Still, holders of authorised passes sometimes lose them, and unauthorised persons sometimes get hold of them and “convert” them to their own unlawful uses.  The career of these adventurers is usually as brief as it is inglorious; when apprehended they are handed over to the French authorities, and the place that knew them knows them no more.  They are shot into some mysterious oubliette.  The rest is silence, or, as a mediaeval chronicler would say, “Let him have a priest.”

We have taught the inhabitants of Flanders and Artois three things:  one, to sing “Tipperary”; two, to control their street traffic; and three, to flush their drains.  The spectacle of the military police on point duty agitatedly waving little flags like a semaphore in the middle of narrow and congested street corners was at first a source of great entertainment to the inhabitants, who appeared to think it was a kind of performance thoughtfully provided by the Staff for their delectation.  Their applause was quite disconcerting.  It all so affected the mind of one good lady at H——­ that she used to rush out into the street every time she saw a motor-lorry coming and make uncouth gestures with her arms and legs, to the no small embarrassment of the supply columns, the confusion of the military police, and the unconcealed delight of our soldiers, who regard the latter as their natural enemy.  Gentle remonstrances against such gratuitous assistance were of no avail, and eventually she was handed over to the French authorities for an inquiry into the state of her mind.

Drains are looked after by the Camp Commandant, assisted by the sanitary section of the R.A.M.C.  It is an unlovely duty.  I am not sure that the men in the trenches are not better off in this respect than the unfortunate members of the Staff who are supposed to live on the fat of the land in billets.  In the trenches there are easy methods of disposing of “waste products”; along some portion of the French front, where the lines are very close together, the favourite method, so I have been told, is to hurl the buckets at the enemy, accompanied by extremely uncomplimentary remarks.  In the towns where we are billeted public hygiene is a neglected study, and the unfortunate Camp Commandants have to get sewage pumps from England and vast quantities of chloride of lime.  Fatigue parties do the rest.

The C.C. has, however, many other things to do.

Finding my office unprovided with a fire shovel, I wrote a “chit” to the
C.C.: 

Mr. M. presents his compliments to the Camp Commandant, and would
be greatly obliged if he would kindly direct that a shovel be
issued to his office.

A laconic message came back by my servant: