Go gaily on without the least compunction

Just as they went before.

THE GREAT MAN.

What am I doing, Dickie? Well, I'll tell you. I'm one of those subalterns you hear of sometimes. You know the kind of things they do? They look after their men and ask themselves every day in the line (as per printed instructions), "Am I offensive enough?" In trenches they are ever to the fore, bombing, patrolling, raiding, wiring and inspecting gas helmets. Working-parties under heavy fire are as meat and drink, rum and biscuits to them. Once every nine months, and when all Staff officers have had three goes, they get leave in order to give excuse for the appointment of A.P.M.'s. There are thousands of us, and we are supposed to run the War. These are the things which I am sure (if you get newspapers in Ceylon) jump into your mind the moment I mention the word subaltern, and I may as well tell you that in associating me with any one of these deeds at the present time you are entirely wrong.

I sit in a room, an office papered with maps in all degrees of nakedness, from the newest and purest to those woad-stained veterans called objective maps. In this room, where regimental officers tread lightly, speak softly and creep away, awed and impotent—HE sits. "HE" is a G.S.O.3, or General Staff Officer, third grade. He it is who looks after the welfare of some hundred thousand troops (when everybody else is out). I am attached to him—not personally, be it understood, but officially. I am there to learn how he does it (whatever it is). High hopes, never realised, are held out to me that if I am good and look after the office during mealtimes I shall have a job of my very own one day—possibly two days.

And he is very good to me. He rarely addresses me directly, except when short of matches, but he often gives me an insight into things by talking to himself aloud. He does this partly to teach me the reasoning processes by which he arrives at the momentous decisions expected of a G.S.O.3, and partly because he values my intelligent consideration.

This morning, for instance, furnished a typically brilliant example of our co-operation. "I wonder," he said (and as he spoke I broke off from my daily duties of writing to Her)—"I wonder what about these Flares? Division say they want two thousand red and white changing to green—oh no, it's the other lot; no, that is right—I don't think they can want two thousand possibly. We might give them half for practice purposes, or say five hundred. Still, if they say they want two thousand I suppose they do; but then there's the question of what we've got in hand. All right, let them have them."

That was one of the questions I helped to settle.

"Heavens!" he went on, "five hundred men for digging cable trenches! No, no, I don't think. They had five hundred only the other night—no, they didn't; it was the other fellows—no, that was the night before-no, I was right as usual. One has so many things to think of. Well, they can't have them, that's certain; it can't be important—yes, it is, though, if things were to—yes, yes—we'll let them have them."

You will note that he said "we." Co-operation again. I assure you I glowed with pleasure to think I had been of so much assistance.

I had hardly got back to my letter when we started off again.

"Well, that's my morning's work done—no, it isn't—yes, no, by Jove, there's a code word for No. 237 Filtration Unit to be thought out. No, I shan't, they really can't want one, they're too far back—still they might come up to filter something near enough to want one—no I won't, it's sheer waste—still, I suppose one ought to be prepared—oh, yes, give them one—give them the word 'strafe'; nobody's got that. Bong! That's all for to-day."

And now you know what part I play in the Great War, Dickie.

Yours, JACK.

P.S.—Just off for my morning's exercise—sharpening the Corps Commander's pencils.

A "PUNCH" COT.

Some time ago Mr. Punch made an appeal on behalf of the East London Hospital for Children at Shadwell. He has now received a letter from the Chairman, which says: "By a unanimous resolution the Board of Management have desired me to send you an expression of their most grateful thanks for your help, which, it is no exaggeration to say, has saved the Hospital from disaster." He adds that the Board "would like to give a more practical proof of their gratitude," and proposes, as "an abiding memorial," to set aside a Cot in the Hospital, to be called "The Punch Cot."

It gives Mr. Punch a very sincere pleasure to convey to those who so generously responded to his appeal this expression of the Board's gratitude, and he begs them also to accept his own.

The sum so far contributed by Mr. Punch and his friends amounts to £3,505.

INTERLUDE.

ST. PATRICK, "THAT'S NOT THE WAY I DEALT WITH POISONOUS REPTILES. WHAT'S THE GOOD OF TRYING TO CHARM IT?"

MR. LLOYD GEORGE, "I'M NOT TRYING TO CHARM IT. I'M JUST FILLING IN THE TIME."

THE RECORDER.

[At the concluding session of the Museums Association Conference in Sheffield, Councillor Nuttall, of Southport said it was desirable that every town should make a voice record of every soldier who returned home from the wars, describing his experience in fighting. It would be a valuable record for future generations of the family to know what their ancestor did in the Great War.]

In an Expeditionary Force whose vocabulary included several lurid words there was a certain Battalion renowned for the vigour of its language. And in that Battalion Private Thompson held a reputation which was the envy of all. Not only had he a more varied stock of expletives than anyone else, but he seemed to possess a unique gift for welding them into new and wonderful combinations to meet each fresh situation. Moreover he had an insistent manner of delivering them which alone was sufficient to place him in a class by himself. It was not long before many of his friends gave up trying altogether and let Private Thompson do it all for them. It is even rumoured that on occasions men in distant parts of the line would send for him so that he might come and give adequate expression to feelings which they felt to be beyond their range.

To show you the extent of his fame, it is only necessary to mention that Lieutenant —— composed an ode all about Private Thompson and got it published in Camouflage, the trench gazette of the Nth Division. Two of the verses went, as far as I can remember, something like this:—