“My compliments to Major Bland, Corporal, and I would like him to parade these nine men in heavy marching order and send them on a nine-mile route march, under an officer.” “Very good, sir!” Next day there were no representatives of “A” Coy. on sick parade! BATMEN This war has produced a new breed of mankind, something that the army has never seen before, although they have formed a part of it, under the same name, since Noah was a boy. They are alike in name only. Batmen, the regular army type, are professionals. What they don’t know about cleaning brass, leather, steel, and general valeting simply isn’t worth knowing. They are super-servants, and they respect their position as reverently as an English butler respects his. With the new batman it is different. Usually the difficulty is not so much to discover what they do not know, as what they do! A new officer arrives at the front, or elsewhere, and he has to have a batman. It is a rather coveted job, and applicants are not slow in coming forward. Some man who is tired of doing sentry duty gets the position, and his “boss” spends anxious weeks bringing him up in the way he should go, losing, in the interval, socks, handkerchiefs, underwear, gloves, ties, shirts, and collars galore! What can be said to the wretched man when in answer to “Where the ---- is my new pair of socks?” he looks faint and replies: “I’ve lost them, sir!” Verily, as the “professional” scornfully remarks, are these “Saturday night batmen!” Yet even batmen are born, not made. Lucky is he who strikes on one of the former; only the man is sure to get killed, or wounded, or go sick! There is always a fly in the ointment somewhere. The best kind of batman to have is a kleptomaniac. Treat him well and he will never touch a thing of your own, but he will, equally, never leave a thing belonging to any one else! “Cozens, where did you get this pair of pants?” “Found them, sir!” “Where did you find them?” “Lying on the floor, sir,” with an air of injured surprise. “_Where!_” “I don’t justly remember, sir.” Voice from right rear: “The Major’s compliments, sir, and have you seen his new pants?” “Cozens!” “Yessir.” “Give me those pants.... Are those the Major’s?” “Yes, sir, them’s them.” Cozens watches the pants disappear with a sad, retrospective air of gloom. “You ain’t got but the _one_ pair now, sir.” This with reproach. “How many times have I got to tell you to leave other people’s clothes alone? The other day it was pyjamas, now it’s pants. You’ll be taking somebody’s boots next. Confound it. I’ll--I’ll return you to duty if you do it again!... How about all those handkerchiefs? Where did _they_ come from?” “All yours, sir, back from the wash!” With a sigh, one is forced to give up the unequal contest.