Cursem had a stock address for recruits on their first parade. "The first duty of a soldier is obedience," he would say. "If you’re told to cut the whiskers off a German, or stick your stomach in front of a pom-pom—do it, and no back answers. You’re not paid ’to think,’ you’re paid to die. And when you die—die like a soldier and a man. It doesn’t matter whether you’ve been a tinker, burglar, or wife-beater, once you’re a soldier—you’re a gentleman. If you want to get drunk, there’s the canteen. Don’t go into the beer-shops in town and fill yourself up to the neck, then get arrested for assault and battery. Next—wash yourselves. Some of you chaps haven’t had a bath since you were born. Take a pride in yourselves. Cleanliness is next to godliness—you’ve a chance of getting to heaven if you wash the black collars off your necks. There’s enough germs below your finger-nails to kill the Army with itch and fever. And when you’re marching—march like guardsmen. Don’t waddle like ducks and bulldogs. Stick out your chest. If you haven’t got a chest shove some cotton-wool in your tunic. Swing your arms out and straighten up your legs. Step out as if you owned the whole Empire. And keep your eyes off the ground. There’s no fag-ends or half-crowns there. Now, answer your regimental names—" "Tamson,"—"Here." "M’Fatty,"—"Here." "Muldoon,"—"Here." "M’Haggis,"—"Here." "M’Shortbread,"—"Here." "Whiskers,"—"Here." "M’Sloppy,"—"Here." "M’Ginty,"—"Here." "Very good—now, we’ll do some drill. Squad—’Shun. As you were—put some life in it. ’Shun—by the right—quick march. Step out—hold up your heads—swing out your arms. Left—left—left—right—left. Come along, M’Ginty, you walk like a beer-barrel. Step out, M’Haggis,—you’re not at a funeral. Left—right—left—about turn. I said right-about, Tamson, not left-about. Don’t sulk and scowl at me. No dumb insolence here, my lad, or I’ll clap you in the guard-room. Squad—right turn—lead on. Stop that talking in the ranks. Tamson,—hold your head up." "Haud your ain—— heid up," muttered Tamson. "Squad—halt. What do you mean, you tin-chested, bandy-legged rag merchant. Didn’t I tell you not to talk in the ranks?" "It wisnae me—it wis M’Ginty." "You’re a liar, Tamson," answered M’Ginty.