World War I British Junior Officer (subaltern) with Sam Browne belt.
My brotherused an open razor, leaning his head with its black widow’s peak of hairsideways and close to the mirror, for he was short-sighted; his cheeks shoneblue as the blade scraped the ladder away, with that glabrous bloom I havesince observed on the faces of certain priests, Monsieur L’Abbe among them: andmore than a trace of Jesuitical severity was stamped even now upon his featuresin repose, though this vanished when he smiled.
I had never seen anyone shave before – my father of course was bearded,nor would I have been admitted while he was performing his toilet – and thewhole process fascinated me: the flickand sweep of the cut-throat steel which never drew blood, the stropping of theblade in readiness for the morrow, the astringent lotion dabbed on after.
There was a moment equally absorbing, when hedrew on the brown supple boots which came up below the knee and were worn withknife-creased khaki breeches. The boots,the Sam Browne belt, and also the buttons and brasses of his tunic andgreatcoat were polished personally by my brother (for he had brought no batman)until they shone, in the case of the leather, almost purple and you could seeyour reflection in miniature in the crested brass.
The only regret I had (one not shared by mybrother) was that, as a subaltern, he no longer had to wear puttees; during hisfirst leaves, when he was a private, I’d enjoyed seeing him winding theseexpertly, without creases, round his legs, though I was to be thankful laterthat this practice had died out before my own enlistment. The boots, however, more than made up for theputtees absence; then, when he’d adjusted his belt, the rimless monocle – a relicfrom the days of his roistering with which he used sometimes to give hisstartling impersonation of a Prussian officer – would be screwed into itssocket, where it remained immovable, without a cord; his cigarette lighter wasflourished at an Abdulla Egyptian in a short amber holder, and he was ready tocome down to another day.
Razor
I had never seen anyone shave before – my father of course was bearded,nor would I have been admitted while he was performing his toilet – and thewhole process fascinated me: the flickand sweep of the cut-throat steel which never drew blood, the stropping of theblade in readiness for the morrow, the astringent lotion dabbed on after.
Strop
There was a moment equally absorbing, when hedrew on the brown supple boots which came up below the knee and were worn withknife-creased khaki breeches. The boots,the Sam Browne belt, and also the buttons and brasses of his tunic andgreatcoat were polished personally by my brother (for he had brought no batman)until they shone, in the case of the leather, almost purple and you could seeyour reflection in miniature in the crested brass.
Boots
Insignia of 1st Battalion, Warwickshire
The only regret I had (one not shared by mybrother) was that, as a subaltern, he no longer had to wear puttees; during hisfirst leaves, when he was a private, I’d enjoyed seeing him winding theseexpertly, without creases, round his legs, though I was to be thankful laterthat this practice had died out before my own enlistment. The boots, however, more than made up for theputtees absence; then, when he’d adjusted his belt, the rimless monocle – a relicfrom the days of his roistering with which he used sometimes to give hisstartling impersonation of a Prussian officer – would be screwed into itssocket, where it remained immovable, without a cord; his cigarette lighter wasflourished at an Abdulla Egyptian in a short amber holder, and he was ready tocome down to another day.
Prussian With A Monocle
A group of World War I subalterns (Future Prime Minister Harold Macmillan second from right, top row)
Winston Churchill as a subaltern, UK 4th Hussars, February 1895
From Julian Maclaren-Ross, The Weeping And TheLaughter. London, Rupert Hart-Davis,1953.
Post dedicated to James Reed Roberts (b. 2-22-54, d. 8-13-70)
Post dedicated to James Reed Roberts (b. 2-22-54, d. 8-13-70)
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