The railway transport officer is an individual who is prominent in the memory of all those who have passed up the line; and many of us have reason to remember at least one of them with indignation. There are two kinds of R.T.O.'s, and you have met them both. There is the one who has earned his job at the front by hard work. He has been through the thick of the fighting, and after months in the trenches has been sent back to act as R.T.O. at the rail-head or the base, to give him a well-earned rest beyond the sound of the guns. We have no unpleasant memories of him. He is a man; he is human; he treats you as a comrade; he is helpful and considerate. And you can spot such men in a moment. But R.T.O. No. 2 carries no sign of war on his features. He has never heard the sound of guns, and never intends to, if he can help it. Look back upon the time when you left the base, and you find him prominent in your memory. When you are huddled up in your dugout, how you wish he could be transferred to you for a tour of duty in the trenches. What a delight it would be to send him in his immaculate uniform; his highly polished leggings and boots, along the muddy communication trenches. You know what the feeling is, for oftentimes you have said to yourself in those lonely night-watches: "How I wish I had him here!" It is 2 o'clock in the morning; the rain is coming down in torrents; danger lurks in every fire-bay; the loneliness and the weirdness give you the creeps. How you wish you could wake him up by digging him in the ribs, and telling him that it is time to go on his tour of duty up and down those clay-sodden trenches at the hour of the night when his courage (if he ever had any) would be at its lowest. What a delight it would be if we only had him with us when we take over our trenches, to show him that foul-smelling, rat-ridden dugout, and tell him to curl himself up to sleep there. How sweet would be the joy to see him in his pale-coloured breeches, huddled up in a saphead, trying to get a little comfort on a cold, raw December morning, from a drop of tea in a tin mug, well smudged with the wet clay of numerous fingers. CHAPTER VI RATIONS I LEARN TO HATE FOOD. MATHEMATICAL PROBLEMS We arrived at Rouen at 7.30 the following morning. I had to report to the R.T.O. by 9.30, and in the meantime 3,534 rations had to be cut up and distributed on the station platform among 1,178 officers and men. Have you ever had such a problem as that? If not, then avoid it, if it ever comes your way. The train was about twice the length of the platform, so on arrival it was broken in half, and the rear half shunted on to another line. The rations were contained in two trucks, attached to the rear half of the train, so the contents had to be carried by hand across several sets of rails, to the end of the platform.