There are officers who are real good fellows, and of these I will tell presently; but there are others--_heaps of others_. These latter are selfish, and frequently incompetent beings, without the slightest consideration for their men, and with a terrible amount for their dear selves. Talk about their roughing it! Most of these individuals have the best of camp beds to rest on, servants to wait on them, good stuff to eat, and, more often than not, whisky, or brandy to drink. And, oh, my sisters, oh, my brothers, when _they_ have to commence roughing it, it is hard indeed for poor Tommy. Many a tale have I heard of thirsty tired Tommies being refused their water cart in camp, as the officers required the water out of it for their baths. The beautiful stories, on the other hand, of the officer being troubled because his men were in bad case, and sharing the contents of his haversack or water bottle with a poor "done-up" Tommy, are generally pure fiction. To hear of Tommy sharing with a chum or a stranger is common enough. Out here one learns to appreciate the ranker more, and the commissioned man less. And when one comes across a good officer, how he is appreciated! Often when I have asked a regular what sort of officers he had, and received the invariable emphatic reply, he has stopped, and in quite a different voice, with a smile on his face, said, "But there was Mr. ----; now he was a _real_ gentleman." And then he has waxed eloquent in this popular officer's praises, relating how "he used to be like one of ourselves," insisted on taking his relief at digging trenches, came and chatted to them round their fires at night, and in scores of ways endeared himself to their hearts. My Rifle friend has just been telling me of such an officer, a young one they had, named Wilson (how he eulogised Mr. Wilson! "He was a good 'un, he was. A _real_ gentleman"). He died, poor fellow, up Lydenburg way. Then he told me of another, a Mr. Baker-Carr; of him he said, "And there isn't a man of us to-day who, if he was in danger, wouldn't die for him." As for the opinion of the Colonials of our officers, you surely know that. This little anecdote expresses pretty well how they stand one with the other: SCENE--PRETORIA. New Zealander, just in from trek, passing, pipe in mouth, by a young officer just out. _Officer_ (stopping New Zealander): "Do you know who I am?" _N.Z._ (removing pipe): "No." _Officer_: "I am an officer!" _N.Z._: "Oh." _Officer_: "I--am--an--officer!" _N.Z._: "Well, take an old soldier's advice and don't get drunk and lose your commission." _Officer_: "D---- you. Don't you salute an officer when you see one?" _N.Z._ (very calmly): "D---- and dot you! It's seldom we salute our own officers, so it isn't likely we'd salute you." _Officer_: "Confound it. If you couldn't stand discipline, what did you come out here for?" _N.Z._: "To fight."