Field officers have no need to employ the language of diplomacy when dealing with subalterns.

“No, you don’t, my lad!” announces the Major.  “Not if I can help it!  Take it away!  Take your darned liver-pill out of this!  Burn, it!  Bury it!  Eat it!  But not here!  Creep away!”

The abashed procession complies.  This time they find a section of trench in charge of a mere corporal.  Here, before any one of sufficient standing can be summoned to deal with the situation, the Trench Mortar Officer seizes his opportunity, and discharges three bombs over the parapet.  He then retires defiantly to his dug-out.

But it is an Ishmaelitish existence.

III

So much for the alleviations which professional enthusiasm bestows.  Now for a few alleviations proper.  These are Sleep, Food, and Literature.

Sleep is the rarest of these.  We seldom get more than a few hours at a time; but it is astonishing how readily one learns to slumber in unlikely surroundings—­upon damp earth, in cramped positions, amid ceaseless noise, in clothes and boots that have not been removed for days.  One also acquires the priceless faculty of losing no time in dropping off.

As for food, we grumble at times, just as people at home are grumbling at the Savoy, or Lockhart’s.  It is the Briton’s habit so to do.  But in moments of repletion we are fain to confess that the organisation of our commissariat is wonderful.  Of course the quality of the menu varies, according to the immunity of the communication-trenches from shell fire, or the benevolence of the Quartermaster and the mysterious powers behind him, or the facilities for cooking offered by the time and place in which we find ourselves.  No large fires are permitted:  the smoke would give too good a ranging-mark to Minnie and her relatives.  Still, it is surprising how quickly you can boil a canteen over a few chips.  There is also, for those who can afford half-a-crown, that invaluable contrivance, “Tommy’s Cooker”; and occasionally we get a ration of coke.  When times are bad, we live on bully, biscuit, cheese, and water, strongly impregnated with chloride of lime.  The water is conveyed to us in petrol-tins—­the old familiar friends, Shell and Pratt—­hundreds of them.  Motorists at home must be feeling the shortage.  In normal times we can reckon on plenty of hot, strong tea; possibly some bread; probably an allowance of bacon and jam.  And sometimes, when the ration parties arrive, mud-stained and weary, in the dead of night, and throw down their bursting sacks, our eyes feast upon such revelations as tinned butter, condensed milk, raisins, and a consignment of that great chieftain of the ration race, The Maconochie of Maconochie.  On these occasions Private Mucklewame collects his share, retires to his kennel, and has a gala-day.