This time you say nothing. All power of speech is lost. The entire regiment curses you, while by the light of a guttering candle you write a movement order, “operation order number”--what the deuce _is_ the number anyhow. The Colonel is--shall we say--indisposed as to temper, and the companies get half an hour to fall in, ready to march off. One Company loses the way, and does not arrive at the starting-point. “Did you specify the starting-point quite clearly, Mr. Jones?” “Yes, sir.” “Where did you say it was?” “One hundred yards south of the ‘N’ in CANDIN, sir.” “There are _two_ ‘N’s’ in CANDIN, Mr. Jones; _two_ ‘N’s’! How can you expect a company commander to know _which_ ‘N’? Gross carelessness. Gross carelessness. Go and find the Company, please.” “Yessir.” You find the Company only just out of billets, after scouring the miserable country around the wrong ‘N’ for fifteen minutes, and falling off your horse into one of those infernal ditches. The battalion moves off half an hour later, and the C.O. has lots to say about it. He also remarks that his late Adjutant was “a good horseman”--a bitter reflection! There is absolutely no hope for an Adjutant. If he is a good man at the “job” everybody hates him. If he is feeble the C.O. hates him. The Brigade staff hate him on principle. If he kow-tows to them they trample on him with both feet, if he does _not_ they set snares for him, and keep him up all night. He is expected to know everything: K. R. and O. backwards and forwards, divisional drill, and the training of a section. Routine for the cure of housemaid’s knee in mules, and the whole compendium of Military Law. He is never off duty, and even his soul is not his own. He is, in fact, The Adjutant. Sometimes people try to be nice to him. They mean well. They will come into the Orderly Room and say: “Oh, Mr. Jones, can you tell me where the 119th Reserve Battery of the 83rd Reserve Stokes Gun Coy. is situated?” Of course, Adjutants know _everything_. And when you admit ignorance they look at you with pained surprise, and go to Brigade. “I asked the Adjutant of the --th Battalion, but he did not seem to know.” Adjutants die young. HOME There is one subject no man mentions at the Front unless it be very casually, _en passant_. Even then it brings with it a sudden silence. There is so much, so very much in that little word “Home.” If a man were to get up at a sing-song and sing “Home, Sweet Home,” his life would be imperilled. His audience would rise and annihilate him, because they could not give vent to their feelings in any other way. There are some things that strike directly at the heart, and this is one of them.