[1] Railway Transport Officer.
"Who are you?" he inquired haughtily. My reply was not only correct but dignified. "We know nothing about you," he said. "The staff officer who should have been here to give you your instructions is away at present." (I think I mentioned that it was Christmas Day!)
"Never mind," I replied, "but would it be disturbing your arrangements at all if I watered my horses and gave my men some food here? They've had nothing since last night, and the horses have been ten hours without water."
"No time for that. You'll leave in two minutes."
And sure enough in half an hour we were off again!...
When, soon after five, we learnt that we were within a few minutes of our journey's end I leant across and woke "The Child"—who is my junior subaltern. If this war had not come to pass the Child would probably be enjoying his Christmas holidays and looking forward to his last term at his public school. Actually, he has already nine months' service, of which three have been spent at the front. He has been home wounded and is now starting out again as a veteran to whom less experienced persons refer their doubts and queries. Last week he celebrated his eighteenth birthday. He is the genuine article, that is he holds a regular commission and has passed through "the Shop."[2] His clothes fit him, his aspirates appear in the right places, he is self-possessed, competent, level-headed and not infrequently amusing. Of his particular type of manhood (or rather boyhood) he is a fine example.
[2] R.M.A. Woolwich.
"Wake up, Child," I said. "We're nearly there."
He rubbed his eyes and sat up, wide awake at once.
"Some journey," he observed. "Hope it's not Hell's own distance to our billets."