Now, here is the problem which has puzzled me ever since I joined
the Army, and I've had nineteen years' service. The farther away you
remove the British soldier from the risk of personal injury, the
higher you pay him. Out here, a private of the line gets about a
shilling a day. For that he digs, saps, marches, and fights like a
hero. The motor-transport driver gets six shillings a day, no danger,
and lives like a fighting cock. The Army Service Corps drive about in
motors, pinch our rations, and draw princely incomes. Staff Officers
are compensated for their comparative security by extra cash, and
first chop at the war medals. Now--why?"
"I dare say they would sooner be here, in the trenches, with us," was
Bobby's characteristic reply.
Blaikie lit his pipe--it was almost broad daylight now--and
considered.
"Yes," he agreed--"perhaps. Still, my son, I can't say I have ever
noticed Staff Officers crowding into the trenches (as they have a
perfect right to do) at four o'clock in the morning. And I can't say I
altogether blame them. In fact, if ever I do meet one performing such
a feat, I shall say: 'There goes a sahib--and a soldier!' and I shall
take off my hat to him."
"Well, get ready now," said Bobby. "Look!"
They were still standing at the trench junction. Two figures, in the
uniform of the Staff, were visible in Orchard Trench, working their
way down from the apex--picking their steps amid the tumbled sandbags,
and stooping low to avoid gaps in the ruined parapet.
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