The Reverend John MacIvor, an old military chaplain, with a face bronzed by Eastern suns, took to this life of war and horrors with the enthusiasm of a child. When the men were in the trenches he visited them every morning with his pockets bulging with hymn-books and packets of cigarettes. While resting behind the lines, he tried his hand at bombing and deplored the fact that his cloth forbade him human targets. Major Parker suddenly stopped his work to curse Brass Hats and their absurd questions. "When I was in the Himalayas at Chitral," he said, "some red-hats sent us a ridiculous scheme for manoeuvres; among other details the artillery had to cross a rocky defile hardly wide enough for a very thin man. "I wired, ’Scheme received; send immediately a hundred barrels of vinegar.’ ’Report yourself to the P.M.O. for mental examination,’ courteously remarked headquarters. ’Re-read "Hannibal’s Campaign,"’ I replied." "You really sent that telegram?" asked Aurelle. "In the French army you would have been court-martialled." "That’s because our two nations have not the same idea of liberty," said the major. "To us the inalienable rights of man are humour, sport, and primogeniture." "At the headquarters of the brigade," said the padre, "there is a captain who must have had lessons from you in military correspondence. The other day, as I had no news of one of my young chaplains who had left us about a month, I sent a note to the brigade: ’The Reverend C. Carlisle was invalided on September 12th. I should like to know if he is better, and if he has been given a new appointment.’ The reply from the hospital said simply: ’1. Condition unchanged. 2. Ultimate destination unknown.’ The officer in transmitting it to me had added, ’It is not clear whether the last paragraph refers to the unit to which the Rev. C. Carlisle will be eventually attached, or to his eternal welfare.’" The Italian air came to an end with a triumphant roulade. "What a voice!" said the colonel, opening his eyes regretfully. He carefully stopped the record and put it affectionately in its case. "Now, messiou, I am going to play ’Destiny Waltz.’" One could just see outside the Verey lights gently rising and falling. The padre and the doctor went on describing their corpses while carefully manoeuvring the ivory pieces of the little set of chessmen; the howitzers and machine-guns broke into the voluptuous rhythm of the waltz, creating a sort of fantastic symphony highly appreciated by Aurelle. He continued to write his letter in easy verses. "La Mort passe; le Destin chante; Vite, oublie-moi. Tes robes noires sont charmantes; Mets-les six mois. Garde-toi de venir en pleurs M’offrir des roses; Aux vivants réserve tes fleurs Et toutes choses. Il ne faut pas m’en vouloir, mon amie, si je tourne an plus plat des romantismes: un clergyman et un médecin, à côte de moi, s’obstinent à jouer les fossoyeurs d’Hamlet.