In addition to the Boche, we wage continuous warfare with the elements, and the various departments of Olympus render us characteristic assistance.  The Round Game Department has issued a set of rules for the correct method of massaging and greasing the feet.  (Major Wagstaff e refers to this as, “Sole-slapping; or What to do in the Children’s Hour; complete in Twelve Fortnightly Parts.”) The Fairy Godmother Department presents us with what the Quartermaster describes as “Boots, gum, thigh”; and there has also been an issue of so-called fur jackets, in which the Practical Joke Department has plainly taken a hand.  Most of these garments appear to have been contributed by animals unknown to zoology, or more probably by a syndicate thereof.  Corporal Mucklewame’s costume gives him the appearance of a St. Bernard dog with Astrakhan fore legs.  Sergeant Carfrae is attired in what looks like the skin of Nana, the dog-nurse in “Peter Pan.”  Private Nigg, an undersized youth of bashful disposition, creeps forlornly about his duties disguised as an imitation leopard.  As he passes by, facetious persons pull what is left of his tail.  Private Tosh, on being confronted with his winter trousseau, observed bitterly—­

“I jined the Airmy for tae be a sojer; but I doot they must have pit me doon as a mountain goat!”

Still, though our variegated pelts cause us to resemble an unsuccessful compromise between Esau and an Eskimo, they keep our bodies warm.  We wish we could say the same for our feet.  On good days we stand ankle-deep; on bad, we are occasionally over the knees.  Thrice blessed then are our Boots, Gum, Thigh, though even these cannot altogether ward off frost-bite and chilblains.

Over the way, Brother Boche is having a bad time of it:  his trenches are in a worse state than ours.  Last night a plaintive voice cried out—­

“Are you dere, Jock?  Haf you whiskey?  We haf plenty water!”

Not bad for a Boche, the platoon decided.

There is no doubt that whatever the German General Staff may think about the war and the future, the German Infantry soldier is “fed-up.”  His satiety takes the form of a craving for social intercourse with the foe.  In the small hours, when the vigilance of the German N.C.O.’s is relaxed, and the officers are probably in their dug-outs, he makes rather pathetic overtures.  We are frequently invited to come out and shake hands.  “Dis war will be ober the nineteen of nex’ month!” (Evidently the Kaiser has had another revelation.) The other morning a German soldier, with a wisp of something white in his hand, actually clambered out of the firing-trench and advanced towards our lines.  The distance was barely seventy yards.  No shot was fired, but you may be sure that safety-catches were hastily released.  Suddenly, in the tense silence, the ambassador’s nerve failed him.  He bolted back, followed by a few desultory bullets.  The reason for his sudden panic was never rightly ascertained, but the weight of public opinion inclined to the view that Mucklewame, who had momentarily exposed himself above the parapet, was responsible.