His imagination becomes intrigued by the
immensity of the stakes for which he plays. Any physical calamity
which may happen to himself becomes trifling when compared with the
disgrace he would bring upon his regiment if he were not courageous.
A few months ago I was handing over a battery-position in a fairly
warm place. The major, who came up to take over from me, brought with
him a subaltern and just enough men to run the guns. Within
half-an-hour of their arrival, a stray shell came over and caught the
subaltern and five of the gun-detachment. It was plain at once that
the subaltern was dying--his name must have been written on the shell,
as we say in France. We got a stretcher and made all haste to rush him
out to a dressing-station. Just as he was leaving, he asked to speak
with his major. "I'm so sorry, sir; I didn't mean to get wounded," he
whispered. The last word he sent back from the dressing-station where
he died, was, "Tell the major, I didn't mean to do it." That's
discipline. He didn't think of himself; all he thought of was that his
major would be left short-handed.
Here's another story, illustrating how mercilessly discipline can
restore a man to his higher self. Last spring, the night before an
attack, a man was brought into a battalion headquarters dug-out, under
arrest. The adjutant and Colonel were busy attending to the last
details of their preparations. The adjutant looked up irritably,
"What is it?"
The N.
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