The result was, of course, that I received official intimation that our line could apparently be broken at any time and that “steps must be taken,” etc., etc.  I took steps in the direction of Nijinsky.

Nijinsky is a Polish Jew (from Commercial Road, E.) and has long been the despair of his platoon sergeant.  He is fat where there is no need to be fat, his clothes bulge where no clothes are expected to bulge, and he is the kind of man who loses a cap-badge once a week, preferably just before the C.O. comes round.  There is only one saving grace about him.  He can always be trusted to volunteer for a dull lecture or outing to which nobody else wants to go, but to which certain numbers have to be sent.  His invariable reply to the question is, “Yiss, I’ll ger-go, it’s ser-something for ner-nothing.”

I found him, as I expected, hanging round the cookhouse, and taxed him with his neglect of duty.

“He ter-told me I ought to use my dis-cretion, Sir,” he piped in his high plaintive voice.

I told him severely that it was a trick, a very palpable trick, and that he must ever be on the alert for all such kinds of evasion.  Finally, when I had informed him how badly he had let us all down, he waddled away contrite and tearful, and fully under the impression, I think, that I should probably lose my commission through his negligence.

I did not realise how deeply he had taken the matter to heart until I found him at his post apparently reading the Riot Act to a crowd of obsequious Huns, who were listening patiently to the written law as expounded in Yiddish—­that being a language in which he succeeds in making himself partially understood.  The incident passed, but I began to have fears that the reformed rake might prove a greater danger than ever.

The next day my worst fears were realised.  In fact, during my temporary absence Nijinsky surpassed himself.  At eleven o’clock the General, supported by his Staff, rolled up in his car and stopped at Nijinsky’s post on his way into “neutral” country.  The General, the G.S.O.1, the D.A.Q.M.G. and the A.D.C. got out, shining, gorgeous and beflowered with foreign decorations, to chat to the sentry (you’ve seen pictures of it; it’s always being done), Nijinsky, who had already turned back two innocuous Gunner Colonels (armed with sporting guns) that morning, sauntered up, drunk with newly acquired confidence, his rifle slung on his right shoulder and his hat over one eye.

“All well here, sentry?” asked the General, towering over him in all his glory.

“Pup-pass, please,” said Nijinsky, ever on the look-out for some cunning trick.

“Oh, that’s all right; I’m General Blank.”

The word “General” recalled Nijinsky to his senses.  He unslung his rifle, brought it to the order, brought it to the slope and presented arms with great solemnity, and as only Nijinsky can.

“Oh—­er—­stand easy,” said the General, when the meaning of these evolutions was made manifest to him.  “Wonderful days for you fellows here—­what?  There have been times when the Rhine seemed a long way away, didn’t it?  And now here you are, a victorious army guarding that very river!  It’s a wonderful time for you, and no doubt you appreciate it?”