NATIONAL RESERVISTS.
"LEASE direct No. G-. 65 Private H. Willis to proceed with the least possible delay and report himself to the Officer Commanding the Depot, Boughton Barracks, Caxford, for re-enlistment in the Special Reserve. Army Form N. R. 1 herewith." Pinned to the notepaper is a drab- coloured slip, of which half, headed A. F. N. R. 1, "is to certify that the bearer, Mr. H. Willis, late 2nd Battalion East Loamahire Regiment, is a Class II. National Reservist, and was registered as such before 11th August, 1914 " ; the other half, also headed A. F. N. R. 1, makes provision for Mr Willis's signature to the effect that be has "received the sum of £10 as bounty on final approval," and this signed receipt is " to be retained by the Officer who makes the payment," and "will be accepted as evidence of the certified copy of the Order referred to in 9/Reserve/1293 (Accounts, 1 B)."
The morning's post brings a batch of perhaps half a dozen such notes and slips, and the next step is to look up the addresses of the men in the muster roll of the company ; then to sort out the addresses and make the round. In the suburbs of even a small town it is easy to be misdirected ; but after a little search the first of the addresses on the list is duly discovered, and the bearer of the note knocks at the door of a small house at the end of a small row of buildings, with a single straggling plant of perennial sunflowers serving for a garden. The door opens into a tiny room redolent of soap and water; on the table is a bundle of nicely ironed linen. Mrs. A—, who comes from the soap and water within, has evidently been expecting the summons. Her husband is at work ; he will not be in till dinner at one o'clock. Is he to go at once ? The sergeant had told him he was to go to-morrow. The alteration of time is accepted, though there is plainly a difference between to-day and to-morrow. Mrs, A— smiles cheerfully as she stands at the door and is told that the paper will be brought back to her husband at one o'clock. The next address lies a mile or so distant, and Mrs. 33—, who opens the door, is a contrast to Mrs. A—: it is not washing day, and stains take the place of starch. Her husband ? He has gone; be is at Winchester ; he went off on a sudden, and he said he would write to her. She is to get nothing while he is away ; is that true ? A lady visitor came and told her so. She is reassured on this point, we hope, wondering how any visitor could leave behind her so cruel a misunderstanding. But it is not only Mrs. B— who has misunderstood. Mrs. C—, a hundred yards down the road, in a pretty creeper-covered cottage with roses in the garden and doves in a wooden cage by the door, has been told exactly the same. Mrs. C— is broad and motherly, with hair that is still gold ; she might have sat to a sculptor for Ceres, and her blue eyes have the simplest outlook. Her husband has gone, too ; he went last Tuesday, just at short notice, and she is to have nothing while he is away. " But that can't be true really P " she asks. "Surely I am to have something ? " She, too, is reassured ; and, as a fact, both she and her neighbour did receive a remittance that same evening. But both of them, without money, had accepted the apparent fact that
no money was to come to them ; both, without complaint, looked evenly at the future.
A little lane by a mill was the next address. It is not found easily, as there are no names to the roads. At the inquiry for Mr. D— an active and talkative old lady comes obligingly to a gate to show the correct turning to take. " Ah ! I know what you've come for," she remarks briskly. " You're after sojers. There's Mr. Brown, now, he's gone for a sojer ; yes, and there's Mr. Black, him as lives in that house you'll see at the corner—well, it isn't Mr. Black as you want, but Mr. Black he's a sojer, and he'll tell you where Mr. D— lives." Mrs. D— is eventually pointed out at the end of the row, a young woman with a year-old baby in her arms. "Is it my husband that's wanted?" she asks, and an old woman with a brown enigmatic face looks up quickly from the next doorway. "It's only for home defence, isn't it ? " Mrs. D— with her baby asks again. "Now you cheer up, Mrs. D—," counsels the old woman with the brown face, and as Mrs. D— turns away inquiry is made as to her children- " Three, she's got; that little boy as has run for his father at the mill, that one in the cart here by you, and the baby you saw. Ah ! it comes bard on all of us," pronounces the slow voice ; the eyes are full of riddles. " Three sons I've got, and all serving ; one, thirty-three he is, he's in the Liverpool Regiment; another, he's in the Queen's ; and the other, he passed his twentieth birthday at sea the other day ; and I haven't heard a word from one of them since the war began. Of course, we look in the paper every day, but—." Mrs. D- ia standing smiling in the doorway : her husband, black-haired and over six feet, appears in the distance. His chief anxiety is to be assured as to the separation allowance, and the keeping open of his job; he goes back through the mill to the manager's office, tapping his paper and shouting " Class II.! I'm wanted!" to a friend minding a machine. It is clear from the manager's manner that the firm will be glad to see him back. His wife, left with one who is inquiring further as to the children, shows his South African medal in a black waist- coat pocket folded on the table. "You see, when you've got a good husband," she begins, and displays in addition his prizes and a photograph of a regimental cricket eleven.
