From there the regiment was sent to the north and went into the line in the Ypres salient. There existed, no doubt, excellent sentimental and military reasons for defending this piece of ground, but as a winter residence it left much to be desired. Tarkington did not fear the danger—shells were part of the day’s work—but his rheumatism feared the water, and the rain falling incessantly on the greasy clay made a damp and icy paste which no doctor would recommend for the oiling of old joints. Tarkington, whose painfully swollen feet now made the shortest march a Chinese torture, finally realized that he must apply to be sent to hospital. "It’s just my luck," he said to his confidant, the sergeant-major. "I have the pain without the wound." So he went off limping and swearing to find the colonel in his dug-out, and told him of the state of his legs. The colonel was in a bad temper that morning. A communication from the headquarters of the division had pointed out to him that the proportion of trench feet in his regiment had reached 3.6 per cent., whereas the average of the corps was only 2.7. And would he take the necessary precautions to reduce his percentage in the future? The necessary precautions had been taken; he had sent for the doctor and given him the communication. "And see here, O’Grady. You may have bronchitis, sore throats and gastric enteritis, but I do not want any more trench feet for three days." You may imagine how Tarkington was received when he came to exhibit his paralysed feet. "Now that’s the limit. _I_ send down an officer for trench feet? Read, Tarkington, read, and do you imagine I am going to transform 3.5 into 3.6 to please _you_? Look up, my friend, General Routine Orders No. 324—’Trench Feet result from a contraction of the superficial arteries with the consequence that the skin no longer being nourished dies and mortifies.’ Therefore, all you have to do is to watch your arteries. Tarkington, I am extremely sorry, old man, but that is all I can do for you." "Just my luck," said the old man to his friend the sergeant-major. "I have thirty-seven years’ service; I have never been ill; and when, for the first time in my life, I ask for sick leave, it happens on the very same day that headquarters have strafed the colonel over that very subject." His feet became red, then blue, and had begun to turn black when the colonel went away on leave. The command in his absence was taken over by Major Parker, who, being the second son of a peer, paid small attention to remarks from the brigade. He saw the distress of the unfortunate Tarkington, and sent him to the field hospital, where they decided to send him to England. It seemed that Tarkington was not the kind to be acclimatized in the Flemish marshes.