The career of these adventurers is usually as
brief as it is inglorious; when apprehended they are handed over to the
French authorities, and the place that knew them knows them no more.
They are shot into some mysterious _oubliette_. The rest is silence, or,
as a mediaeval chronicler would say, "Let him have a priest."

We have taught the inhabitants of Flanders and Artois three things: one,
to sing "Tipperary"; two, to control their street traffic; and three, to
flush their drains. The spectacle of the military police on point duty
agitatedly waving little flags like a semaphore in the middle of narrow
and congested street corners was at first a source of great
entertainment to the inhabitants, who appeared to think it was a kind of
performance thoughtfully provided by the Staff for their delectation.
Their applause was quite disconcerting. It all so affected the mind of
one good lady at H---- that she used to rush out into the street every
time she saw a motor-lorry coming and make uncouth gestures with her
arms and legs, to the no small embarrassment of the supply columns, the
confusion of the military police, and the unconcealed delight of our
soldiers, who regard the latter as their natural enemy. Gentle
remonstrances against such gratuitous assistance were of no avail, and
eventually she was handed over to the French authorities for an inquiry
into the state of her mind.

Drains are looked after by the Camp Commandant, assisted by the sanitary
section of the R.A.M.C. It is an unlovely duty. I am not sure that the
men in the trenches are not better off in this respect than the
unfortunate members of the Staff who are supposed to live on the fat of
the land in billets. In the trenches there are easy methods of disposing
of "waste products"; along some portion of the French front, where the
lines are very close together, the favourite method, so I have been
told, is to hurl the buckets at the enemy, accompanied by extremely
uncomplimentary remarks. In the towns where we are billeted public
hygiene is a neglected study, and the unfortunate Camp Commandants have
to get sewage pumps from England and vast quantities of chloride of
lime. Fatigue parties do the rest.

The C.C. has, however, many other things to do.

Finding my office unprovided with a fire shovel, I wrote a "chit" to the
C.C.:

Mr. M. presents his compliments to the Camp Commandant, and would
be greatly obliged if he would kindly direct