Here one fact may suffice as a sample. The weekly consumption of high explosives by the Army is now between eleven and twelve thousand times as much as it was in September, 1914. Yet when a lieutenant is asked to state what it is really like being along with the B.E.F. when it is in its pushful mood, he sedulously eschews heroics, and will not commit himself to saying more than that it's all right--that he doesn't think there is any cause for anxiety. "We seem to have ceased to have sensations out here. It is a matter of business; the only question is how long is it going to take to complete." So, too, with the Tommies. "Wonderful," declares the man in the ranks to persistent seekers after thrilling descriptions of war. "You never see the like. Across in them trenches there was real soda-water in bottles." To return to our lieutenant, he "simply can't help being a little sorry for the Boche now that his wild oats are coming home to roost." Even his poetic friends, formerly soulful and precious, take this restrained view. The Attributes of the Enemy are thus summed up by one trench bard: If Boches laughed and Huns were gents, They'd own their share of continents; There'd be no fuss, and, what is more, There wouldn't even be a war. Whereas the end of all this tosh Can only be there'll be no Boche. [Illustration: THE BIG PUSH MUNITION WORKER: "Well, I'm not taking a holiday myself just yet, but I'm sending these kids of mine for a little trip on the Continent."] Another poet, an R.F.C. man, adopts the same vein, void alike of hate or exultation: Returning from my morning fly I met a Fokker in the sky, And, judging from its swift descent, It had a nasty accident. On thinking further of the same I rather fear I was to blame. It is easy to understand why the enemy nations find England so disappointing and unsatisfying to be at war with.