h platoon is (or should be) led
by a subaltern, acting under his company commander. But we are very
short of subalterns at present. (We are equally short of N.C.O.'s;
but then you can always take a man out of the ranks and christen him
sergeant, whereas there is no available source of Second Lieutenants
save capricious Whitehall.) Consequently, three platoons out of four
in our company are at present commanded by N.C.O.'s, two of whom
appear to have retired from active service about the time that bows
and arrows began to yield place to the arquebus, while the third has
been picked out of the ranks simply because he possesses a loud voice
and a cake of soap. None of them has yet mastered the new drill--it
was all changed at the beginning of this year--and the majority of the
officers are in no position to correct their anachronisms.

Still, we are getting on. Number Three Platoon (which boasts a
subaltern) has just marched right round the barrack square, without--

(1) Marching through another platoon.

(2) Losing any part or parts of itself.

(3) Adopting a formation which brings it face to face with a blank
wall, or piles it up in a tidal wave upon the verandah, of the married
quarters.

They could not have done that a week ago.

But stay, what is this disturbance on the extreme left? The command
"Right form" has been given, but six files on the outside flank have
ignored the suggestion, and are now advancing (in skirmishing order)
straight for the ashbin outside the cookhouse door, looking piteously
round over their shoulders for some responsible person to give them
an order which will turn them about and bring them back to the fold.
Finally they are rounded up by the platoon sergeant, and restored to
the strength.

"What went wrong, Sergeant?" inquires Second Lieutenant Bobby Little.
He is a fresh-faced youth, with an engaging smile. Three months ago he
was keeping wicket for his school eleven.

The sergeant comes briskly to attention.

"The order was not distinctly heard by the men, sir," he explains,
"owing to the corporal that passed it on wanting a tooth. Corporal
Blain, three paces forward--march!"

Corporal Blain steps forward, and after remembering to slap the small
of his butt with his right hand, takes up his parable--

"I was sittin' doon tae ma dinner on Sabbath, sir, when my front teeth
met upon a small piece bone that was stickit' in--"

Further details of this gastronomic tragedy are cut