“Vickers Light Automatic, ·303,” so saith the machine gun handbook. Further on, it informs the reader that the gun weighs 38 lbs. when the water jacket is filled. These statements have been the subject of many bitter outbursts, and not a few have wondered whether they had a pair of scales at the War Office (this unfortunate institution is, of course, responsible for everything that goes wrong). There have been countless instances where a sweating, cursing Billjim, struggling up a scorching precipice with the said Vickers Light Automatic, would have betted all his deferred pay that it weighed at least ten times as much as the handbook implies. Even on such kindergarten exercises as gun drill, wonder has often been expressed that “they” had the blooming neck to print such a fib. Still another proof that the real weight greatly exceeds the official figures. Watch the hefty No. 2, capable of lifting an 18 pdr., as, after continuous firing, he gets the order, “Out of action!” In a flash, the pins are wrenched out, he seizes the smoking gun where the protecting piece of puttee, numnah pad or sock isn’t, and instantly drops the weapon to the ground. Isn’t that convincing? There are other minor details about the machine gun handbook that are apt to be misleading. It states that there is a No. 1, who is the boss and only carries the tripod—a flimsy toy of some 48 lbs. of brass and steel; next, a No. 2, who juggles with a Vickers Light Automatic; also a No. 3, who has nothing to do but carry a few boxes of ammunition, these being mere tin cases no bigger than the handbag he used to carry his pyjamas in, and containing only one belt; then there are a few other superfluous hangers-on; a No. 4, who aids the No. 3; a No. 5, who aids him; and so _ad infinitum_ down to that humble creature, the pack leader, who holds three horses during an action. Thus far, the handbook is perfect, photographic plates and all. Where the discrepancy comes in, is that there is no advice regarding a hitch. It has nothing to say about this: A person is observed toiling along with the tripod, a box of 250 cartridges hanging on each leg, straddled across his shoulders; some distance behind him wobbles another sagging individual, bearing the gun, more belt boxes, a pick and a shovel; while a third—sometimes—struggles on with still more belt boxes, range-finder, spare parts wallet, a can of water, steam escape tube, a bag to prevent dust at the gun’s muzzle, and a few other trifles; and down in some more or less protected hollow, three or four distracted pack leaders curse away their last remaining hope of salvation trying to keep untangled the twenty-odd hungry brutes that crane their necks to nibble at infinitesimal, dead grass stalks. Let us dismiss the handbook.