I thought that I knew what the word 'Spruce' meant, but it had a very different meaning during the Great War.

On “Sprucing”

By an Authority

Fact and Fiction in Unequal Portions

The South African War, if it consummated no other useful purpose, enriched the English language with such words as “trek,” “commandeer,” “kopje,” “veldt,” “in” and “out-span,” and other expressions of a similar illuminating quality, but I cannot call to mind, since the commencement of this Universal Upheaval, any name of German origin – with the solitary exception of “strafe” – that is likely to find an abiding place in our everyday speech.

When men of widely differing nationalities are gathered together in camps, barracks, and hospitals, a certain amount of exchange in ear-tickling words is bound to occur, and there is no doubt that Tommy Atkins and Piou-Piou are absorbing each other’s phrases to the mutual advantage and amusement of both.

Quaint words and idioms stick in the mind like burrs on a petticoat, and many a soldier since he “joined up” has admitted into his vernacular telling and new-fangled expressions that he will treasure “while memory holds a seat in this distracted globe.” For example, which of us on the strength of the 3rd London General Hospital used before he enlisted (or is likely to cease from using after peace is declared) such interesting verbs as “to spruce,” “to rumble,” “to wangle,” “to mike,” “to click,” or “to swing the lead”?

The speech of the gentle Orderlette, before she donned her notice-compelling uniform, flowed from a well of English undefiled. No longer, I regret to say, is this the case. Agglutinating slang terms, that must cause her Prunes-and-Prism grandmother to turn in her winding sheet, now embellish her daily utterances. Subtle shades of difference exist between “wangling,” “sprucing,” “miking,” and “swinging the lead,” and illustrations, both artistic and literary, figure in this book. Pte. Dowd had not been long in uniform ere his lightning eye and facile hand, with the speed of an entomologist skewering butterflies to cardboard, had pinned, for all time, two sprucers “at work.” Their arduous tasks consisted of comparing the “cushy” job of one with that of his equally recumbent neighbour.

Among the wonderful assortment of class and mass doing duty at the 3rd L.G.H. it is not by any means surprising to find the reincarnations of Shakespeare’s delightful rogues – Falstaff, Bardolph, Nym, Peto, and Antient Pistol.

“Do you know sir,” remarked Bardolph Redivivus to the Camp Corporal, “I have a well-connected relative, named Poins, who would rather like to enlist here in this corps.”

The Corporal had an idea that the strength already exceeded the number required for the working of the hospital, and said so.

“Well, sir,” went on the imperturbable Bardolph, “Poins wants to do his bit, and the little bit he’d do wouldn’t be noticed!”

Into the Company Office shortly afterwards swaggered Antient Pistol resuscitated – and Pistol was a magnificent wangler. He had been out on half-day pass the preceding afternoon, and the Camp Corporal knew by his flushed face and neck he was going to try and “swing it.”

“Sir, I think I told you some time ago that I have nine children. Eight of them are in the trenches fighting, sir, to up’old England’s glory. Four boys and five girls. Yessir, everyone of them. And I have two little babies at home, sir, going to school. Well, I’ve just received this ‘ere wire,” waving a white telegraph form. “Swelp me, if I haven’t! A wire, sir, from the missus to say that Reginald – that’s the youngest, sir. No, I’m wrong; the youngest but two, sir. ‘E’s ill, sir; that’s wot ‘e is. ‘Ere’s the telegram, sir; you can read it for yourself. It’s from the missus. You can tell ‘er ‘andwriting. 'Reginald ‘as got the chicken-pox. Come ‘ome and count the feathers.’ Twelve words, sir. Ninepence. Do you think I can have a pass, sir? etc., etc. But the adamantine Corporal was not to be wheedled.

One beautiful sunny day in June the same N.C.O. received an urgent telephone message requesting him to detail two men to remove bedding from a ward in the Old Building to the fumigator. He dashed round the camp in search of likely hands. Not a soul was in sight. All the sprucers were either out on pass or (staggering thought!) really working. As a last resource, he tried the Recreation Hut. Who would while away the time on such a perfect day indoors? Absurd to think of finding anybody there! But, sure enough, behind the curtains, resting, with his stockinged feet sprawling on a second chair, was the “Senior Wangler.”

“What in thunder,” cried the exasperated Corporal, “are you doing this afternoon, Oldfruit.?”

“I’m mindin’ the key of the ‘En ‘Ouse, sir,” sleepily replied Oldfruit.

It was the “soft” (not to mention idiotic) answer that turned away wrath. The Corporal eventually found somebody else to carry on the work of the ward.

During the hot and flaming month of June, when scarce a leaf stirred upon the Hospital poplars, sounds of haymaking frequently arose from the lush “meadows” and verdant interspaces between the huts. The busy bees of the hive were responsible for the sounds. Our drones are not so noisy.

Suddenly an N.C.O. appeared in the midst of Jack Falstaff’s gang, and, as is the custom of these interfering interlopers, “rumbled” them severely for a lazy lot of “scrimshankers.”

“Afraid of work?” bellowed old Jack. “Not a bit of it! I’ll teach you striped varlets that no man is less affrighted than I am at the sight o’ work. Hang me by the gills for a reddened herring if I don’t! Show me the work and I’ll prove to you if I stand in awe of it or no.”

And, being shown his allotted task, he promptly stretched himself down beside it and went to sleep.

Not even Morpheus himself could slumber in the vicinity of that which would cause him apprehension…

Noel Irving, Sergt. R.A.M.C. (T)