Then the Q.M.S. had another rum and took up his pencil again. He spread out a piece of paper and commenced to write. “I’ll get that first verse off and read it to you,” he said. He would have done it, too, but for the sergeant-major. Our sergeant-major is a—well, he is just a sergeant-major, and he does not write verse.
THE HOSPITAL CAMP
WATER CARRIERS
A Y.M.C.A. CANTEEN QUEUE
ANZAC SKETCHES
By DAVID BARKER
“What about those great-coats?” he roared. “Didn’t I tell you to get them to-day? And they are not here. Weeks ago I ordered you to get them. I don’t suppose you ever requisitioned for them. What’s that you’re writing now—requisitions?”