To answer in this fashion appeared
strange to us; we thought (the right to think is not denied to a
soldier) it a funny method of satisfying a general's curiosity.
He came, a tall, well-set man, with stern eyebrows and a heavy
moustache, curled upwards after the manner of an Emperor whom we
heartily dislike, attended by a slim brigade major, who wore a rather
large eyeglass, and made several entries in his notebook, as he
followed on the heels of the superior inspecting the battalion.
We stood, every unit of us, sphinx-like, immovable, facing our front
and resigned to our position. To an onlooker it might seem as if we
were frozen there--our fingers glued on to our rifles and our feet
firm to the earth at an angle of forty-five degrees. I stood near the
rear, and could see the still platoons in front, not a hat moved, not
a boot shifted. The general broke the spell when he was passing me.
"Another button. There were forty-seven the last time," he said, and
the man with the eyeglass made an entry in the notebook. Through an
oversight, I had helped to lower the prestige of the battalion: a
pocket flap of my tunic was unbuttoned.
Kit inspection was a business apart; the general picked out several
soldiers haphazard and ordered their packs to be opened for an
examination of the contents--spoons, shirts, socks, and the various
necessaries which dismounted men in full marching order must carry on
their persons were inspected carefully. A full pack is judged best by
its contents, and nearly all packs passed muster.
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