He is not always a real Staff Officer—­the kind that wears a red hatband.  Sometimes he is an obvious “dug-out,” with a pronounced embonpoint or a game leg.  Sometimes he is a mere stripling, with a rapidly increasing size in hats.  Sometimes he is an ordinary human being.  But whoever he is, and whatever his age or rank, one thing is certain.  He has no mean:  he is either very good or very bad.  When he is good he is very good indeed, and when he is bad he is horrid.  He is either Jekyll or Hyde.

Thrice blessed, then, is that unit which, upon its journey to the seat of war, encounters only the good of the species.  To transfer a thousand men, with secrecy and despatch, from camp to train, from train to ship, from ship to train, and from train to a spot near the battle line, is a task which calls for the finest organisation and the most skilful administration.  Let it be said at once that our path to our present address has been almost universally lined with Jekylls.  The few Hydes whom we have encountered are by this time merely a subject for amusing anecdote.

As for the organisation of our journey—­well, it was formulated upon Olympus, and was marked by those Olympian touches of which mention has been previously made.  For instance, immense pains were taken, by means of printed rules and official memoranda, to acquaint us with the procedure to be followed at each point of entrainment or embarkation.  Consequently we set out upon our complicated pilgrimage primed with explicit instructions and ready for any emergency.  We filled up forms with countless details of our equipment and personnel, which we knew would delight the heart of the Round Game Department.  We divided our followers, as directed, into Loading Parties, and Ration Parties, and Hold Parties, and many other interesting subdivisions, as required by the rules of the game.  But we had reckoned without the Practical Joke Department.  The Round Game Department having furnished us with one set of rules, the Practical Joke Department prepared another, entirely different, and issued them to the officers who superintended such things as entrainment and embarkation.  At least, that is the most charitable explanation of the course of action adopted by the few Mr. Hydes whom we encountered.

Two of these humorists linger in the memory.  The first was of the type which is admiringly referred to in commercial circles as a hustler.  His hustling took the form of beginning to shout incomprehensible orders almost before the train had drawn up at the platform.  After that he passed from party to party, each of which was working strenuously under its own sergeant, and commanded them (not the sergeant) to do something else, somewhere else—­a course of action naturally calculated to promote unity and celerity of action all round.  A perspiring sergeant who ventured to point out that his party were working under the direct orders of their Company Commander, was promptly placed under arrest, and his flock enjoyed a welcome and protracted breathing-space until an officer of sufficient standing to cope with Mr. Hyde—­unfortunately he was Major Hyde—­could be discovered and informed.