A friend of mine by name of Patrick once got the job of Temporary Assistant Deputy Lance Staff Captain (unpaid), and before he tumbled to the one-way idea his telephone worked both ways and gave him a lot of trouble.  People were always calling him up and asking him questions, which of course wasn’t playing the game at all.  Sometimes he never got to bed before 10 P.M., answering questions; often he was up again at 9 A.M., answering more questions—­and such questions!

A sample.  On one occasion he rang up his old battalion.  One Jimmy was then Acting Assistant Vice-Adjutant.  “Hello, wazzermatter?” said Jimmy.  “Staff Captain speaking,” said Patrick sternly.  “Please furnish a return of all cooks, smoke-helmets, bombs, mules, Yukon-packs, tin bowlers, grease-traps and Plymouth Brothers you have in the field!”

“Easy—­beg pardon, yes, Sir,” said Jimmy and hung up.

Presently the phone buzzed and there was Jimmy again.

“Excuse me, Sir, but you wanted a return of various commodities we have in the field.  What field?”

“Oh, the field of Mars, fat-head!” Patrick snapped and rang off.  A quarter of an hour later he was called to the phone once more and the familiar bleat of Jimmy tickled his ear.  “Excuse me, Sir—­whose mother?”

On the other hand the great Brass Hat is human and makes a slip, a clerical error, now and again sufficient to expose his flank.  And then the humble fighting-man can draw his drop of blood if he is quick about it.  To this same long-suffering Jimmy was vouchsafed the heaven-sent opportunity, and he leapt at it.  He got a chit from H.Q., dated 6/7/17, which ran thus:—­

“In reference to 17326 Pte.  Hogan we note that his date of birth is 10/7/17.  Please place him in his proper category.”

To which Jimmy replied:—­

“As according to your showing 17326 Pte.  Hogan will not be born for another four days we are placed in a position of some difficulty. Signed ——­

“P.S.—­What if, when the interesting event occurs, 17326 Pte.  Hogan should be a girl?

“P.P.S.—­Or twins?”

Our Albert Edward is just back from one of those Army finishing schools where the young subaltern’s knowledge of SHAKESPEARE and the use of the globes is given a final shampoo before he is pushed over the top.  Albert Edward’s academy was situated in a small town where schools are maintained by all our brave Allies; it is an educational centre.  The French school does the honours of the place and keeps a tame band, which gives tongue every Sunday evening in the Grand Place.  Thither repair all the young ladies of the town to hear the music.  Thither also repair all the young subalterns, also for the purpose of hearing the music.

At the end of every performance the national anthems of all our brave Allies are played, each brave Ally standing rigidly to attention the while, in compliment to the others.  As we have a lot of brave Allies these days, all with long national war-whoops, this becomes somewhat of a strain.