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Smithy, Nobby & Co. - ebook
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Smithy, Nobby & Co. - ebook
Between 1904 and 1918 Edgar Wallace wrote a large number of mostly humorous sketches about life in the British Army relating the escapades and adventures of privates Smith (Smithy), Nobby Clark, Spud Murphy and their comrades-in-arms. Set at a later-and, when first published, contemporary time, and on a different stage, this substantial collection of the Smithy stories finds our incorrigible hero and his scurrilous band of confederates malingering, scheming and conniving their way through life in the British Army during the First World War. Edgar Wallace published three more collections about Smithy and Nobby and many, many more uncollected stories about them in magazines and newspapers.
| Kategoria: | Classic Literature |
| Język: | Angielski |
| Zabezpieczenie: |
Watermark
|
| ISBN: | 978-83-8148-063-5 |
| Rozmiar pliku: | 2,4 MB |
FRAGMENT KSIĄŻKI
THE NEW OFFICER
“THE OFFICER,” said Private Smithy, of the 1st Anchesters, “is a new officer. It isn’t the new kind of uniform, or the new Salvation Army cap, or the new silly way of wearing his shoulder sash. He’s a changed officer, if you understand. He don’t look no different, and in many ways he’s not altered a bit. He still plays polo an’ bridge–what’s bridge?”
I explained.
“Well, he still does all these things just about as much as ever he did, but I tell you ‘e’s an astounding blighter in many ways.”
“It ain’t so long ago,” reflected this monunment of the First Army Corps, “when officers used to come on parade at 10 a.m.–commanding officers’ parade drill order–and we used to look at ‘em hard to discover whether we’d seen ‘em before. They used to troop down from the officers’ mess buttoning up their brown gloves and hooking on their swords under their patrol jackets. They’d stand about for a minute or two yawnin’ their blankey ‘eads orf an’ then the bugled sound ‘Officers come and be blowed,’ an’ they’d fall in.
“Well, the colour-sergeant was always waitin’ for ‘em.
“‘What’s on this mornin’,’ says me fine captain.
“‘Battalion drill, sir,’ says the flag.
“‘Oh, dash battalion drill,’ sez the captain, walkin’ round an’ inspectin’ the company. Take this man’s name, colour-sergeant, for wearing his pouoh on the right side.’
“‘Beg pardon, sir,’ sez the flag, ‘they’re wore on the right side.’
“‘So they are,’ sez the intelligent captain, givin’ a casual glance along the line. ‘Well, take his name for ‘aving a dirty belt.’
“‘Right, sir,’ sez the colour-sergeant.
DRILL–OLD STYLE
“When the inspection was over the officer would draw his sword and read the writin’ on it, and draw noughts and crosses with it on the ground; then fall in six paces ahead of the centre of his company. Bimeby he’d see something ‘appening to the company ahead of his.
“What’s gain’ on there, “colour-sergeant’?’ he’d ask.
“‘Formin’ fours, sir, sez the colour-sergeant.
“‘Oh, I forgot all about, that, sez his nibs. ‘Company! Form fours!’ an’ not a man moves
“‘You ‘aven’t numbered ‘em, sir,’ sez the colour-sergeant.
“‘Hey?’ sez the captain, gettin’ red. ‘Then why the dickens ain’t they numbered when they fall in? Number off from the right, an’ be quick about it.’
“Then comes the battalion drill,” continued Smithy, with a sad, reminiscent smile. “The colonel shouts something.
“‘Wbat’s that he saad, colour-sergeant,’ sez the officer.
“‘Into line, right form, sir,’ sez the flag.
“‘What do I do?’ sez the captain.
“‘Turn half-right, sir, and wait for the word “march,”’ whispers the flag.
“And right through the drill it was the same. Sometimes the captain was right, sometimes he was wrong. Sometimes he had the whole company jumbled up in horrid confusion, and the colonel would come prancing along and say things he was probably sorry for afterwards.
“Well, an hour of this sort of thing went on, and then it was ‘Right turn–Dismiss,’ and the officer would run away and change his sword an’ uniform for a Sunday suit an’ a panamar hat, and we didn’t see him again till to-morrow.”
CONVERTED OFFICERS
Smithy raised himself on his elbow and addressed the orderly man staggering tentward with a big kettle of steaming tea.
Would the orderly man be so kind as to give Smithy a basin of tea and save him the trouble of coming to the tent for it. Without checking his career, the orderly man remarked, “Oh, yes, why not, not ‘arf. Would Smithy like him (the orderly man) to drink it for him (Smithy)? Did he want waiting on? Should he fetch it in a feeding bottle?” and sundry other ejaculations of a bitterly satirical character.
