at the ports, and were recruited mainly from dock labourers.  Then it was realised that to employ the trained soldier on many of the ordinary “fatigue” duties was to waste his training, and Labour began to be sent plentifully to the front.  For trench-digging, for hut-building, for the making and repair of roads and railways, for the handling and unloading of supplies and ammunition, for sanitation, salvage, moving the wounded at casualty clearing stations, and a score of other needs, the demand on the Labour battalions grew and grew.

How well I remember the shivering Kaffir boys and Indians at work on the handling of stores and ammunition in the cold spring of 1917!—­and the navvy battalions on the roads before the Chinese had arrived in force, and before the great rush of German prisoners began.  Between the British navvy battalions, many of them elderly men past military age, or else unfit in some way for the fighting line, and their comrades in the trenches, there were generally the friendliest relations.  The fighting man knew well what he owed to the “old boys.”  I have before me an account by a Highland officer of the relation between a navvy and a regular battalion in the Ypres salient.  “Their huts stretched along the side of the road which led us towards our trenches; and every time we passed that way the sound of the pipes would bring them out of their billets in crowds to cheer us in, or to welcome us back if we were returning.  They kept that road in splendid repair, despite the heavy wear and tear of the endless traffic which used it, and we blessed them many times.  There was a two-miles stretch across shell-torn, muddy country just behind the fighting line.  Tired men, just relieved from the trenches, and carrying heavy equipment, naturally loathed it as a Slough of Despond; but when we struck the good, honest surface of the navvy battalion’s road, though there were many miles still between us and rest, we felt the journey was as good as over, so easy, by comparison, had marching become.  A close friendship grew up between our battalions.  Our officers invited their officers to dinner.  Our men saluted their officers, and if one of our officers happened to come on the scene of their operations, some old veteran, wearing perhaps the medal ribbon of campaigns dating back a generation, would call his gang to attention, and gravely give the salute after the manner of thirty years ago.  And when one realised what the age of these men must be, who were wearing decorations of Egyptian and Indian frontier campaigns, with not a few Zulu ribbons among them, one marvelled at the skill and strength with which the old fellows wielded pick and shovel.  They could not march any great distance, and we helped them along in motor buses; but once set them down by their tracks, though the road might be chaos and the shell-holes innumerable, obstacles were cleared away, holes filled up, and the new surface well and truly laid with a magical rapidity....  The idea