“Only one pair of gloves left, Sir,” he said.  “Gloves, woollen, knitted, pairs one, one-and-tenpence.”

“Thank you very much,” I said.  “They’ll do nicely.  I’ll take them now.”

But of course I didn’t.  At 15.00 was in another building, watching another Corporal make out an indent in quadruplicate for gloves, woollen, knitted, officers, for the use of, pairs one.  At 15.05 I was in another building, getting the indent stamped and countersigned.  At 15.12 I was in another building, exchanging it for a buff form in duplicate.  At 15.20 I re-entered the Issue Department and went through the motions of taking up the gloves.

“Excuse me, Sir,” said the Corporal, skilfully sliding them away; “you must first produce your Field Advance Book as a proof of identity.”

“I’m afraid I haven’t a proper Field Advance Book,” I explained.  “You see, in Egypt, where I come from—­that is, I was attached, you know, to the—­well, in short, I haven’t a proper Field Advance Book, as I said before.  But I have here an A.B. 64 issued in lieu thereof—­they do that in Egypt, you know—­and I have my identity discs, my demobilisation papers, my cheque-book—­oh, and heaps of other things which would prove to you that I am really me.  Besides, my name is sewn inside the back of my tunic. And my shirt,” I added hopefully.

“If you haven’t a Field Advance Book, Sir,” said the Corporal coldly, “your only course is to obtain a certificate of identity from the Camp Commandant.”

“But, look here, Corporal,” I protested, “it would take me a quarter-of-an-hour to get to the Commandant’s office and another quarter to get back.  I’m sure I couldn’t get a certificate of identity under an hour and a-half.  It is now twenty-five past three.  You close at four.  To-morrow morning at five ac emma I entrain for Cherbourg....  You see how impossible it all is, Corporal.”

“Sorry, Sir,” said the Corporal.  “I’m not allowed to issue the gloves without your Field Advance Book or a certificate of identity.”

“But what am I to do?” I asked weakly.  “Think, Corporal, how cold it will be across Italy and France without gloves.  I’ve been in the East for over four years, and I might get pneumonia and die, you know.”

“I should try the Camp Commandant, Sir,” he said.  “It may not take so long as you think.”

* * * * *

At 15.41 I was outside the Camp Commandant’s office with my A.B.64, identity discs, demobilisation papers and cheque-book ready to hand, and my tunic loosened at the neck.

At 15.42 I entered the office with some diffidence.

At 15.43 I was outside again, dazed and a little frightened, with a certificate of identity in my hand.  It was the fastest piece of work I have ever known in the Army.  And I might have been Mr. George Robey in disguise for all they knew in the office—­or cared.

* * * * *