Whereupon Smithy, realising that the enemy was rapidly getting out of range, delivered a rapid feu de joie of personalities, calculated to annoy and distress a young and ambitious orderly man.
“‘Pon my word,” said Smithy gloomily, “these blanked Brodericks are gettin’ worse an’ worse; the men ‘ave changed as much as the officers.”
“How have the officers changed?” I asked.
“I was going to tell you,’ said Smithy. “As I said before, it’s only’ an inward change. You know soldiers, don’t you?”
“I do.”
“Well, you’ve seen Tommy get converted–get religion, haven’t you? He drops the wet canteen, and spends his time in the library playin’ bagatelle with other bun-wallahs. The cloth is always torn, and the cues ‘ave no tips,” added Smithy inconsequently. “He goes to chapel on week nights and shows up the regiment by prayin’ in public; joins the Templars with fancy grips and passwords and sashes. Well, beyond giving up booze and saying ‘confound’ instead of ‘––’ or ‘––’ or ‘––’, there ain’t much difference, outwardly at least. He still parts his hair; he still mashes the girls; he still does all things ‘uman–except swear and drink.
“So it is with the officer–‘e’s changed inwardly. He plays polo and golf–which is a, rotten game in my opinion–and motors.
“But somehow we seem to see more of him than we used. He comes nosing around at all hours of the day. He does colour-sergeants’ work and corporal’s work–in fact, he knows as much about soldiering now as we do. He doesn’t make mistakes on parade; he turns up at the rifle range even when it ain’t his turn for duty; he’ll take a dozen chaps out into the country and teach them how to sketch; he spends a lot of his spare time learning flag-wagging–in fact, in fact,” said Smith, struggling for a climax, “he’s a more astoundin’ person than ever.”
TACTICS UP TO DATE
Smithy refilled and relit his pipe and ruminated for some moments.
“Yesterday,” said he, “the little man French had us out attackin’ or defendin’–I don’t know which–a bit of a village, over there.’ Smithy pointed vaguely. “I was with a half company under Mr. Brick-Taylor–he gets his company next month. We’ve got a new colour-sergeant from the second battalion who’s been used to giving officers tips all his life.
“We were scoutin’ ahead, and we sighted the enemy outside a pub near Frinham. We could see them, they couldu’t see us.
“‘Git into that donga,’ sez the officer, pointin’ to a big, deep ditch.
“‘Beg pardon, sir,’ says the flag, ‘I think you ought to extend the men and retire, sir.’
“‘Oh, you do, do you?’ sez the orficer, ‘well, I don’t; get into the donga as quick as you can.’
“‘Beg pardon, sir,’ sez the flag, ‘but the book sez–’
“‘What book?’ sez the orficer.
This is a free sample. Please purchase full version of the book to continue.
“THE OFFICER,” said Private Smithy, of the 1st Anchesters, “is a new officer. It isn’t the new kind of uniform, or the new Salvation Army cap, or the new silly way of wearing his shoulder sash. He’s a changed officer, if you understand. He don’t look no different, and in many ways he’s not altered a bit. He still plays polo an’ bridge–what’s bridge?”
I explained.
“Well, he still does all these things just about as much as ever he did, but I tell you ‘e’s an astounding blighter in many ways.”
“It ain’t so long ago,” reflected this monunment of the First Army Corps, “when officers used to come on parade at 10 a.m.–commanding officers’ parade drill order–and we used to look at ‘em hard to discover whether we’d seen ‘em before. They used to troop down from the officers’ mess buttoning up their brown gloves and hooking on their swords under their patrol jackets. They’d stand about for a minute or two yawnin’ their blankey ‘eads orf an’ then the bugled sound ‘Officers come and be blowed,’ an’ they’d fall in.
“Well, the colour-sergeant was always waitin’ for ‘em.
“‘What’s on this mornin’,’ says me fine captain.
“‘Battalion drill, sir,’ says the flag.
“‘Oh, dash battalion drill,’ sez the captain, walkin’ round an’ inspectin’ the company. Take this man’s name, colour-sergeant, for wearing his pouoh on the right side.’
“‘Beg pardon, sir,’ sez the flag, ‘they’re wore on the right side.’
“‘So they are,’ sez the intelligent captain, givin’ a casual glance along the line. ‘Well, take his name for ‘aving a dirty belt.’
“‘Right, sir,’ sez the colour-sergeant.
DRILL–OLD STYLE
“When the inspection was over the officer would draw his sword and read the writin’ on it, and draw noughts and crosses with it on the ground; then fall in six paces ahead of the centre of his company. Bimeby he’d see something ‘appening to the company ahead of his.
