The latest information from the trenches goes to support the maxim that all one requires to wage war is a bold face and a gas helmet. A very distinguished O.C. went up the other day to inspect the trenches of his command and to express such views of their faults and the faults of their inmates as might occur to him from time to time. He had progressed some way up the communication trench, when it struck him that, whereas his recent order had been particularly menacing to everyone of whatever rank who was discovered there or thereabouts without a gas helmet, nevertheless he himself was at that moment innocent of such furniture. Fortunately there came from the opposite direction an odds-and-end private, with nothing in his favour except the wearing of the well-known satchel so much in vogue in Flanders society for the carrying of gas helmets. That was enough for the Commander; this was essentially one of those privates to be called "My man," and treated as such. Politely but firmly he was requested to part with his satchel as a temporary loan to his General. Firmly, if respectfully, he refused to comply. Them was his orders. The Commander congratulated him on his very proper attitude, explained to him the nature of the higher commands and demanded the satchel. The man looked like being stony about it, but the Commander became irresistibly commanding and got the satchel at last. He buckled it on, and the party proceeded, characterising the reluctance of the private to part with his treasure as almost an exaggerated sense of obedience to printed orders. Gas helmets always exercise a peculiar fascination for people who inspect trenches, and the matter was now especially prominent in the mind of the Commander as he marched along, outwardly appearing to be at his happiest here, inwardly thanking goodness that his home was elsewhere. Conceive his delight to discover a subaltern, fresh from ablutions, with no satchel upon him! The subaltern, distinctly aware of this amongst his many failings, was all for being passed by as insignificant; the Commander was all for a scene. Everybody halted, and the air became pregnant with possibilities.... It was a nicely calculated speech, leading up gradually to the pointed contrast between (_a_) overworked Commander, weighed down with responsibilities, absorbed day and night in momentous matters of large principle, nevertheless infallible on smallest detail and now in possession of gas helmet, one, and (_b_) very junior subaltern, free to enjoy the open-air irresponsible life of the trenches, yet neglecting even the few small matters entrusted to him, without same. "And what's more, Sir," he concluded, "I doubt very much whether, if someone gave you a helmet now, you'd know what to do with it. Here, take mine." (The attendant Brass-hats liked the "mine," but very discreetly kept their emotions to themselves.)