Few men take their rum in the same fashion or with the same expression. The new draft look at it coyly, carry the cup gingerly to their lips, smell it, make a desperate resolution, gulp it down, and cough for five minutes afterwards. The old hands--the men of rubicund countenance and noses of a doubtful hue--grasp the cup, look to see if the issue is a full one, raise it swiftly, and drain it without a moment’s hesitation, smacking their lips. You can see the man who was up for being drunk the last pay-day coming from afar for his rum. His eyes glisten, his face shines with hopefulness, and his whole manner is one of supreme expectation and content. It is strange how frequently the company staff, from the Sergeant-Major down to the most recently procured batman, find it necessary to enter the inner sanctum of H.Q. after the rum has come. The Sergeant-Major arrives with a large, sweet smile, acting as guard of honour. “Rum up, sir.” “Thank you, Sergeant-Major.” “I’ve detailed that working-party, sir.” “Thank you, Sergeant-Major.” “Is that all, sir?” “Yes, thank you, Sergeant-Major.” He vanishes, to reappear a minute later. “Did you CALL me, sir?” “No” ... long pause ... “Oh! Still there? Er, have a drink, Sergeant-Major?” “Well, sir, I guess I _could_ manage a little drop! Thank you, sir. _Good_-night, sir!” BEDS “Think of my leave coming in two weeks, and of getting a decent bed to sleep in, with sheets!” Sancho Panza blessed sleep, but perhaps he always had a good bed to sleep in; we, who can almost slumber on “apron” wire, have a weakness for good beds. To appreciate fully what a good bed is, one must live for a time without one, and go to rest wrapped in a martial cloak--to wit a British warm or a trench coat, plus the universal sand-bag, than which nothing more generally useful has been seen in this war. Any man who has spent six months (in the infantry) at the front knows all about beds. Any man with a year’s service is a first-class, a number one, connoisseur. The good bed is so rare that whoever spends a night in one talks about it for a week, and brings it up in reminiscences over the charcoal brazier. “You remember when we were on the long hike from the salient? And the little place we struck the third night--Cattelle-Villeul I think it was called? By George, I had a good bed. A peach! It had a spring mattress and real linen sheets--not cotton--and two pillows with frilly things on them, and a ripping quilt, with a top-hole eider-down. I was afraid to get into it until my batman produced that new pair of green pyjamas with the pink stripes. It simply hurt to give that bed up!” And if you let him he will continue in like vein for half an hour. Recollections of that bed have entered into his soul; it is one of the bright spots in a gloomy life.