Now this cannot be.  The cog is shown to be indispensable.  I must remain a soldier.

Why do they want me, James?  I am nothing like a soldier.  I cannot click my heels as other men do.  I try, Heaven knows how I try, but all the C.O. hears is a sound as of two cabbages being slapped together.  And my word of command!  The critics say it is like a cry for help in a London fog.

My haversack contains no trace of any Field-Marshal’s baton.  You are aware that every private soldier’s haversack is issued complete with “Batons, one, Field-Marshal (potential), for the use of.”  But there is no authority for such an issue for commissioned ranks.

Is it because of my manner with men and my powers as a disciplinarian?  I fear not.  If a man is brought before me for summary jurisdiction a lump rises in my throat and I want to cry.  I am always sure he didn’t mean to do it.  As for military law, I am shaky on the fines for drunkenness, and I don’t feel at all sure whether death at dawn or two extra fatigues is the maximum punishment for having one string of the hold-all longer than the other when on active service.

When I kicked the bell-push towards the end of last guest-night the Adjutant said he should mark me down for the job of Physical Training Officer; but I hope he was only joking.  I am not built for the work.  My frame is puny and my countenance irresolute.  I hate bending and stretching my arms; they creak and frighten me.  I never could squat on my heels like a thingummy.

I might, if allowed, make a hit as Messing Officer.  With the aid of my Cookery Course notes I can differentiate between no fewer than thirty-four different types of rissole.  Unfortunately we already have a Messing Officer of deadly efficiency.  He can classify dripping by instinct.  He can memorise at sight all the revolting contents of a swill-tub.  My rissole lore is a poor asset in comparison.

No, James, I think I have it.  One day you will read that our Armies of Occupation consist of so many hundred thousands of all ranks, including, perhaps, 35,001 officers.  That is why they retain me.  I shall be the “1” at the end of the thousands.  It is your humble servant’s function to keep the Armies of Occupation up to strength.

Are we to be robbed of the fruits of victory?  The reply is in the negative.  Therefore, when next June comes along and you yearn for the early filberts, do not be fretty.  Remember that I am gathering in fruits of another and a nobler kind.  Yours ever,

WILLIAM.

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[Illustration:  “SORRY, MUM, BUT I’M AFRAID YOU’LL ’AVE TER STAY UPSTAIRS ’COS THE AFFILIATED SOCIETY OF PIANNER-SHIFTERS ’AS CALLED A GENERAL STRIKE THIS MINNIT.”]

* * * * *

NEW BREAD FOR OLD.

    ["New Bread Again”—­“Loaves of Any Shape.”—­Headlines from a
    Daily Paper.]