Guarding prisoners seemed an unheroic part to be playing in the war, which had now reached a critical stage; I wanted to be abroad fighting. My training had been interrupted, and I knew that even when I was recalled from detachment duty I would have to wait a month or two at least before being sent out. When I got back to the depot in October I found myself stale. The adjutant, a keen soldier, decided that there were two things wrong with me. First of all, I dressed badly. I had apparently gone to the wrong tailor, and had also had a soldier-servant palmed off on me who was no good. He did not polish my buttons and shine my belt and boots as he should have done, and neglected me generally; as I had never had a valet before I did not know how to manage him or what to expect of him. The adjutant finally summoned me to the Orderly Room and threatened that he would not send me to France until I had entirely overhauled my wardrobe and looked more like a soldier. My company commander, he said, had reported me to him as ‘unsoldierlike and a nuisance.’ This put me in a fix, because my pay only just covered the mess bills, and I knew that I could not ask my parents to buy me another outfit so soon after I had assured them that I had everything necessary. The adjutant next decided that I was not a sportsman. This was because on the day that the Grand National (I think) was run all the young officers applied for leave to see the race except myself, and I volunteered to take the job of Orderly Officer of the Day for someone who wanted to go.