he faintest notion where the station was.
Wherever I went that long, unwieldy column would slowly follow me, and
trust blindly to my direction. I pinned my faith to the guide, and on
we went.

Before we had got half-way it became evident that the guide had a very
remote idea which was the direction to take; and he began to make
anxious inquiries of passers-by as to the right way.

I was beginning to feel anxious and lose patience.

"What are you fussing about for? Are you taking us the right way?" I
demanded.

"I think so, sir. I don't know."

"You don't know! But you are the guide, aren't you?"

"Yes, sir. But I've never been to the station before."

"But you are supposed to be the guide. Do you mean to tell me that you
are not sure of the way?"

"Not quite, sir. But I am doing my best."

"Well, you are a fine sort of guide! Who detailed you?"

"The adjutant, sir."

"Well, did he know you had never been down to the station before?"

"He never asked me, sir. I was not doing any other duty, so he
detailed me to act as your guide."

What staff work! But it served me right; and we muddled along, and
finally, to my great relief, we entered the station yard.

I walked into the R.T.O.'s office and laid my pile of papers on his
desk.

The railway transport officer is an individual who is prominent in the
memory of all those who have passed up the line; and many of us have
reason to remember at least one of them with indignation.

There are two kinds of R.T.O.'s, and you have met them both.

There is the one who has earned his job at the front by hard work. He
has been through the thick of the fighting, and after months in the
trenches has been sent back to act as R.T.O. at the rail-head or the
base, to give him a well-earned rest beyond the sound of the guns. We
have no unpleasant memories of him. He is a man; he is human; he
treats you as a comrade; he is helpful and considerate. And you can
spot such men in a moment.

But R.T.O. No. 2 carries no sign of war on his features. He has never
heard the sound of guns, and never intends to, if he can help it.

Look back upon the time when you left the base, and you find him
prominent in your memory. When you are huddled up in your dugout, how
you wish he could be transferred to you for a tour of duty in the
trenches.

What a delight it would be to send him in his immaculate uniform; his
highly polished leggings and boots, along the muddy communication
tren