On the other hand, active service appears to accentuate inter-regimental rivalry. Trenches are a great theme for criticism. There _may_ be a battalion in our army in the field to-day that has given a written testimony to the troops from which it has “taken over” of the splendid condition in which the trenches were left. If there is, I have not found it. The relieving battalion _always_ roundly abuses its predecessor for the state of the trenches. In every trench I have been in I have been shown with pride the improvements made by the actual tenants: “You should have seen the state of things those bloody fellows in the Blankshires left behind!...” I once heard the Commander of the Second Army get in a sly dig at a brigade on parade regarding this inevitable trench criticism. It was a very human touch in a formal address, and evoked broad smiles from the audience, both officers and men. Nothing could be more charming than the atmosphere of a trench mess. The Colonel is back at the battalion headquarters with the Adjutant, so that the senior officer present is the Captain in command of the company holding the particular section of trench, or at most a Major. The rest of the company at table will consist of two or three subalterns, the machine-gun officer, possibly the doctor, and sometimes the Chaplain. The “Padre” is, properly speaking, attached to the Field Ambulance, but one often meets these gallant men in the firing-line, making their tour of the men under their charge as conscientiously as the Captain makes his round of his trenches. You must picture the company seated on rough benches or ammunition-boxes (here and there one finds a chair salved from a wrecked farm) round a makeshift table, knocked together by the orderlies, with sheets of newspaper in lieu of a tablecloth. Most of the food is put on the table at once--sardines in an enamel soup-plate, cold tongue ditto, ration bread (rather mouldy if we are in an isolated post), some kind of hot meat on an enamel dish, and enamel cups for drinks. The conversation is sprightly, mostly of the events of the day. The presence of the “Padre” curbs the freedom of the language to some extent, though, Heaven knows, he, poor man, has already discovered that the army swears terribly in Flanders. “I can stand a good deal,” a “Padre” said to me one day, “but I draw the line firmly at some words.”