In Palestine both sides have withdrawn their troops and the battle is proceeding without them.

When one realises that against these weakening and ever decreasing forces our Allies will still have a reserve of 80,000,000 by the Spring of 1925, it is impossible to take an otherwise than optimistic view of the situation.

* * * * *

INTENSIVE RAINFALL.

    “CUMBERLAND and WESTMORELAND.—­After a ten weeks’ drought
    we have had three weeks’ rain every day.”—­Daily Paper.

* * * * *

    “Officer’s camp kit wanted, in good condition, Sam Browne
    belt (5 ft. 7), haversack, &c.”—­Scotsman.

In readiness for this hero’s arrival at the Front the communication-trenches are being specially widened.

* * * * *

“I WISH—­

    “That it were possible to get frying-pans that would stand
    LEVEL when one is cooking in them.”—­Home Chat.

It is so awkward to be tilted out of the frying-pan into the fire.

* * * * *

[Illustration:  C.O. (to sentry). “DO YOU KNOW THE DEFENCE SCHEME FOR THIS SECTOR OF THE LINE, MY MAN?”

Tommy. “YES, SIR.”

C.O. “WELL, WHAT IS IT, THEN?”

Tommy. “TO STAY ’ERE AND FIGHT LIKE ’ELL.”]

* * * * *

THE GREAT OFFENCE.

As everybody knows, a Gurkha is first of all a rifleman, but apart from his rifle (which to a hill-man is both meat and raiment) there are two other treasures very dear to the little man’s heart.  These are his kukri and his umbrella—­symbols of war and peace; and, although he knows the weapon proper to each state and can dispense (none better) with superfluities, there must have been many times in France when the absence of his umbrella has caused him a bitter nostalgia.  “Battle is blessed by Allah and no man tires thereof,” but trenches are of the Shaitan, and from the same malevolent one comes the ever-raging bursat, the pitiless drenching rain, that falls where a man may not strip.

With his kukri he did wonders out there on stilly nights, when he wriggled “over the top,” gripping its good blade in his teeth.  Then No Man’s Land became a jungle and the Bosch a beast whose dispatch was swift and sure under his cunning wrist.  Dawn would find him squatting in the corner of his dug-out sleeping as one who has sweet dreams—­dreams maybe of counting the decapitated before an admiring crowd in his native city, himself again the dapper young dog of Darrapore.

No kilted Jock goes with more swagger down Princes Street than Johnny Gurkha down the bazaar of Darrapore, particularly in the evening, when he doffs khaki for the mufti suit of his clan—­the spotless white shorts, coat of black sateen, little cocked cap and brightly bordered stockings—­a mode de rigueur that would be robbed of its final cachet without the black umbrella, tucked well up under the arm.