Let it be granted as our old enemy Euclid says that the horse standings were the worst in France--the Division of course had the decent ones--and that every effort was being made to repair them. The number of shelled houses removed bodily from the firing line to make brick standings and pathways through the mud would have built a model village. The horses were doing this work in addition to ammunition fatigues, brigade fatigues and every other sort of affliction. Assuming too that a sergeant-major doesn’t carry as much weight as a Captain (I’d got my third pip) in confronting an A.S.C. forage merchant with his iniquities, and I think every knowledgeable person admitted that our wagon line was as good as, if not better than, shall we say, any Divisional battery. Yet the veterinary expert (?) crabbed my very loyal supporter, the sergeant-major, who worked his head and his hands off day in, day out. It was displeasing,--more, childish. In due course he arrived,--in a motor car. True, it wasn’t a Rolls-Royce, but then he was only a Colonel. But he wore a fur coat just as if it had been a Rolls-Royce. He stepped delicately into the mud, and left his temper in the car. To the man who travels in motors, a splash of mud on the boots is as offensive as the sight of a man smoking a pipe in Bond Street at eleven o’clock in the morning. It isn’t done. I saluted and gave him good morning. He grunted and flicked a finger. Amicable relations were established. “Are you in charge of these wagon lines?” said he. “In theory, yes, sir.” He didn’t quite understand, and cocked a doubtful eye at me. I explained. “You see, sir, the B.C. and I are carrying on the war. He’s commanding Group and I’m commanding the battery. But we’ve got the fullest confidence in the sergeant-maj.--” Was it an oath he swallowed? Anyhow, it went down like an oyster. The Colonel moved thus expressing his desire to look round. I fell into step. “Have you got a hay sieve?” said he. “Sergeant-Major, where’s the hay sieve?” said I. “This way, sir,” said the sergeant-major. Two drivers were busily passing hay through it. The Colonel told them how to do it. “Have you got wire hay racks above the horses?” “Sergeant-Major,” said I, “have we got wire hay racks?” “This way, sir,” said the sergeant-major. Two drivers were stretching pieces of bale wire from pole to pole. The Colonel asked them if they knew how to do it. “How many horses have you got for casting?” said the Colonel. “Do we want to cast any horses, Sergeant-Major?” said I. “Yes, sir,” said the Sergeant-Major. “We’ve got six.” It was a delightful morning. Every question that the Colonel asked I passed on to the sergeant-major, whose answer was ever ready. Wherever the Colonel wished to explore, there were men working. Could a new-fledged infant unversed in the ways of the Army have accomplished it?