Even the gunners, who in the
late war used to wear riding-breeches of their favourite colour, no
matter what it was, the kind of footgear they most fancied, and any
old variety of hat they thought becoming, are shocked by the fantastic
kit that is countenanced in this latitude. It must be borne in mind
that most of us are old campaigners and old nomads whose tailors have
grown accustomed to build us appropriate gear for various climes.
Fashions for fighting in France, in Egypt, in Mesopotamia, have gained
a hold upon our affections, to say nothing of those designs for civil
breadwinning or moss-dodging in Central Africa, Bond Street, Kirkcaldy
or Dawson City. The consequence is that here, pretty well out of
A.P.M. range, sartorial individualism flourishes unchecked. Thus
the eye is startled to behold a fur headdress as big as a busby, an
ordinary service tunic, gaberdine breeches, shooting stockings and
Shackleton boots, going about as component parts of one officer's
make-up; or snow-goggles worn with flannel trousers, or sharp-toothed
Boreas defied by a bare head and a chamois-leather jerkin; or the
choice flowers of Savile Row associated with Canadian moccasins.
What idea will the North Russians retain of the outward appearance of
the typical British officer? How will the little Lapps, befurred and
smiling, who come sliding to market behind the trotting reindeer,
report of us to the smaller Lapps at home? In any case I hope we shall
found a legend of a well-meaning if peculiar and patchwork people.
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