lery call "indirect fire." Private Dunshie remarks: "We
have been getting no pay these three weeks, but I doubt the officer
will know what has become of the money." It is the firm conviction
of every private soldier in "K(1)" that all fines and deductions go
straight into the pocket of the officer who levies them. Private Hogg,
always an optimist, opines: "The officers should know better how to
treat us now, for they all get a read of our letters."

But, as recorded above, the outstanding feature of this correspondence
is an engaging frankness. For instance, Private Cosh, who under an
undemonstrative, not to say wooden, exterior evidently conceals a
heart as inflammable as flannelette, is conducting single-handed no
less than four parallel love affairs. One lady resides in his native
Coatbridge, the second is in service in South Kensington, the third
serves in a shop in Kelvinside, and the fourth moth appears to have
been attracted to this most unlikely candle during our sojourn in
winter billets in Hampshire. Cosh writes to them all most ardently
every week--sometimes oftener--and Bobby Little, as he ploughs wearily
through repeated demands for photographs, and touching protestations
of lifelong affection, curses the verbose and susceptible youth with
all his heart.

But this mail brings him a gleam of comfort.

_So you tell me, Chrissie_, writes Cosh to the lady in South
Kensington, _that you are engaged to be married on a milkman_....

("Thank heaven!" murmurs Bobby piously.)

_No, no, Chrissie, you need not trouble yourself. It is nothing to
me_.

("He's as sick as muck!" comments Bobby.)

_All I did before was in friendship's name_.

("Liar!")

Bobby, thankfully realising that his daily labours will be materially
lightened by the withdrawal of the fickle Chrissie from the postal
arena, ploughs steadily through the letters. Most of them begin in
accordance with some approved formula, such as--

_It is with the greatest of pleasure that I take up my pen_--

It is invariably a pencil, and a blunt one at that.

Crosses are ubiquitous, and the flap of the envelope usually bears the
mystic formula, S.W.A.K. This apparently means "Sealed with a kiss,"
which, considering that the sealing is done not by the writer but by
the Censor, seems to take a good deal for granted.

Most of the letters acknowledge the receipt of a "parcle"; many give a
guarded summary of the military situation.

_We are not allowed t