of his story.
Private Buggins suffered from curvature of the spine. It was plain
that he could not carry a pack for very long. Some one at home passed
Private Buggins fit and he came out with a draft. He was picked out
of that draft at the base in France. At the end of a fortnight's
strenuous labour (form filling), Private Buggins was sent back to
England.

A fortnight after that he turned up again in France, one of another
draft. Once more he was detached. Once more the wheels creaked round
and Private Buggins went back to England. This time three weeks
elapsed before he joined another draft and again submitted himself
for medical examination in France. The result was the same. I do not
wonder. I saw Buggins's spine once, and I hold strongly that "Blighty
is the place for him."

After that I lost sight of Private Buggins, for I was moved to a new
camp; but I have no reason to suppose the case is settled. He is
still, in all probability, crossing and recrossing the English
Channel. By this time I expect he has found out ways of living
tolerably comfortably under the conditions of his nomadic military
service. But he ought to be given a special medal when the war is
over and he is allowed to settle down again somewhere.

A new draft also submits to kit inspection. I suppose kits are
inspected in England before the start is made; but the British
soldier has an amazing desire to get rid of the parts of his
equipment which strike him as superfluous. He appears to shed kit as
he goes along, and often succeeds in arriving at the end of the
journey with only half the things he ought to have.

Yet he goes to war with few possessions. I am sure his pack is heavy
enough to carry, but its contents look pitifully insufficient when
spread out on a parade ground for inspection. A cake of soap, a
razor, a small towel, two or three brushes, a spare pair of socks, a
clean shirt--it seems little enough for a man to face an unknown
world with, a man who is heir to the gifts of a complex civilisation.

Once thoroughly inspected, the draft ceases to be a draft, and is
merged in the camp. The men settle down in the lines of their
battalion, take their share in the life and work of their fellows
until the day comes when they are joined to another draft and sent
forth on a yet more adventurous journey.

Drafts coming to us from England arrived in the morning. Drafts going
from us to the front departed at night. I suppose the numbers of