al and was charged with insubordination. They gave
him fourteen days' Number 1. He's serving it in camp. There's no gun or
wagon there, so they can't crucify him on a wheel in the ordinary way.
They've been tying him to a post instead, one hour in the morning and
one in the afternoon. That blackguard of a Police Corporal won't let
him be in the shade where the trees are, but has him tied up in the full
glare of the sun.

"The C.O.'s been down on people writing things in letters too. Lewis
wrote home he'd starve on the rations we get if it weren't for the
parcels his people send him. The C.O. had him up. He told him to make
complaints through the proper channels in future and gave him seven days
Number 2. He has to collect and empty the latrine buckets every morning
before breakfast. When he gets back from work in the afternoon he has to
chop wood with that swine of a Police Corporal standing over him. Of
course, he's a bloody fool to write in that strain--our rations aren't
so bad, considering. Thompson was up for the same sort of thing. He
wrote he'd seen a thing or two out here and when he got back home he'd
open people's eyes a bit about the war and the army. All bluff, of
course, for the truth about the war and the army could never be
published. He got five days for his trouble. I nearly got into hot water
myself. Luckily for me I was the first one to be on the peg for writing
things in my letters, else I'd have got a stiff sentence. I wrote:
'Being in the army is just like being back at school; the only
difference is that whereas at school your superiors generally know a
little bit more about things than you do, in the army that is not the
case.' The C.O. told me off properly. He said it was most serious, a
court martial offence, in fact. The charge would be one of 'Conduct
prejudicial to good order and military discipline.' He let me off,
though, because it was my first transgression. Old Peter Cowan was
nearly run by the S.M. a couple of days ago. He was inspecting us and
when he came to Peter he shouted, 'Why haven't you cleaned your
boottons?' Peter answered with a perfectly solemn countenance, 'I
omitted to do so, sir.' The S.M. glared at him, but he wasn't quite sure
about the meaning of the word 'omitted,' and being afraid of making a
fool of himself he passed on. Fletcher, who was standing only a few
numbers away, smiled at Peter's remark. The S.M. spotted him, and
shouted, 'What are you grinning at--anythi