“What’s gain’ on there, “colour-sergeant’?’ he’d ask.
“‘Formin’ fours, sir, sez the colour-sergeant.
“‘Oh, I forgot all about, that, sez his nibs. ‘Company! Form fours!’ an’ not a man moves
“‘You ‘aven’t numbered ‘em, sir,’ sez the colour-sergeant.
“‘Hey?’ sez the captain, gettin’ red. ‘Then why the dickens ain’t they numbered when they fall in? Number off from the right, an’ be quick about it.’
“Then comes the battalion drill,” continued Smithy, with a sad, reminiscent smile. “The colonel shouts something.
“‘Wbat’s that he saad, colour-sergeant,’ sez the officer.
“‘Into line, right form, sir,’ sez the flag.
“‘What do I do?’ sez the captain.
“‘Turn half-right, sir, and wait for the word “march,”’ whispers the flag.
“And right through the drill it was the same. Sometimes the captain was right, sometimes he was wrong. Sometimes he had the whole company jumbled up in horrid confusion, and the colonel would come prancing along and say things he was probably sorry for afterwards.
“Well, an hour of this sort of thing went on, and then it was ‘Right turn–Dismiss,’ and the officer would run away and change his sword an’ uniform for a Sunday suit an’ a panamar hat, and we didn’t see him again till to-morrow.”
CONVERTED OFFICERS
Smithy raised himself on his elbow and addressed the orderly man staggering tentward with a big kettle of steaming tea.
Would the orderly man be so kind as to give Smithy a basin of tea and save him the trouble of coming to the tent for it. Without checking his career, the orderly man remarked, “Oh, yes, why not, not ‘arf. Would Smithy like him (the orderly man) to drink it for him (Smithy)? Did he want waiting on? Should he fetch it in a feeding bottle?” and sundry other ejaculations of a bitterly satirical character.
Whereupon Smithy, realising that the enemy was rapidly getting out of range, delivered a rapid feu de joie of personalities, calculated to annoy and distress a young and ambitious orderly man.
“‘Pon my word,” said Smithy gloomily, “these blanked Brodericks are gettin’ worse an’ worse; the men ‘ave changed as much as the officers.”
“How have the officers changed?” I asked.
“I was going to tell you,’ said Smithy. “As I said before, it’s only’ an inward change. You know soldiers, don’t you?”
“I do.”
“Well, you’ve seen Tommy get converted–get religion, haven’t you? He drops the wet canteen, and spends his time in the library playin’ bagatelle with other bun-wallahs. The cloth is always torn, and the cues ‘ave no tips,” added Smithy inconsequently. “He goes to chapel on week nights and shows up the regiment by prayin’ in public; joins the Templars with fancy grips and passwords and sashes. Well, beyond giving up booze and saying ‘confound’ instead of ‘––’ or ‘––’ or ‘––’, there ain’t much difference, outwardly at least. He still parts his hair; he still mashes the girls; he still does all things ‘uman–except swear and drink.
“So it is with the officer–‘e’s changed inwardly. He plays polo and golf–which is a, rotten game in my opinion–and motors.
“But somehow we seem to see more of him than we used. He comes nosing around at all hours of the day. He does colour-sergeants’ work and corporal’s work–in fact, he knows as much about soldiering now as we do. He doesn’t make mistakes on parade; he turns up at the rifle range even when it ain’t his turn for duty; he’ll take a dozen chaps out into the country and teach them how to sketch; he spends a lot of his spare time learning flag-wagging–in fact, in fact,” said Smith, struggling for a climax, “he’s a more astoundin’ person than ever.”
TACTICS UP TO DATE
Smithy refilled and relit his pipe and ruminated for some moments.
“Yesterday,” said he, “the little man French had us out attackin’ or defendin’–I don’t know which–a bit of a village, over there.’ Smithy pointed vaguely. “I was with a half company under Mr. Brick-Taylor–he gets his company next month. We’ve got a new colour-sergeant from the second battalion who’s been used to giving officers tips all his life.
“We were scoutin’ ahead, and we sighted the enemy outside a pub near Frinham. We could see them, they couldu’t see us.
“‘Git into that donga,’ sez the officer, pointin’ to a big, deep ditch.
“‘Beg pardon, sir,’ says the flag, ‘I think you ought to extend the men and retire, sir.’
“‘Oh, you do, do you?’ sez the orficer, ‘well, I don’t; get into the donga as quick as you can.’
“‘Beg pardon, sir,’ sez the flag, ‘but the book sez–’
“‘What book?’ sez the orficer.
This is a free sample. Please purchase full version of the book to continue.
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