The Surrey-man asked me to help him censor some company letters before going over to the battalion mess for lunch; they were more literate than the ones in the Welsh regiment, but duller. On the way to the mess he told me more about the battalion. He asked me whether it was my first time out. ‘I was attached to the Second Welsh Regiment for three months; I commanded a company there for a bit.’ ‘Oh, were you? Well, I’d advise you to say nothing at all about it, then they’ll not expect too much of you. They treat us like dirt; in a way it will be worse for you than for me because you’re a full lieutenant. They’ll resent that with your short service. There’s one lieutenant here of six years’ service and second-lieutenants who have been out here since the autumn. They have already had two Special Reserve captains foisted on them; they’re planning to get rid of them somehow. In the mess, if you open your mouth or make the slightest noise the senior officers jump down your throat. Only officers of the rank of captain are allowed to drink whisky or turn on the gramophone. We’ve got to jolly well keep still and look like furniture. It’s just like peace time. Mess bills are very high; the mess was in debt at Quetta last year and we are economising now to pay that back. We get practically nothing for our money but ordinary rations and the whisky we aren’t allowed to drink. ‘We’ve even got a polo-ground here. There was a polo-match between the First and Second Battalions the other day. The First Battalion had had all their decent ponies pinched that time when they were sent up at Ypres and the cooks and transport men had to come up into the line to prevent a break through. So this battalion won easily. Can you ride? No? Well, subalterns who can’t ride have to attend riding-school every afternoon while we’re in billets. They give us hell, too. Two of us have been at it for four months and haven’t passed off yet. They keep us trotting round the field, with crossed stirrups most of the time, and they give us pack-saddles instead of riding-saddles. Yesterday they called us up suddenly without giving us time to change into breeches. That reminds me, you notice everybody’s wearing shorts? It’s a regimental order. The battalion thinks it’s still in India. They treat the French civilians just like “niggers,” kick them about, talk army Hindustani at them. It makes me laugh sometimes. Well, what with a greasy pack-saddle, bare knees, crossed stirrups, and a wild new transport pony that the transport men had pinched from the French, I had a pretty thin time. The colonel, the adjutant, the senior major and the transport officer stood at the four corners of the ring and slogged at the ponies as they came round. I came off twice and got wild with anger, and nearly decided to ride the senior major down. The funny thing is that they don’t realize that they are treating us badly—it’s such an honour to be serving with the regiment. So the best thing is to