One of the papers is marked Class I. instead of Class II., and Mr. E—, who has seen twelve years' service, is not at home. Being in Class I., he has volunteered for active service abroad, and is already at Woolwich with his battery. Mrs. E—, giving this information, explains that she is his mother. " My son, he came in the other day waving a paper.
This is number one,' he called to me, and it'll be number two very quickly.' And now he's gone ; he just said good-bye, and be didn't come back, and I'm glad he didn't, in a sense. He always wanted to finish his time, lie did, and as soon as there's a chance I'll be back again, you'll see, mum,' he said to me. It was my daughter that got him to leave the Army, and come along home with my son-in-law when he left, and be comfortable. But there ! her son's gone for a sojer now. Yes ! I'm going for a sojer, Granny,' he said to me only the other day it was. Now don't you talk nonsense,' I said to him, not meaning it in a sense. I am,' he said. There's no work to be had, and soon there'll be none at all anywhere.' And then one day he came back and told me. 'If it's fighting for one and all, you go, then,' I told him, 'and I'm proud of you.'" She was anxious to give this information, and more; she came to the door and pointed out the house of one of those on the official paper who had changed his address. The reason of the change was soon plain. A thin and shaken man wearing the South African medal came to the door. " Only just out of the hospital," he explained. " He's had the scarlet," put in his wife over his shoulder. "Yes, and I can't make out where I got it," he went on. "I only came out yesterday. Going up to the barracks to-morrow, I am. No, not by train ; I'd rather not. In the car ; it's coming for me and another."
This is the National Reserve, and none of the men are bound by any obligation except that of their own word of honour. It has proved, as we knew it would, the most binding of contracts. Could there be a finer obligation ? You have only to see the men and to talk to the women. The idea of service in the Army is in the very fibre and texture of the life of these narrow roads and lowly houses. There is no argument about right or necessity, no criticism, no complaint. The upheaval of the whole scheme of living which follows the call of the National
Reservist is accepted without question. Detail is unregarded in the face of the single, simple fact of " going." Detail remains for officialdom ; for the officers up to their eyes in papers securing certainty of pay, remittances, allowances for the dependants left behind ; for the railway clerks, occasionally unnecessarily troubled about many things that matter little. One such clerk was confronted with a form requiring the company to pass six men on their way from G— Station to the barrack town. He was told that instead of six possibly only five or four men might present themselves at the station. In that case, he observed, the form would be useless, and must be altered, with initials marking all the alterations and giving the names of all the men who would travel. But it was not possible to be certain in advance for the next day, he was told. One of the men might fail at the last moment, or might go by motor, or perhaps may even have gone already. If he had a pass for six men, could he not pass five? He could not; the five would have to remain behind; all must be initialled and in order ; the company had to get the money from the Govern- ment. "But surely, in the case of men actually joining the colours— ? " It was in vain ; officialdom was proof against argument. This kind of thing wastes time, and is no doubt exceptional. It does not matter. It is the relief to the inner, larger plot and meaning, which in the end, because of its straight simplicity, writes in English suburban streets the history of Paris and Berlin.
Perhaps some of our readers do not yet realize what the National Reserve and the way its members have met the call to arms means from the moral and patriotic point of view. At an invitation given originally by civilians, and backed with little or no enthusiasm by the Government, though we admit treated with politeness, thousands of ex-soldiers voluntarily joined the National Reserve out of pure patriotism, and pledged their honour to come up if called on. The Government had no legal claim on them and no moral claim, and the men got nothing and expected nothing. And now they make the supreme sacrifice without a murmur. The only murmuring, indeed, is among the National Reservists, men and officers, who cannot get taken. They sometimes show an indignant and critical spirit which we ought, we suppose, to censure as almost insubordinate. It is of course to be deeply regretted—and yet we doubt whether Lord Kitchener or any other officer is really very angry.
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