"Private Spud Tamson" is a book by Captain R. W. Campbell which describes the story of the military regiment, The Glesca Mileeshy. This book, in its way, tries to describe the nature and kind of people who fill the ranks of the Great Britain Militia regiments. A story of war and the people who protect the nation against intrusions.

Scottish creative writing in the twentieth century was notable for its willingness to explore and absorb the literatures of other times and other nations. From the engagement with Russian literature of Hugh MacDiarmid and Edwin Morgan, through to the interplay with continental literary theory, Scottish writers have proved active participants in a diverse international literary practice. Scottish criticism has, arguably, often been slow in appreciating the full extent of this exchange. Preoccupied with marking out its territory, with identifying an independent and distinctive tradition, Scottish criticism has occasionally blinded itself to the diversity and range of its writers. In stressing the importance of cultural independence, it has tended to overlook the many virtues of interdependence. The essays in this book aim to offer a corrective view. They celebrate the achievement of Scottish writing in the twentieth century by offering a wider basis for appreciation than a narrow idea of 'Scottishness'. Each essay explores an aspect of Scottish writing in an individual foreign perspective; together they provide an enriching account of a national literary practice that has deep, and often surprisingly complex, roots in international culture.

Example in this ebook CHAPTER I. THE CADET SCHOOL. No doubt you have seen, in the highways and byways, a lot of youths in khaki with white bands round their caps. These ‘boys’ are called cadets, and are usually men home from the front to train for commissions. In Sandhurst they are officially styled gentlemen cadets; but apparently we are not supposed to be gentlemen—we’re just cadets. Funny, isn’t it? But that’s the way of the army. Well, my name is John Brown—a very ordinary name—and I’m one of those fellows. Before the war I evaded toil by becoming a student, and spent a lot of time on ‘ologies and ‘osophies. Now I’m learning to be a pukka officer, and the leader of sixty men to the cannon’s mouth. When I left my battalion for the cadet school I shed no tears. They were in the trenches, or, rather, in the mud. And it cost a pair of brand-new boots to get on to the road. However, I survived, and in due time landed at Windmoor. This is a ‘blasted heath,’ swept by the winds, and isolated from picture-shows, barmaids, and revues; not a petticoat in sight, and at every corner a notice which amounts to: ‘England expects that every cadet this day will do his duty.’ ‘This is no Utopia,’ I muttered, falling into the first hut by the way. Ye gods! There was an old colonel, with eyes like a hawk and cheeks like dumplings; and what do you think he was doing? Cutting his corns. ‘What the—why the—who the devil are you, sah?’ ‘John Brown, sir,’ I said meekly, for never in my life had I seen such a perfect relic of the Napoleonic wars. ‘Get to blazes out of this, John Brown!’ he roared, putting his fat feet on the floor and banging the door. I was again alone—on the blasted heath. The old gent inside was Colonel Eat-All, the commandant. Rumour says he devoured two dervishes at Omdurman. I stumbled on once more, and found the orderly-room. ‘This way,’ said Sergeant-Major Kneesup, introducing me to the adjutant. I clicked my heels in the style of a Guardsman, and saluted like a railway signal. ‘Well?’ said a blasé-looking gent with three pips, looking up at me from his papers. ‘John Brown, sir.’ ‘Who sent you here?’ ‘The War Office.’ ‘Umph! I know nothing about you. You had better go back to your regiment for your papers.’ ‘But I can’t go all the way to France, sir.’ ‘Well, no—perhaps not. Wait a minute,’ he said, ringing a bell. A clerk answered. ‘Have you any papers dealing with Cadet John Brown?’ ‘Yes, sir. Came a fortnight ago.’ ‘Thank you. That’s all.’ The clerk went out. ‘Oh, it’s all right, Brown. Just go over to No. 1 Company. You’ll see Sergeant-Major Smartem there. He’ll fix you up. Good luck!’ he concluded with a genial smile. I saluted and went out, marvelling at the methods of the British Army. I dug out the sergeant-major, and again announced that I was John Brown. ‘That’s a fine name to go to bed with.’ ‘It’s the one my mother gave me.’ ‘Oh, well, you can’t help it. Here’s your blankets; there’s your bed. You’ll get your equipment to-morrow. Shove this white band on your cap. Tea’s at five o’clock. The lavatory’s down there. That’s the canteen over yonder. And when you want writing-paper, hymns, or free salvation, there’s a Y.M.C.A. down the road. Now, push off—John Brown.’ I was extremely grateful for all this information in tabloid form, but I had a lurking suspicion that my name was going to be a subject of rude jest. However, I am an optimist. I pitched my bag into a corner of the hut, pulled out a little book called The Pleasures of Hope, and commenced to read till tea-time. But I was disturbed. Cadet after cadet came filing in. They were all new and rather green, except one man, called Beefy Jones. ‘What a ruddy place for a cadet school!’ he roared. ‘My dear chap, it is designed to protect our morality,’ muttered a spectacled youth, who looked like (and proved to be) an ex-parson. To be continue in this ebook

This anthology is the first ever acknowledgement of Scotland's unique contribution to the literature of the First World War. Here are gathered together well-known writers like John Buchan, Eric Linklater, Hugh MacDiarmid and Compton Mackenzie, as well as poets like Joseph Lee and Roderick Watson Kerr, who found their true voices fighting in a war to end wars. There is also a substantial contribution from women writers in the work of Violet Jacob, Naomi Mitchison and Mary Symon.