re. He was forward
observing officer.

One of his pupils turned the ranging gear until the range-drum
registered a further hundred yards, while another traversed the gun
until it pointed twenty minutes more left.

As we turned away they were performing another delicate and complicated
operation which was not carried through without some plaintive
expostulation from the N.C.O.

"It reminds me," remarked the Major colloquially, as we strolled away,
"of Falstaff drilling his recruits. So does the texture of the khaki
they serve out to the O.T.C. 'Dowlas, filthy dowlas!' But you've no idea
how soon he'll lick them into shape. These 'dug-outs' are as primitive
as cave-dwellers in their way but they know their job. And what is more,
they like it."

As we passed the stables I heard ecstatic sounds--a whinny of equine
delight and the blandishments of a human voice. Through the open door I
caught a glimpse of Driver Hawkins with his back turned towards us. His
left arm was round Tommy's neck and the left side of his face rested
upon Tommy's head; the fingers of his right hand were delicately
stroking Tommy's nose.

"I forgives yer," I heard him say with rare magnanimity, "yus, I
forgives yer, old boy. But if yer does it again, yer'll give me the
blooming 'ump."

I passed hurriedly on. It was not for a stranger to intrude on anything
so intimate.

FOOTNOTE:

[24] On leave in England.

XXII

CHRISTMAS EVE

(_1914_)

"Halt! Stop, I mean."

The ring of choristers in khaki and blue flannel faced with cotton wool
looked at their conductor, a sergeant in the Glosters, with intense and
painful concentration. They were rehearsing carols in the annexe of a
Base hospital on Christmas Eve, and the sergeant was as hard to please
as if they were recruits doing their first squad drill. They were a
scratch lot, recruited by a well-meaning chaplain to the Forces, from
Base "details" and convalescents. Their voices were lusty, but their
time erratic, and one ardent spirit was a bar ahead and gaining audibly
with each lap despite the desperate spurts of the rest.

"Opened out his throttle--'e has," whispered an Army driver
professionally to his neighbour; "'e's a fair cop for exceedin' the
speed limit."

The sergeant glanced magisterially at the offender, a young Dorset, who
a year ago was hedging and ditching in the Vale of Blackmore, but who
has lately done enough digging for a whole parish.

"You've lost your co