Pay attention, Private Jones. The
Lewis Gun, the weapon of opportunity, is a platoon in itself. _I_ don't
know what the Government want to worry about men for. The Germans don't
fill up their front trenches with a lot of soldiers to be killed with
shrapnel. No, a machine gun every twenty or thirty yards is quite enough to
hold any defensive line. So just bear these things in mind; and don't
forget what we have learnt to-day. All right. Nine o'clock to-morrow.
II.
_Physical Training Sergeant-Instructor._--Forward be--end. Ster--retch.
Be--end. Ster--retch. Feet together--place. 'Ands--down. Stan--zee. Squad
--'shun. Fingers straight, that man. Wotjer say? WOT? I can't 'elp wot the
drill-sergeant tells yer. When I sez "'Shun" I want fingers _straight
down_. On the command "Sitting--_down_" every man sits _down_ tailor-
fashion. Sitting--_down_. [_This is the position in which Swedish drill
squads hear words of wisdom._] Listen. An' look at me over there--not that
I likes the look of yer--'as to put up with that, but when I torks I wants
attention. Let me arsk yer this. Wot sort of men do we want in France? Why,
fit men.
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