Military Inspection
The officers stood about the right wing of the battalion, two young lieutenants and—yes, it was he—my friend and patron in former times, the Premier-Lieutenant von Schwenkenberg. There was no mistaking him, he was quite the same; the endless stretch of neck, which made the low collar of his uniform look quite childish, the tall and lank figure with the formidable-looking sword at the hip, which almost grazed the ground, and was in constant collision with his heels. Now he went to meet the sergeant a few steps. Oh, I should have known him among thousands by his gait! He leaned forward a trifle, and swung from side to side as he stepped.
“Be—sure—you—don’t—forget—Sergeant Möller,” said Lieutenant von Schwenkenberg, “that—we—are—to—have—an—artillery-drill—on—the—bastion—this—afternoon. Pick—out—the—weakest—of—the—men; a—bit—of—exercise—will—be—just—the—thing—for—them. Lieutenant Schwarz—will—have—the—goodness—to—take—charge—of—this matter.”
Lieutenant Schwarz was a young second-lieutenant, whom, of course, I did not know. It was evident that he was fresh from the artillery school. His face still retained that indescribable expression of supreme astonishment with which young officers just entering practical military life are wont to regard things. Everything about him was new—his uniform, his epaulettes, his way of dressing his hair, his beard; while Lieutenant von Schwenkenberg looked as if he had just passed through a hazardous winter campaign.
Shyly I walked about the battalion and looked at the Captain, who was standing by a fine horse fully equipped for battle, which one of the soldiers was holding. The Captain’s was a short but very agile figure, never keeping the same position for two seconds at a time. Now he went tripping from the right side of the horse to the left, then darting behind it for a more thorough inspection.
“The parade doesn’t agree with him,” he exclaimed, “doesn’t agree with him at all. But there’s no help for it. Misdemeanour must be followed up by punishment. Sergeant Möller, how often has Cæsar been to parade? If I am not mistaken, it was eight times. I want him to come four more times. Let’s have the dozen full, by all means. Confound him! We’ll teach him better manners than to get up on his hind legs and caper. All I could do to keep him from falling. Did I tell you all the details of the story, Lieutenant von Schwenkenberg?”
“I—had—the—good—fortune—to—be—an—eye-witness,” leisurely remarked the lieutenant.
“Ah, presence of mind, presence of mind, there’s nothing like having presence of mind in an emergency. The deuce! the very last thing we’d want on the battle-field would be a nag that stumbles and falls.—Keep right on, Sergeant Möller,” he added, turning to the latter, who had stopped calling the roll to listen to the Captain’s speech, and looked up to his superior with unbounded reverence. “Keep right on; never mind me. I always take this time to examine not only the battalion within and without, but the barracks as well—yes, the barracks.” Saying these words, he had twice pranced round about the battalion, casting many a glance into an open door which, as the emerging smoke would indicate, marked the entrance to the regimental kitchen.
“What is the story about the horse?” the young lieutenant asked his superior.
The latter shrugged his shoulders gently to and fro, and then replied, “The—horse—behaved—rather—badly,—the—Herr—Captain—thought—best—to—chastise—him,—and when—the—horse—took—it—ill,—they—parted company,—you—see. As—a—well-deserved—punishment—Cæsar—is—to—come—to—parade—for—twelve—consecutive—days—saddled—and packed with—the—full—equipment—for—battle.”
“Seems to me that is harder on the groom than it is on the horse.”
“Does—it—strike—you—so?” remarked Lieutenant von Schwenkenberg with imperturbable tranquillity.
Now the voice of the Captain was heard again. “Lieutenant Schwarz, will you have the goodness to look at this man of your column.” He had ordered a man in the left wing to turn around, and was standing close before him. “I have told you, no doubt, that it takes a practised eye; look closely at the man, will you? Well? What is it? What do you see that’s wrong about him?”
The young officer inspected him carefully from all sides, but he was bound to confess, with a shrug of his shoulders, that he saw nothing unusual.
The Captain smiled with evident satisfaction. Then he said in a gratified tone, “Ah yes, a practised eye is not a thing to be acquired in a day or two. Just look at the buttons on his jacket.”
“They are not polished as brightly as they might be,” the young officer remarked timidly.
“It’s not that, Lieutenant Schwarz. Ye saints, it’s not that,” replied the Captain, raising his left hand like a mason holding a plumb-line. “Imagine a line drawn from the hook of his collar to the middle seam of his trousers. Do you discover nothing? Nothing whatever? Well, my dear Herr Lieutenant, it would really be expecting too much, altogether too much. All that will come to you in good time, no doubt. I have not served in the army for twenty-five years for nothing. Well now, I’ll tell you. The fourth button counting from the top is about half a line too far to the left. You think it is the tailor’s fault, do you? No, sir; I never make the tailor responsible for such things in my regiment. Saints preserve us! I always test them with a plumb-line. Tell that fellow to unbutton his jacket, and if you don’t find a manœuvre de force at the fourth button then I’m very much mistaken.”
The cannoneer unbuttoned his jacket, and sure enough it was just as the Captain had said. Instead of being sewed on, the fourth button was fastened with a small stick, which set it slightly awry, and brought its owner under the ban of the penal code.
F. W. Hackländer (1816-1877).