It is a recognized flaw in our military make-up, this want of discipline. Sir Ian Hamilton, when he visited Australia in 1914, found the colonial compulsory trainees much more amenable to discipline than he expected. But the militia are caught young. We of the Expeditionary Force were a little bit too old to rid ourselves readily of the habits of the bush, and adapt ourselves to the rigid routine of military life. But perhaps it would come in time. It is a strange world, my masters! I have before me as I write a copy of a Sydney newspaper, dated May 21, 1914, giving the report and recommendations made by General Sir Ian Hamilton in Australia, and it is headed "If War Came." And there I read of the Australian Infantry: "I have now seen the greater portion of the Australian Infantry, and I wish very much I could transplant 10,000 of these young soldiers to Salisbury Plain. They would do the croakers good and make them less frightened of other nations, who have no overseas children getting ready to lend them a hand. The majority of the non-commissioned officers and men are still very young, but they are full of intelligence and grit. On at least two occasions I have seen brigades tested severely, once by heat and heavy marching, the other time by floods and mud. In each case the men made light of their trying experiences, treating them as an excellent joke." It was of the same men that the same man was to write but a few short months afterwards: "They have created for themselves an imperishable record of military virtue." But it is a long, long way to ----. Day after day we performed the tiresome evolutions of troop and squadron drill on foot, for the horses were not yet ready. We mastered the mysteries of sections right, form troop, form squadron column; then day after day we engaged in rifle drill--"stand at ease," "attention," "slope arms," "present arms," till our arms ached. Then we fixed our bayonets, and in fancy bayoneted thousands of "kultured" Germans. But it was not till the horses came that we really felt like Light Horsemen. Let the sailor tell of the roaring gale, Or the blue waves' rippling laughter; Let the soldier sing of the sabre swing And the laurels of glory after; There's a melody in the changeful sea, A charm in the battle's thunder, But sweeter than those the bushman knows Is the bound of a good horse under.