The other morning he was standing at this window waiting
for his breakfast to arrive. It was a fine frosty day, made all the
brighter by the sound of approaching bagpipes. Troops were about to
march past, suggesting great national thoughts to Jones and reminding
him of the familiar details of his own more active days. Jones
prepared to enjoy himself.
Colonels on horses, thought Jones as he contemplated, are much of a
muchness--always the look of the sahib about them, the slightly
proud, the slightly stuffy, the slightly weather-beaten, the slightly
affluent sahib. Company Commanders, also on horses, but somehow or
other not quite so much on horses as the Colonels, are the same
all the army through--very confident of themselves, but hoping
against hope that there is nothing about their companies to catch
the Adjutant's eye. The Subaltern walks as he has always done,
lighthearted if purposeful, trusting that all is as it should be, but
feeling that if it isn't that is some one else's trouble. Sergeants,
Corporals, Lance-corporals and men have not altered. The Sergeants
relax on the march into something almost bordering on friendliness
towards their victims; the Corporals thank Heaven that for the moment
they are but men; the Lance-corporals thank Heaven that always they
are something more than men, and the men have the look of having
decided that this is the last kilometre they'll ever footslog for
anybody, but while they are doing it they might as well be cheerful
about it.
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