Although his appointment was new, Colonel Burgess was of the oldest type of soldier, the sort who tell the other fellows how to do it. The particular sort of war in which he found himself suited him exactly. He had the true Indian view of life, drill, breakfast, less drill, lunch, siesta, sport, dinner, cards. So he ruled the mess cook with a rod of iron, took disciplinary action if the stones that lined the path leading to the door of the ante-room and office were not properly white, and left the technical side of the business to Sergeant-instructors who, having recently escaped from the trenches, were really keen on it. He received Dormer with that mixture of flattery due to anyone from Divisional Head-quarters and suspicion naturally aroused as to what he (Dormer) might be after. He was annoyed that he had not heard of Dormer’s arrival, and hastened to add: “Not a very full parade this morning, units come and go, y’know. We can never be quite sure what we are going to get! What did you think of our show?” Dormer realized that the old gentleman was under the impression he was being spied on: “I really didn’t notice, sir. I have been sent to see the Officer commanding 469 Trench Mortar Battery. Matter of discipline arising out of a claim for compensation.” “Oh, ah! Yes indeed. Certainly. See him now. Sergeant Innes!” The efficient Scotch Sergeant to be found in all such places appeared from the outer office. “Have we anyone here from 469 T.M.B.?” The officer required was duly produced, and the Colonel retired to the Mess, leaving them together. Dormer sized up this fellow with whom he was thus brought into momentary contact. This became by necessity almost a fine art, during years of war. Dormer was fairly proficient. The fellow opposite to him was of the same sort as himself. Probably in insurance or stockbroking, not quite the examination look of the Civil Service, not the dead certainty of banking. He had obviously enlisted, been gradually squeezed up to the point of a Commission, had had his months in the line and had taken to Trench Mortars because they offered the feeling of really doing something, together with slightly improved conditions (hand-carts could be made to hold more food, drink and blankets than mere packs) and was getting along as well as he could. He heard what Dormer wanted and his face cleared. “Why, that’s last April. I couldn’t tell you anything about that. I was in Egypt!” “You don’t know of any officer in your unit who could give some information about the occurrence?” “No. There’s only young Sands, beside myself. He couldn’t have been there.” “Some N.C.O. then?” “Heavens, man, where d’you think we’ve been? All the N.C.O.’s are new since I was with the crowd!” “But surely there must be some record of men who were with your unit?” “Well, of course, the pay rolls go back to Base somewhere. But I suppose you can pick the name and number up from the conduct sheet.”