FIVE MINUTES WITH THE KING.

Taranaki Herald, Volume LXVI, Issue 16303, 2 December 1918, Page 3

FIVE MINUTES WITH THE KING.

“Investiture, sir?” “Yes,” I replied. This was the greeting I had from the impassive policeman on duty at the Palace gates, writes “Gunner” in the “Daily Express.” “Pass right through, and leave by the other gate,’ he shouted to my taxi driver, and 30 seconds later I was deposited at the entrance hail of the Palace. An usher took possession of my friends, and another asked, “What decoration, sir?” “Military Cross,” I replied. “Down this corridor and enter the large anteroom on your right,” was his next remark. There I found a very blase staff captain, who fired off a couple of rapid questions. “Name, please Regiment? Thanks,’' and I joined the waiting crowd in the room. The room gradually filled. About half an hour passed, and then a certain well-known general entered, and gave us a few words of advice. We fell in as our names were called out, and filed out of the room foito the entrance hall again. There we met other parties, all converging towards the doors— V.C.’s, D.S.O.’s, several Tommies for rank and file decorations, and lastly, a few nurses. “1 say,” remarked my neighbour, do you see Nurse —— ?” “Yes,” I replied. “Wonderful little woman,’ he continued. “When the hospital at Was bombed,” etc. Here followed a narrative that made me wonder what I was getting an M.C. for. The band struck up God Save the King, and we knew that his Majesty had taken up his place on the dais. A few seconds later a burst of clapping and cheering announced the fact that a certain little sergeant had been awarded his V.C. All, this time we were moving at a snail’s pace towards the quadrangle, everybody whispering to his neighbour or nervously silent. A subaltern in our queue, recognising a friend in a major nearby asked what he was getting. “D. 5.0.,” came the. reply. “Change with you,” says our irrepressible sub. “Righto,” answers the major. “I never did like the D.S.O. ribbon; does not harmonise with a khaki colour scheme.” “I hope I don’t lose my head,” says the captain in front of me, “and give his Majesty my cloakroom ticket when he hands me my gong.” So the humorous bantqr went on. until we found ourselves iii the quadrangle and “eyes front.” After five minutes’ shuffling I found myself at the foot of the ramp leading to the raised platform on which the King stood. “Lieutenant , Royal , the Miltary Gross,” announced the stentorian voice of a staff “wallah.” ' I tried mentally and physically to pull myself together, took a few paces forward until I saw a white line, halted, turned left, and gave what I hoped was the smartest salute of my life, and faced—his Majesty. What a jellyfish I felt. His Majesty turned to the general in attendance to be handed a bright new Cross Two impressions stand out very vividly iu my mind. One, that the white line upon which I stood was very regular and well painted, and the other, that the noise made by the ■ knocking of my knees must surely be heard above that of the band outside. Then the King spoke, and whether it was the influence of those kindly eyes or the reassuring smile, I know not, but my temperature was nearer the normal than it had been for two hours. “How long have you held a commission?” “How long were you iu the ranks?” Nothing escapes the keen eye of our King. He had spotted the ribbon given me when in the ranks, and that was sufficient. “Have you been in France all the while?” “What gun are you on?” glancing at my cap badge. “Very useful weapon, 1 hear.” Then of course, I could have talked to him for hours.

A rapid pinning of the Cross follows, a hearty shako of the hand, and you hear “I’m very pleased to present you with the M.C.” Another salute, right turn, and you walk away, feeling that having met him for the first time in your life, you now know your‘King much bettor than cinema or daily paper could ever have hoped to teach you. You walk back into the palace; an usher unpins your medal, places it in a case, and hands it to you with your stick. Out again and into the quadrangle, feeling that you have passed one of life’s sign posts. A few more presentations, God Save the King, and Ids Majesty walks back into the palace. Your greatest ordeal, however, is to come. “Oh! do please show mo the Cross.” “What did the King say to you?” “Oh, do tell us what you got it for?” That is the last straw. “Well,” you say, “there was a basketful of them, and I grabbed before they all went.”