But in the trenches, of course, the Hieland troops all look alike.  They cling to their kilts—­or, rather, their kilts cling to them—­but kilts and jackets are all of khaki.  If they wore the bright plaids of the tartans they would be much too conspicuous a mark for the Germans, and so they have to forswear their much loved colors when they are actually at grips with Fritz.

I wear the kilt nearly always, myself, as I have said.  Partly I do so because it is my native costume, and I am proud of my Highland birth; partly because I revel in the comfort of the costume.  But it brings me some amusing experiences.  Very often I am asked a question that is, I presume, fired at many a Hieland soldier, intimate though it is.

“I say, Harry,” someone will ask me, “you wear the kilt.  Do you not wear anything underneath it?”

I do, myself.  I wear a very short pair of trunks, chiefly for reasons of modesty.  So do some of the soldiers.  But if they do they must provide it for themselves; no such garment is served out to them with their uniform.  And so the vast majority of the men wear nothing but their skins under the kilt.  He is bare, that is, from the waist to the hose—­except for the kilt.  But that is garment enough!  I’ll tell ye so, and I’m thinkin’ I know!

So clad the Highland soldier is a great deal more comfortable and a great deal more sanely dressed, I believe, than the city dweller who is trousered and underweared within an inch of his life.  I think it is a matter of medical record, that can be verified from the reports of the army surgeons, that the kilted troops are among the healthiest in the whole army.  I know that the Highland troops are much less subject to abdominal troubles of all sorts—­colic and the like.  The kilt lies snug and warm around the stomach, in several thick layers, and a more perfect protection from the cold has never been devised for that highly delicate and susceptible region of the human anatomy.

Women, particularly, are always asking me another question.  I have seen them eyeing me, in cold weather, when I was walkin’ around, comfortably, in my kilt.  And their eyes would wander to my knees, and I would know before they opened their mouths what it was that they were going to say.

“Oh, Mr. Lauder,” they would ask me.  “Don’t your poor knees get cold—­ with no coverings, exposed to this bitter cold?”

Well, they never have!  That’s all I can tell you.  They have had the chance, in all sorts of bitter weather.  I am not thinking only of the comparitively mild winters of Britain—­although, up north, in Scotland, we get some pretty severe winter weather.  But I have been in Western Canada, and in the northwestern states of the United States, Montana, North Dakota, Minnesota, where the thermometer drops far below zero.  And my knees have never been cold yet.  They do not suffer from the cold any more than does my face, which is as little covered and protected as they—­and for the same reason, I suppose.  They are used to the weather.