The Outpost Vol 1 - The Royal Highland Fusiliers

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THE OUTPOST.
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No. 4. MAY. 1915.
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IT is the hour when weary nature seeks repose;
Thomas Atkins is standing at the gate
embracing his lady for the last time, while on
her shoulder he posts a wary eye for the
Orderly Corporal; the bar-tenders are
endeavouring to persuade sceptical customers
(mostly civilians) that another day will dawn
and their thirst remain; landladies are turning
the gas off at the meter; a chill wind moans
up channel, and with it comes the rain.
It is ten 0'clock.
Let us leave these gay scenes and pick our
way carefully towards the shore, avoiding
amorous couples who turn to stare at our
approach.
In the dark we gradually become aware of a
Company formed up on parade. It is silent
and menacing. One feels instinctively that
these men mean business. But for an occasional
hoarse whisper as a sergeant lovingly shows
someone how to form fours, and the dull gleam
of a lantern, it might be a phantom army.
Turn away for a moment, and la! when you
look again they are gone. At an almost
imperceptible sign from the Commander they
moved off silently and with alacrity on their
night manreuvres: .
Sleep on, little town, nor let Zeppelins or
submarines distnrb your dreams; Company
are awake!
Night M anreuvres.
BY A PRIVATE.
What, then, are' Night Manreuvres ? '
Ask your sergeant, and he will purse his lips
and look wise. (All sergeants look wise; that's
why they are chosen. I, cursed with a laughing
face never can be anything but a private.
Not for me the raptures of the Sergeants' Mess
or the round-eyed look of awe on my lady's
face.)
Ask your Platoon Commander-and you'll
be lucky if the result is no worse than an hour'S
extra drill.
I am, therefore, in the unfortunate position
of having put in a week of night manreuvres
with but the vaguest notion of what it was all
about. True, I approached my Section
Commander on the subject one night as we lay
on the hillside, but his annoyance at being
wakened rendered his views of little valne.
So far as I was able to make out, each platoon
marches by compass on a certain rendezvous,
the whereabouts of which its Commander is
perfectly familiar. Should the compass fail
to locate the desired spot, its owner reprovingly
returns it to its case. Freed from this incubus
he then marches straight for his object. Or he
may elect to follow his nose, which, unless the
treacherous instrument has led him too far
astray, should by this time readily detect the
aroma of coffee. Coffee, I should explain, is
brought out for us in a' cooker: and is the only