A certain corporal of the R.E. who was engaged on D.H.Q., had achieved an enviable reputation as one who could deal effectively with both officers and men. To him infantry officers—not merely second-lieutenants, but even field officers—were as clay in the hands of the potter, but when confronted with the Divisional Staff he met his Waterloo. He found that the Staff Officers’ Union demanded— (_a_) That each officer’s hut should be completely rebuilt without any inconvenience to the officer concerned. (_b_) That each officer should be treated better than any other officer. (_c_) That every one’s hut should be begun at once and finished forthwith. Reluctantly he admitted defeat, and applied to be transferred to work as close as possible to the firing line, “for the sake”—as he put it—“of peace.” The Staff Officers of the Division could relish a joke at their own expense, and they were as much tickled as any one by the libellous report that the following official scale of rewards paid to Turkish snipers had been discovered: For killing a private, 5 piastres; N.C.O., 10; lieutenant, 25; captain, 50; field officer, 100; Red Tab, court-martial and execution for “assisting the enemy.” In August there had been a fair supply of vegetables and raisins, but as a general rule the onion was the only vegetable obtainable. A small consignment of strawberry jam actually reached the trenches. By one of those lucky accidents that occur all too rarely the labels had been removed from the tins, and as the happy warrior enjoyed the unaccustomed treat his fancy toyed with the picture of the anguish and indignation of the profiteer and the conscientious objector on learning that their strawberry jam had been sent in error to the brutal soldier, and on being asked if they would take “plum-and-apple” instead. Plum-and-apple was now anathema. No longer would the _poilu_ proffer his delicacies in barter, and even the Senegalese declined to trade. The flies were less fastidious. Cookhouses were now established in Gully Ravine; the battalion _chefs_ made the most of the ingredients at their disposal; and as the nights grew chilly the hot, well-cooked meals were more and more appreciated. Improvization was the crowning art of that weird-looking soldier, the cook, and one essential qualification for the job was the ability to “win” wood. In justice to him it must be admitted that he generally possessed this qualification, and he did good work. Cookhouses were no safer than other spots behind the line, and the cook’s job was not a cushy one. In one cookhouse in the ravine a shell exploded when some dixies of rice were on the fire. The cook, uninjured in body but indignant at the mess made, gazed disgustedly at the debris. His only comment was: “Might have been a b⸺ wedding here!”