Discipline is necessary—it is our stoutest safeguard in action; but it works unfairness in individual cases. Take for example the man unfortunately named Trottrot, who is one of the drivers in my section. Trottrot “got in bad” at the very start of the war; and he was in at the start—one of the first of the Canadian artillery-men to arrive in France. I think the trouble began with his name; some wag saw in it a chance for jocularity. Wherever he went men shouted after him “Where the hell did Trottrot trot?” I suppose his life was made so miserable that he lost his self-respect and did not care what happened. At any rate his crime-sheet became famous throughout the Canadian Corps. A man’s crime-sheet is the record of his punishments from the first day he becomes a part of the Army; it accompanies him from unit to unit and is his reference. His was as long and full of incident as a De Morgan novel. He had bucked authority in every way and suffered about every penalty short of being shot. To read it was a romance and an education. He had been absent without leave, drunk, insubordinate, late upon parade, had struck an officer, kicked more than one N. C. O. in the face and had spent six months of his service in a penal-settlement. When he was attached to our battery a groan went up. No one wants to have a “bad actor” in a unit—his example is likely to become contagious. We tried to get out of taking him and, when that failed, had him brought before us. He was a slim, inoffensive looking youth, with pale eyes and a narrow, clever face. The Major was seated at a table, fingering his voluminous crime-sheet, while we junior officers formed a half-circle behind him. When Trottrot had been marched in by the Sergeant-Major and ordered to “Right-Tarn,” and was standing stiffly at attention, the Major looked up. “Driver Trottrot,” he said, “you’ve got the name for being the worst man in the Canadian Corps. If you go much further, you’ll end by being shot. Of course that’s entirely your own affair, but I’d like to help you to avoid it. I’m going to give you a new chance. I’m going to forget all about this Nick Carter novel you’ve been compiling.” He tapped the man’s crime-sheet and threw it aside. “I’m going to treat you as though you hadn’t a stain on your record—as though you were a white man. As long as you play white by me, I’ll treat you like a white man. The moment you act yellow, God help you. You’re dismissed—that’s all I have to say.”