His great triumph was the affair of the leather jackets.  A maternal Government thought to send us out leather jackets.  After tea the Q.-B. bustled in with them.  We rode out with them the next morning.  The 2nd Corps had not yet received theirs.  We were the first motor-cyclists in our part of the world to appear in flaring chrome.  The Q.-B. smiled again.

I always think the Quarter-Bloke is wasted.  He ought to be put in charge of the Looting Department of a large invading army.  Do not misunderstand me.  The Q.-B. never “looted.”  He never stepped a hair’s-breadth outside those regulations that hedge round the Quartermaster.  He was just a man with a prophetic instinct, who, while others passed blindly by, picked up things because they might come in useful some day—­and they always did.  Finally, the Q.-B. was companionable.  He could tell a good story, and make merry decorously, as befitted a Company Quartermaster-Sergeant.

Of the other sergeants I will make no individual mention.  We took some for better, and some for worse, but they were all good men, who knew their job.

Then there was “Ginger,” the cook.  I dare not describe his personal appearance lest I should meet him again—­and I want to—­but it was remarkable.  So was his language.  One of us had a fair gift that way, and duels were frequent, but “Ginger” always had the last word.  He would keep in reserve a monstrously crude sulphurous phrase with a sting of humour in its tail, and, when our fellow had concluded triumphantly with an exotic reference to Ginger’s hereditary characteristics, Ginger would hesitate a moment, as if thinking, and then out with it.  Obviously there was no more to be said.

I have ever so much more to tell about the Signal Company in detail and dialogue.  Perhaps some day I shall have the courage to say it, but I shall be careful to hide about whom I am writing....

* * * * *

The “commission fever,” which we had caught on the Aisne and, more strongly, at Beuvry, swept over us late in January.  Moulders, who had lost his own company and joined on to us during the Retreat, had retired into the quietude of the A.S.C.  Cecil was selected to go home and train the despatch riders of the New Armies.

There were points in being “an officer and a gentleman.”  Dirt and discomfort were all very well when there was plenty of work to do, and we all decided that every officer should have been in the ranks, but despatch-riding had lost its savour.  We had become postmen.  Thoughts of the days when we had dashed round picking-up brigades, had put battalions on the right road, and generally made ourselves conspicuous, if not useful, discontented us.  So we talked it over.

Directing the operations of a very large gun seemed a good job.  There would not be much moving to do, because monster guns were notoriously immobile.  Hours are regular; the food is good, and can generally be eaten in comparative safety.  If the gun had a very long range it would be quite difficult to hit.  Unfortunately gunnery is a very technical job, and requires some acquaintance with Algebra.  So we gave up the idea.