I had a detachment of fifty Special Reservists, most of them with only about six weeks’ service. They had joined the army just before war started as a cheap way of getting a holiday at the training camp; to find themselves forced to continue beyond the usual fortnight annoyed them. They were a rough lot, Welshmen from the border counties, and were constantly deserting and having to be fetched back by the police. They made nervous sentries, and were probably more frightened of the prisoners than the prisoners were of them. Going the round of sentries on a dark night about 2 a.m. was dangerous. Very often my lantern used to blow out and I would fumble to light it again in the dark and hear the frightened voice of a sentry roar out, ‘Halt! Who goes there?’ and know that he was standing with his rifle aimed and his magazine charged with five live rounds. I used to gasp out the password just in time. Rifles were often being fired off at shadows. The prisoners were a rowdy lot; the sailors particularly were always fighting. I saw a prisoner spitting out teeth and blood one morning. I asked him what was wrong. ‘Oh, sir, one no-good friend give me one clap on the chops.’ Frequent deputations were sent to complain of the dullness of the food; it was the same ration food that was served to the troops. But after a while they realized the war and settled down to sullen docility; they started hobbies and glee parties and games and plans for escape. I had far more trouble with my men. They were always breaking out of their quarters. I could never find out how they did it. I watched all the possible exits, but caught no one. Finally I discovered that they used to crawl out through a sewer. They boasted of their successes with the women. Private Kirby said to me: ‘Do you know, sir? On the Sunday after we arrived, all the preachers in Lancaster took as their text, “Mothers, take care of your daughters; the Royal Welch have come to town.”’ The camp staff consisted of: A fatherly colonel of the Loyal North Lancashire Regiment, the commandant. His secretary, by name C. B. Gull, one of the best-known pre-war figures in Oxford, owner of the _Isis_, and combined divinity, athletics and boxing coach. We used to box together to keep fit. He also sponsored me as a candidate for the local lodge of The Royal Antediluvian Order of Buffaloes. The Grand Marshal who officiated at my initiation had drank four or five pints of ‘bitter-gatter’ and a glass or two of ‘juniper’ (these were secret words) and continually short-circuited in the ritual. He kept on returning to the part where they intone: Grand Marshal: Spirit of true Buffaloism hover around I us! Response: Benevolence and joy ever attend us! The assistant-commandant, who alleged that he had ten years more seniority than any other major in the British army and made wistful jokes about his lost virility. His recurrent theme was: ‘If you only knew how much that would mean to an old man like me.’