Temporary Captain Bodger, R.G.A., turned sadly away from the Ration Depot and lumbered back to his howitzers. He was an excellent officer, and his 8 in. shells reached their address in Bocheland with the precision of a postal delivery. But he weighed 280 pounds, and his girth was threatening his career. Only yesterday he had walked five miles to a field artillery observing station in the trenches, whence he was to range on a new German redoubt, and had ignominiously failed to get through the tunnel. A party of grinning Tommies had taken 40 minutes to enlarge the entrance for him; the subaltern to whom the observation post belonged had complained of his attracting the attention of the enemy's airmen by waiting outside, and the general, who unfortunately went by, had regarded him with a send-him-to-the-base look in his eye. Something must be done, but what? Bodger had a light lunch of three chops and a plate of ham, trifled with some suet pudding and cheese, and ordered a second bottle of beer to assist his meditations. But the only idea that emerged was a transfer to Coast Defence, and this involved boat work, which his stomach loathed. With a regretful glance at the empty bottles, he went back to his work. But in the meantime an intelligence of a higher order had been shaping his destinies. The Army commander, hearing the tale of the tunnel and the observation post, had remarked: "Sound gunner, is he? No use sending him to the Transport; lorries are overloaded already. There's one thing in this Army that's up to his weight, and that's a tank. Shift him over, will you?" When the great man spoke things moved quickly, and in the battery Bodger met an orderly with a "memo," directing him to report at once to H. M. landship _Mastodon_ for instruction. The _Mastodon_ was a new ship. Her commander, a cavalry major, was pleased to get a good gunnery man who was also useful as shifting ballast. Bodger took kindly to his new duties, and the tank steered sweetly under his sympathetic hand. A week later the _Mastodon_ took part in a minor push--a little affair of straightening the line. There was a parapet to get over, and the _Mastodon_, according to custom, cocked up her tail and charged it. Now if things had gone right the tail should have come down with a whump, throwing her nose up, and she should have cleared the bank like a porpoise jumping. But the glue-like mud piled under her belly, her tail remained up, her nose down, and she hit the face of the bank with a bump like a luggage train in collision. She backed out, but her tail remained high in air. It was then that Bodger first distinguished himself. He squeezed through a door. Heedless of the bullets which hummed round him, he swarmed up the tail with the determination of a bull walrus and sat on the end of it. There was no mistake about the tail coming down this time. The _Mastodon_ charged again, nose well up, and got over the bank, kicking up a shower of clods behind her.