There was a man in our Brigade who had just returned from a bombing school with his head stuffed full of all sorts of knowledge about the manufacture and use of bombs. He had a small collection of them, and one morning in the shadow of the Calvary at the cross-roads-at Fleurbaix, having an audience, he held forth on his new subject, illustrating his remarks by fiddling with a small screw-driver at a bomb which he professed to know all about. Suddenly it exploded, wounding him sadly. 'A little learning' had for the moment 'made him mad.' To get back to our Bombing School. After the instructor's talks, the men in turn would hurl bombs from one trench to another, until they were no longer 'bomb-shy.' As a matter of fact, a good bomber is just as good a 'life' in the army as any other expert. Indeed, a man may lose his life through the absence of a bomb or the knowledge of how to use it. In the words of our instructor, 'The cure for the bombing craze is--"A hair of the dog that bit you."' The Germans are good bombers, and when, in their counter-attack, they come down a trench throwing bombs, the only way is to bomb them back and out again. He used to say, 'The Boches began this blooming bombing business,' only his adjectives were sometimes profane. 'What we have to do is to give them a fair sickening of it. Bomb their Zeppelins, bomb their submarines, bomb their dug-outs'--then, in one final outburst, he would say, 'Bomb the Boches; and if you don't believe what I say, ask the Chaplain.' If they ask me, how can I contradict him? Our 'bomber' often surprised us, even to alarm. But the biggest surprise he ever gave us was when he had been granted ten days' (well deserved) leave in 'Blighty,' he turned up again in six. Wondering, the men, who envied him his leave, inquired why he had returned before his leave was up. 'I was very lonely in London,' he replied simply. 'I like to be with my pals.' V ROMANCE AND REALITY Page from a world-old palimpsest Shrined on the altar of the sea, Whereon a Nation's new-limned crest Glitters in glorious blazonry! Grave that our race shall kneel anigh For aye—Gallipoli; good-bye! Dying to rank as men with those Who manned the wall while Ilium burned-- This is the crown your story knows, The need their rare dear madness earned! Troy's heroes cry to ours and thee, Gallipoli, Gallipoli! They watched through fierce weeks many a one While, from his tent of rose-hued lawn The unclenched fingers of the sun Unloosed the westering birds of dawn; For them those sun-birds stoop and fly No more! Gallipoli, good-bye!