The lukewarm soldier and the pink-tea hero, who simply
wanted to swank in a uniform, were effectually choked off. It was a
test of pluck, even more than of strength or intelligence--the same
test that a man would be subjected to all the time at the Front. In a
word it sorted out the fellows who had "guts."
"Guts" isn't a particularly polite word, but I have come increasingly
to appreciate its splendid significance. The possessor of this much
coveted quality is the kind of idiot who,
"When his legs are smitten off
Will fight upon his stumps."
The Tommies, whom we were going to command, would be like that; if we
weren't like it, we wouldn't be any good as officers. This Artillery
School had a violent way of sifting out a man's moral worth; you
hadn't much conceit left by the end of it. I had not felt myself so
paltry since the day when I was left at my first boarding-school in
knickerbockers.
After one had qualified and been appointed to a battery, there was
still difficulty in getting to England. I was lucky, and went over
early with a draft of officers who had been cabled for as
reinforcements. I had been in England a bare three weeks when my name
was posted as due to go to France.
How did I feel? Nervous, of course, but also intensely eager. I may
have been afraid of wounds and death--I don't remember; I was
certainly nothing like as afraid as I had been before I wore
uniform. My chief fear was that I would be afraid and might show
it.
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