Before the record was finished the door opened and in came the colonel; Buzz Off reappeared with him. Everybody jumped up and said in unison: ‘Good morning, sir.’ It was his first appearance that day. Before giving the customary greeting and asking us to sit down he turned spitefully to the gramophone: ‘Who on earth puts this wretched _Angelus_ on every time I come into the mess? For heaven’s sake play something cheery for a change.’ And with his own hands he took off the _Angelus_, wound up the gramophone and put on _We’ve been married just one year_. At that moment a gong rang for lunch and he abandoned it. We filed into the next room, a ball-room with mirrors and a decorated ceiling. We sat down at a long, polished table. The seniors sat at the top, the juniors competed for seats as far away from them as possible. I was unlucky enough to get a seat at the foot of the table facing the commanding officer, the adjutant and Buzz Off. There was not a word spoken down that end except for an occasional whisper for the salt or for the beer—very thin French stuff. Robertson, who had not been warned, asked the mess waiter for whisky. ‘Sorry, sir,’ said the mess waiter, ‘it’s against orders for the young officers.’ Robertson was a man of forty-two, a solicitor with a large practice, and had stood for Parliament in the Yarmouth division at the previous election. I saw Buzz Off glaring at us and busied myself with my meat and potatoes. He nudged the adjutant. ‘Who are those two funny ones down there, Charley,’ he asked. ‘New this morning from the militia. Answer to the names of Robertson and Graves.’ ‘Which is which?’ asked the colonel. ‘I’m Robertson, sir.’ ‘I wasn’t asking you.’ Robertson winced, but said nothing. Then Buzz Off noticed something. ‘T’other wart’s wearing a wind-up tunic.’ Then he bent forward and asked me loudly. ‘You there, wart. Why the hell are you wearing your stars on your shoulder instead of your sleeve?’ My mouth was full and I was embarrassed. Everybody was looking at me. I swallowed the lump of meat whole and said: ‘It was a regimental order in the Welsh Regiment. I understood that it was the same everywhere in France.’ The colonel turned puzzled to the adjutant: ‘What on earth’s the man talking about the Welsh Regiment for?’ And then to me: ‘As soon as you have finished your lunch you will visit the master-tailor. Report at the orderly room when you’re properly dressed.’ There was a severe struggle in me between resentment and regimental loyalty. Resentment for the moment had the better of it. I said under my breath: ‘You damned snobs. I’ll survive you all. There’ll come a time when there won’t be one of you left serving in the battalion to remember battalion mess at Laventie.’ This time came, exactly a year later.[4]