out his candle.  The Sergeant told him to mind his own bloody business.  So Deacon said he’d blow the candle out himself.  The Sergeant flew into a rage and swore at him and told him to sling his bloody hook.  Deacon got wild too—­he’s one of those fellows who won’t stand any nonsense—­and blew out the candle.  The Sergeant went off the deep end properly and had him placed under arrest.  Deacon got a District Court Martial and was charged with insubordination.  They gave him fourteen days’ Number 1.  He’s serving it in camp.  There’s no gun or wagon there, so they can’t crucify him on a wheel in the ordinary way.  They’ve been tying him to a post instead, one hour in the morning and one in the afternoon.  That blackguard of a Police Corporal won’t let him be in the shade where the trees are, but has him tied up in the full glare of the sun.

“The C.O.’s been down on people writing things in letters too.  Lewis wrote home he’d starve on the rations we get if it weren’t for the parcels his people send him.  The C.O. had him up.  He told him to make complaints through the proper channels in future and gave him seven days Number 2.  He has to collect and empty the latrine buckets every morning before breakfast.  When he gets back from work in the afternoon he has to chop wood with that swine of a Police Corporal standing over him.  Of course, he’s a bloody fool to write in that strain—­our rations aren’t so bad, considering.  Thompson was up for the same sort of thing.  He wrote he’d seen a thing or two out here and when he got back home he’d open people’s eyes a bit about the war and the army.  All bluff, of course, for the truth about the war and the army could never be published.  He got five days for his trouble.  I nearly got into hot water myself.  Luckily for me I was the first one to be on the peg for writing things in my letters, else I’d have got a stiff sentence.  I wrote:  ’Being in the army is just like being back at school; the only difference is that whereas at school your superiors generally know a little bit more about things than you do, in the army that is not the case.’  The C.O. told me off properly.  He said it was most serious, a court martial offence, in fact.  The charge would be one of ’Conduct prejudicial to good order and military discipline.’  He let me off, though, because it was my first transgression.  Old Peter Cowan was nearly run by the S.M. a couple of days ago.  He was inspecting us and when he came to Peter he shouted, ’Why haven’t you cleaned your boottons?’ Peter answered with a perfectly solemn countenance, ’I omitted to do so, sir.’  The S.M. glared at him, but he wasn’t quite sure about the meaning of the word ‘omitted,’ and being afraid of making a fool of himself he passed on.  Fletcher, who was standing only a few numbers away, smiled at Peter’s remark.  The S.M. spotted him, and shouted, ‘What are you grinning at—­anything foonny?’ Fletcher said, ‘No, sir,’ and straightened his face with a wry contortion.  The S.M. shouted