correct." Even so, he will no doubt get into trouble for something or other, but that remark, genially uttered, will help. I ask my sentry what he has to do. "Look out," he answers. "But suppose anybody comes?" I continue. "Look out," he says. "But," I press him, "if the Brigadier himself comes in to your bay and stands by you without saying anything, what will you do then? "Look out," he repeated with feeling.
I take him next on a matter of less urgency. "Suppose you see the enemy o advancing from his trenches in great numbers, what will you do?" "Shoot," says he. I explain that two hundred rifles are perhaps more useful than one and ask him how he will give the alarm. The correct call is "Stand to arms!" His, however, was nearly as good. "I should shout, 'They'm coomin'!'" said he.
They are now starting this artillery business at night, which is really rather tiresome of them. You may imagine how, in an artillery duel, one lot of guns, not knowing where the other lot is, gets tired of looking. But there is always the day's ration of shells to be got through. I have no doubt it is the same with the Germans as with ourselves; what with certificates, reports and returns, it is much less tiring to shoot away all the darned stuff than to keep any by you unexpended. And so the gunners look, after a while, for their customary target, its whereabouts fixed and known. Churches, houses, windmills and the like are everywhere limited, and here they have all been used up long ago; but there is one target always there, always vulnerable and always ready to rebuild itself when hit. Yes, Charles, from the German gunners' point of view that target is Us, and so over come the shells with a slittering, genial whistle, as if to say, "Do just come out of your hole and watch the burst." We have lost fifteen new-laid eggs, a dozen mineral water and a farmhouse clock in yesterday's encounter; and, after it was all over, no doubt those infernal gunners of ours, who had started the row, retired to their dug-outs away back behind the line, and had an omelette lunch.
The topic reminds me of our industrious but incompetent mess waiter, Private Blackwell. If ever a man in this world meant well but missed it he does. You have only to whisper his name and he bursts into the mess hut like a whirlwind, dropping knives and forks, tripping over chairs, sweeping crockery off the table, in his uncontrolled enthusiasm. To enable himself to get through more work he leaves the table with just twice what any man could carry, and drops it all before he gets to the door. This dropping has become a fixed habit with him; he drops everything, however heavy or light, fragile or valuable, but through accidents and abuse he maintains his cheery deportment of impulse and impetus.
A week ago we were all of us sitting round the mess table at midnight, having just returned from a period in the trenches—a moment when we suffer a little from the want of sleep and the reaction after the nervous tension. Suddenly the door flung wildly open, and in burst the ecstatic Blackwell, carrying ("Heaven defend us!" shouted the Adjutant) an enormous shell. "But, of course," we reassured each other, "it is only the empty case." "No, Sir," declared the bearer, hustling over all obstacles to the C.O. at the far end of the room, "it fell by Trench Headquarters just before we left, and hasn't burst yet." Never in my life shall I forget the sensation caused by that "yet"!
For the rest, "Cheer-oh!" (as one of my platoon writes), "we'll learn them German chaps to keep on their own doorstep."
Yours, Henry.
Suggestive back view gives short-sighted Special the thrill of his life (but it was merely a chauffeur preparing to enjoy an extra fine banana).
UNDESIRABLE POSES.
[Several of our photographic newspapers recently had a picture of the Chancellor of the Exchequer resting on the heather at Walton Heath after a round of golf. A medical correspondent wrote to The Daily Mail criticising the Chancellor's rashness. "He was risking an attack of lumbago, rheumatism, loss of voice, or even some much more serious consequence of sudden chilling of the heated body. To lie on the grass at this time of year in the case of a man over forty is a very risky proceeding."]
We feel that it is time that expert criticism was directed towards other pictures in our illustrated newspapers, and we print one or two comments we have received in reply to instructions issued to our own corps of specialists.
"The photograph of that charming actress, Miss Cissie Cinnamon, in The Daily Blotch, exhibits a recklessness which in after years this lady is likely to deplore. The highest dental authorities agree that, while it is necessary that the teeth should be exposed occasionally to prevent them from turning yellow, the chemically tainted atmosphere of a photographer's studio is most harmful to both ivory and porcelain."
"No wonder the recent poems of Mr. Alvasour Annalane have shown a falling off. The reason is to be seen in a portrait of this gentleman which is printed in The Daily Snatch. He is posed with his hand against his face, his forefinger pressing against his temple. Pressure in this place cannot fail to interfere with the proper operation of an important artery whose duty it is to feed the brain, and its obstruction must result in an impoverishment of thought."
"The full-length portrait of the popular young composer of 'We'll make the Kaiser sit up in the morning!' which appears in The Morning View, reveals that this young man is not aware of the rudiments of a correct military posture (for we assume from his work that he has the military instinct). The heels should be together and in line, the feet turned out at an angle of about forty-five degrees; the knees should be straight; the body should be erect, the arms hanging easily from the shoulders with the thumbs immediately behind the seams of the trousers, the hands being partially closed. The head should be steady, the eyes looking their own height and straight to the front."
