it ; they were not given to abstract reasoning, and oould not realise the abstract questions involved, for to them the German menace seemed terms of academic rather than practical interest. Tho recruiting sergeant has given them vision, and, having seen, they spring immediately to their duty. And if any of them think they have in the past been unfairly maligned by people who despaired of ever seeing their awakening, let them ask themselves if the denunciations which have hitherto been applied to them—never again, though, will they be applied—are any too strong or too vehement for the young fellows in this district who have said "No" to the recruiting sergeant's question. They number but a few- —and it is in connection with these and their unworthy fellows throughout New Zealand that the problem arises, imperative for answer and solution. THE PROBLEM. Married men and single men have volunteered with a spirit that is both ennobling and amazing. But, of course, there are the black sheep to be found in every flock. There aro some families boasting several eligible sons who refuse absolutely to volunteer. It is useless to waste breath or ink in denunciation of such fellows. Wo know—indeed, we knew all along—how it would be

with them. And probably the Government also knew, for Governments are not the soft-hearted, soft-headed corporations they sometimes pretend to be. Some of the married men who have volunteered have four, five, or six of a family. Does the Government really propose to take such married men and leave these young unmarried men free to do as they choose, unpenalised and unreproved for their shameless repudiation of a primary duty of citizenship ? .... Apart from sentimental considerations which will suggest themselves to the man of imagination, the tragedy for the wife and children which may lie behind the enlistment of a married man, there is another aspect of the case which should give serious thought to us as a practical business people. Regarded just as a business proposition it is simply ruinous to take a married man with a family and incur the liability for that familv while single, unmarried men are available. The married men will go, and go willingly; but for the sake of economy in national finance—which must not be forgotten even now" —ho should not be taken until the unmarried eligibles are exhausted. Then will come his turn, and I am sure he will not blench at it. But to-day, as I walk along the road that leads through the township, I see the men who have volunteered, and my heart is uplifted that the dark cloud that lay so long on our patriotism has been dissolved. If my thoughts of them heretofore have been harsh and wrong, I crave their pardon, and gladly doff my hat to them all. They have done their duty, and if they but knew how proud we are of them it might perhaps be regarded as the best reward they can get—the deep esteem and love of their fellows, who bid them God-speed and would go with them if the fates permitted.