No one accuses the Gunner of maudlin affection for anything except his beasts and his weapons. He hasn't the time. He serves at least three jealous gods—his horse and all its saddlery and harness; his gun, whose least detail of efficiency is more important than men's lives; and, when these have been attended to, the never-ending mystery of his art commands him.
He became an officer and a gentleman, which is an enviable thing.
The Guns, Thank God, The Guns.
The 'eathen in 'is blindness must end where 'e began. But the backbone of the Army is the non-commissioned man!
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