s, and smoke them as if in duty
bound; the stolen delight of the last "fag-end" is a dream of the
past. Parades are endless, we have never worked so hard since we
joined the army; the minor offences of the cathedral city are full-grown
crimes under long artillery range; a dirty rifle was only a matter for
words of censure a month ago, a dirty rifle now will cause its owner
to meditate in the guard-room.

Dinner consists of bully beef and biscuits; now and again we fry the
bully beef on the farmhouse stove, and when cash is plentiful cook an
egg with it. The afternoon is generally given up to practising
bayonet-fighting, and our day's work comes to an end about six
o'clock. In the evening we go into the nearest village and discuss
matters of interest in some _cafe_. Here we meet all manner of men,
Gurkhas fresh from the firing line; bus-drivers, exiles from London;
men of the Army Service Corps; Engineers, kilted Highlanders, men
recovering from wounds, who are almost fit to go to the trenches
again; French soldiers, Canadian soldiers, and all sorts of people,
helpers in some way or another of the Allies in the Great War.

We have to get back to our billets by eight o'clock, to stop out (p. 036)
after that hour is a serious crime here. A soldier out of doors at
midnight in the cathedral city was merely a minor offender. But under
the range of long artillery fire all things are different for the
soldier.

St. Patrick's Day was an event. We had a half holiday, and at night,
with the aid of beer, we made merry as men can on St. Patrick's Day.
We sang Irish songs, told stories, mostly Cockney, and laughed without
restraint as merry men will, for to all St. Patrick was an admirable
excuse for having a good and rousing time.

There is, however, one little backwater of rest and quiet into which
we men of blood and iron drift at all too infrequent intervals--that
is when we become what is known officially as "barn orderly." A barn
orderly is the company unit who looks after the billets of the men out
on parade. In due course my turn arrived, and the battalion marched
away leaving me to the quiet of farmyard.

Having heaped up the straw, our bedding, in one corner of the barn,
swept the concrete floor, rolled the blankets, explained to the
gossipy farm servant that I did not "compree" her gibberish, and (p. 037)
watched her waddle across the midden towards the house, my duties were
ended. I was at liberty until the retu