"Oh, dear, no. We are as strong as ever—on paper. But instead of going frankly to the Labour bosses and telling them that another half-million men must be released from civilian employment, our politicians have reduced the personnel of each Division from thirteen battalions to ten—nearly twenty-five per cent. It’s an admirable scheme, because it satisfies so many people. It satisfies the politician, because it saves his face; it satisfies the slacker, because it saves his skin; and it satisfies the Boche, because it’s going to save him a lot of trouble when he makes his spring offensive. The only people who are inclined to criticise it are the insignificant individuals who are responsible for the safety of the Western Front. In fact, they are crying out to Heaven for more men. But, of course, nobody takes any notice of recommendations from such a prejudiced person as a soldier. His turn will come later, when the scapegoats are being rounded up." The old gentleman sighed. "That’s one of our worries. The other is that we have too many Allies." "I see! Too many cooks—eh?" "Precisely! I spend all my working hours nowadays propitiating plenipotentiaries from countries whose existence I had never heard of two years ago. By the time I have recognised the status of this Ally, and soothed the susceptibilities of that, the day is over and there’s no time left to get on with the war. I sometimes sigh for the era when the French and ourselves muddled along by rule of thumb without having to expend any tact upon anybody, except a periodical slap on the back to Russia. _We few, we happy few, we band of brothers!_—and so on. Life was simple then. Now it is a perpetual Pentecost, without the feast. Give me a forlorn hope and a lone hand every time; that’s an invincible combination—eh, Alan?" "I agree," I said. "In the first year or so there was a sort of cheerful, simple, all-in-the-same-boat feeling about everything. The French liked us; there was not too many of us; and what there were were perfectly disciplined—old Regulars and the pick of ’K’s’ Army; or else Indian troops, with the manners of Hidalgoes. Now, the average French citizen never wants to see an ally again—" Lord Eskerley nodded. "Exactly!" he said. "And I can’t say I blame him. I sometimes feel that way myself. We’re a fairly promiscuous lot. We may be a host of modern crusaders, but we’re a _crowd_! I feel like old McKechnie at the revivalist meeting here five years ago, who refused to stand up and be ’saved’ with the rest because he objected to going to heaven ’with a d——d Cheap Trup!’ Still, we mustn’t be ungrateful. Our post entries may have complicated the machine, but they have made it a pretty reliable piece of mechanism." "What I complain of," interposed Eric, "is that we, upon whom the whole burden fell at the start, are almost forgotten now. Most of us have ceased to exist, and the rest are lost in a mob of amateurs."