ttached to him--not personally, be
it understood, but officially. I am there to learn how he does it
(whatever it is). High hopes, never realised, are held out to me that
if I am good and look after the office during mealtimes I shall have
a job of my very own one day--possibly two days.

And he is very good to me. He rarely addresses me directly, except
when short of matches, but he often gives me an insight into things
by talking to himself aloud. He does this partly to teach me the
reasoning processes by which he arrives at the momentous decisions
expected of a G.S.O.3, and partly because he values my intelligent
consideration.

This morning, for instance, furnished a typically brilliant example
of our co-operation. "I wonder," he said (and as he spoke I broke off
from my daily duties of writing to Her)--"I wonder what about these
Flares? Division say they want two thousand red and white changing to
green--oh no, it's the other lot; no, that _is_ right--I don't think
they _can_ want two thousand _possibly_. We might give them half for
practice purposes, or say five hundred. Still, if they say they want
two thousand I suppose they do; but then there's the question of what
we've got in hand. All right, _let them have them_."

That was one of the questions I helped to settle.

"Heavens!" he went on, "five hundred men for digging cable trenches!
No, no, I don't think. They had five hundred only the other night--no,
they didn't; it was the other fellows--no, that was the night
before-no, I was right as usual. One has so many things to think
of. Well, they can't have them, that's certain; it can't be
important--yes, it is, though, if things were to--yes, yes--_we'll
let them have them_."

You will note that he said "we." Co-operation again. I assure you I
glowed with pleasure to think I had been of so much assistance.

I had hardly got back to my letter when we started off again.

"Well, that's my morning's work done--no, it isn't--yes, no, by Jove,
there's a code word for No. 237 Filtration Unit to be thought out. No,
I shan't, they really _can't_ want one, they're too far back--still
they _might_ come up to filter something near enough to want one--no
I _won't_, it's sheer waste--still, I suppose one ought to be
prepared--oh, yes, give them one--give them the word 'strafe';
nobody's got that. Bong! That's all for to-day."

And now you know what part I play in the Great War, Dickie.

Yours, JACK.

P.S.--Just