Think for a moment of what happened at the beginning of August.  More than a dozen ’Varsity men were thrown like Daniels into a den of mercenaries.  We were awkwardly privileged persons—­full corporals with a few days’ service.  Motor-cycling gave superlative opportunities of freedom.  Our duties were “flashy,” and brought us into familiar contact with officers of rank.  We were highly paid, and thought to have much money of our own.  In short, we who were soldiers of no standing possessed the privileges that a professional soldier could win only after many years’ hard work.

Again, it did not help matters that our Corps was a Corps of intelligent experts who looked down on the ordinary “Tommy,” that our Company had deservedly the reputation of being one of the best Signal Companies in the Army—­a reputation which has been enhanced and duly rewarded in the present war.  These motor-cyclists were not only experimental interlopers.  They might even “let down” the Company.

We expected jealousy and unpleasantness, which we hoped to overcome by hard work.  We found a tactful kindness that was always smoothing the rough way, helping us amusedly, and giving us more than our due, and a thorough respect where respect was deserved.  It was astonishing, but then we did not know the professional soldier.  During the winter there was a trifle of friction over cooking, the work of the Signal Office, and the use and abuse of motor-cycles.  It would have been a poor-spirited company if there had been none.  But the friction was transitory, and left no acid feeling.

I should like to pay my compliments to a certain commanding officer, but six months’ work under him has convinced me that he does not like compliments.  Still, there remains that dinner at the end of the war, and then...!

The Sergeant-Major frightened us badly at first.  He looked so much like a Sergeant-Major, and a Sergeant-Major is more to be feared than the C.O., or the General, or the A.P.M., or anybody else in this disciplinary world.  He can make life Hell or Heaven or a judicious compromise.  Our Sergeant-Major believed in the judicious compromise with a tendency towards Heaven.  When any question arose between professional and amateur, he dealt with it impartially.  At other times he was inclined to let us work out our own salvation.  I have always had a mighty respect for the Sergeant-Major, but have never dared tell him so.  Perhaps he will read this.

The “Quarter-Bloke"[30] was a jewel.  He was suddenly called upon to keep us supplied with things of which he had never even heard the names.  He rose to the occasion like a hero or Mr Selfridge’s buyer.  Never did he pass by an unconsidered trifle.  One day a rumour went round that we might get side-cars.  That was enough for the Quarter-Bloke.  He picked up every large-sized tyre he thought might come in useful.  The side-cars came.  There was a rush for tyres.  The Quarter-Bloke did not rush.  He only smiled.