pretend you don’t care what they do or say.’ I protested: ‘But all this is childish. Is there a war on here or isn’t there?’ ‘The battalion doesn’t recognize it socially,’ he answered. ‘Still, in trenches I’d rather be with this battalion than in any other that I have met. The senior officers do know their job, whatever else one says about them, and the N.C.O.’s are absolutely trustworthy.’ The Second Battalion was peculiar in having a battalion mess instead of company messes. The Surrey-man said grimly: ‘It’s supposed to be more sociable.’ This was another peace-time survival. We went together into the big château near the church. About fifteen officers of various ranks were sitting in chairs reading the week’s illustrated papers or (the seniors at least) talking quietly. At the door I said: ‘Good morning, gentlemen,’ the new officer’s customary greeting to the mess. There was no answer. Everybody looked at me curiously. The silence that my entry had caused was soon broken by the gramophone, which began singing happily: We’ve been married just one year, And Oh, we’ve got the sweetest, And Oh, we’ve got the neatest, And Oh, we’ve got the cutest Little oil stove. I found a chair in the background and picked up _The Field_. The door burst open suddenly and a senior officer with a red face and angry eye burst in. ‘Who the blazes put that record on?’ he shouted to the room. ‘One of the bloody warts I expect. Take it off somebody. It makes me sick. Let’s have some real music. Put on the _Angelus_.’ Two subalterns (in the Royal Welch a subaltern had to answer to the name of ‘wart’) sprang up, stopped the gramophone, and put on _When the Angelus is ringing_. The young captain who had put on _We’ve been married_ shrugged his shoulders and went on reading, the other faces in the room were blank. ‘Who was that?’ I whispered to the Surrey-man. He frowned. ‘That’s Buzz Off,’ he said.