nearest private and laid him prostrate. The others smiled faintly as No.
98678 picked himself up and nonchalantly returned to his old position as
if this were a banal compliment. "Now then. First butt exercise." One
rank advanced upon the other, and the two ranks were locked in a close
embrace. They remained thus with muscles strung like bowstrings,
immobile as a group of statuary.

"That'll do. Now I'll give you the second butt exercise. You bring the
butt round on 'is jaw--so!--and then kick 'im in the guts with your
knee." Perhaps the section, which stood like a wall of masonry, looked
surprised; more probably the surprise was mine. But the corporal
explained. "Don't think you're Tottenham Hotspur in the Cup Final. Never
mind giving 'im a foul. You've got to 'urt 'im or 'e'll 'urt you. Kick
'im anywhere with your knees or your feet. Your ammunition boots will
make 'im feel it. No!"--he turned to a young private whose left hand was
grasping his rifle high up between the fore-sight and the
indicator--"You mustn't do that. Always get your 'and between the
back-sight and the breech. So! The back-sight will protect your fingers
from being cut by the other fellow. Now the third butt exercise."

As we turned away the Major thoughtfully remarked to me, "There isn't
much of that in the Infantry Manual. But the corporal knows his job.
When you're in a scrap you haven't time to think about the rules of the
game; the automatic movements come all right, but in a clinch you've got
to fight like a cat with tooth and claw, use your boots, your knee, or
anything that comes handy. Perhaps that's why your lithe little Cockney
is such a useful man with the bayonet. Now the Hun is a hefty beggar,
and he isn't hampered by any ideas of playing the game, but he's as
mechanical as a vacuum brake, and he's no good in a scrap."