Punch/Volume 147/Issue 3831/The Last Line
At last! We are "recognised" by the War Office! Our months of toil are not to go unrewarded. Two hours every evening at the end of an ordinary civilian day's work, all Saturday afternoon and the whole of Sunday, we have given these up cheerfully, supported by the hope of ultimate recognition. And now it is come!
The terms of the War Office are generous. They are these. Provided that we buy our own rifles and equipment and continue to pay our own training expenses; provided that we use no military terms and make no attempt to wear any clothing which may look to the Germans at all like a soldier's uniform; provided that the War Office is at perfect liberty to employ upon those of us within the age-limits a conscription for whole-time service which it has no intention of employing upon the more patriotic man who spends his week-ends playing golf; these provisions complied with, we—are allowed to go on living!
That startles you? I thought it would. You looked down upon us. Recognition, you told yourself, would only mean that we were immediately to be employed as waterproof sheeting for the new huts or concrete foundations for the new guns. Aha! Now you wish you had joined us. We are allowed to go on living!
But I was forgetting. The War Office is being even more generous than that. In return for our not bothering them any more, it will allow us to wear (and pay for) a small red armlet with "G.R." on it; the red colour, I suppose, informing the Germans that we have just been vaccinated, and the "G.R." ("got rash") warning them that the left arm is irritable.
James is annoyed about it. This is silly of him. As I point out, our soldiers have already earned a reputation abroad for gaiety and high spirits, and it is all to the good that the War Office should show that it has a sense of humour equally keen. When the invasion comes, and music-halls, cinemas and football matches are closed down, the amusement of the country (as the War Office has foreseen) will depend entirely upon us. Let us, then, obey rigidly the seven commandments of "recognition" and see how funny we can be.
For instance:—
At Headquarters.
[The Brigadier and the Adjutant—I bed pardon (don't shoot)—Father and Father's Help are discovered in conversation.]
Father (explaining orders). The Battalion will advance to-morrow towards Harwich, where the enemy—
Father's Help. Excuse me, Sir, but isn't that rather too military? How would this do?—"The brethren will walk out towards Harwich to-morrow, where the Band of Hope from another parish has already assembled."
In the Field.
Churchwarden Jones. Advance in half-pew rushes from the right!
Sidesman Tomkins. No. 1 half-pew, advance... At the congregation in front at a thousand yards.
Parishioner Brown (to his neighbour). I say, how many bullets have you brought with you?
Parishioner Smith. Fifteen. Fact is, I'm jolly hard up just now. Emily's been ill again, and one thing and another... I did have twenty, but the baby swallowed two... You might lend me some, old man. I promise to pay you back at the end of the month.
Parishioner Brown. I'll lend you a couple, but that's really all I can spare... Look at Boko swanking away like a bally millionaire. That's his tenth shot this afternoon. Fairly chucking his money about.
Parishioner Robinson. I'll give you a hundred cartridges in exchange for your bayonet if you like. Sickening the Germans coming just now; it's my birthday next week and I'd been practically promised one by Aunt Sarah.
In Another Part of the Field.
Elder Perks, C.B. (that is to say, "completely bald"). Wht the blank blanket do those blanks think they're doing?
Lay-Helper Snooks. I beg your pardon, Sir, for reminding you, but military terms are not allowed to be used.
Elder Perks. Quite right, Snooks; I forgot myself. Kindly request the organist to sound the Assemble. Those naughty lads are running in the wrong direction.
At the German Headquarters.
German Officer (to prisoner). You are a civilian and you are caught bearing arms. Have you anything to offer in your defence?
Prisoner. Civilian be blowed! I'm recognised by the War Office. Look at my——— Oh lor, it's come off again!
German Officer. Well?
Prisoner. I know appearances are against me, but———
German Officer. What is your rank?
Prisoner. Er—Chairman of the Committee.
German Officer. I thought so. (To Sergeant) Take him away and shoot him. (To Prisoner) Any last message you wish to leave will be delivered.
Prisoner (drawing himself up nobly). Tell my wife not to mourn me. Tell her that I die happy (his voice breaks for a moment) knowing that my death (with deep emotion) is—technically—(a happy smile illuminates his face) an illegal one.
*****
And so I tell James not to worry. If the worst befalls him—and all the time when I was writing "prisoner" above I seemed to see James in that position—if the worst befalls him, his partner will at least be able to bring an action against somebody. For we are not "civilians." We are—well, I don't quite know what we are.