A family practitioner at home, the doctor, when the war began, had left his practice to go with his Territorial battalion. He retains the family practitioner’s cheery, assuring manner. He is the kind of man who makes you feel better immediately he comes into the sick-room; who has already made you forget yourself when he puts his finger on your pulse. There are thousands of that kind at home. Probably you have sent a hurry telephone call for his like more than once. “The same thing that we might have done in the Crimea,” he continued, “only we have antiseptics now. It’s wonderful how little you can work with and how excellent the results. Strong, healthy men, these, with great recuperative power and discipline and resolution--very different patients from those we usually operate on.” Tea was served inside the battalion commander’s dugout. Tea is as essential every afternoon to the British as ice to the average American in summer. They don’t think of getting on without it if they can possibly have it, and it is part of the rations. As well take cigarettes away from those who smoke as tea from the British soldier. It was very much like tea outside the trenches, so far as any signs of perturbation about shells and casualties were concerned. In that the battalion commander had to answer telegrams, it had the aspect of a busy man’s sandwich at his desk for luncheon. Good news to cheer the function had just come over the network of wires which connects up the whole army, from trenches to headquarters--good news in the midst of the shells. German West Africa had fallen. Botha, who was fighting against the British fifteen years ago, had taken it fighting for the British. A suggestive thought that. It is British character that brings enemies like Botha into the fold; the old, good-natured, sportsmanlike, live-and-let-live idea, which has something to do with keeping the United States intact. A board with the news on it in German was put up over the British trenches. Naturally, the board was shot full of holes; for it is clear that the Germans are not yet ready to come into the British Empire. “Hans and Jacob we have named them,” said the colonel, referring to two Germans who were buried back of his dugout. “It’s dull up here when the _Boches_ are not shelling, so we let our imaginations play. We hold conversations with Hans and Jacob in our long watches. Hans is fat and cheerful and trusting. He believes everything that the Kaiser tells him and has a cheerful disposition. But Jacob is a professor and a fearful ‘strafer.’ It seems a little gruesome, doesn’t it, but not after you have been in the trenches for a while.”