end of the war, and
then...!

The Sergeant-Major frightened us badly at first. He looked so much like
a Sergeant-Major, and a Sergeant-Major is more to be feared than the
C.O., or the General, or the A.P.M., or anybody else in this
disciplinary world. He can make life Hell or Heaven or a judicious
compromise. Our Sergeant-Major believed in the judicious compromise with
a tendency towards Heaven. When any question arose between professional
and amateur, he dealt with it impartially. At other times he was
inclined to let us work out our own salvation. I have always had a
mighty respect for the Sergeant-Major, but have never dared tell him so.
Perhaps he will read this.

The "Quarter-Bloke"[30] was a jewel. He was suddenly called upon to keep
us supplied with things of which he had never even heard the names. He
rose to the occasion like a hero or Mr Selfridge's buyer. Never did he
pass by an unconsidered trifle. One day a rumour went round that we
might get side-cars. That was enough for the Quarter-Bloke. He picked up
every large-sized tyre he thought might come in useful. The side-cars
came. There was a rush for tyres. The Quarter-Bloke did not rush. He
only smiled.

His great triumph was the affair of the leather jackets. A maternal
Government thought to send us out leather jackets. After tea the Q.-B.
bustled in with them. We rode out with them the next morning. The 2nd
Corps had not yet received theirs. We were the first motor-cyclists in
our part of the world to appear in flaring chrome. The Q.-B. smiled
again.

I always think the Quarter-Bloke is wasted. He ought to be put in charge
of the Looting Department of a large invading army. Do not
misunderstand me. The Q.-B. never "looted." He never stepped a
hair's-breadth outside those regulations that hedge round the
Quartermaster. He was just a man with a prophetic instinct, who, while
others passed blindly by, picked up things because they might come in
useful some day--and they always did. Finally, the Q.-B. was
companionable. He could tell a good story, and make merry decorously, as
befitted a Company Quartermaster-Sergeant.

Of the other sergeants I will make no individual mention. We took some
for better, and some for worse, but they were all good men, who knew
their job.

Then there was "Ginger," the cook. I dare not describe his personal
appearance lest I should meet him again--and I want to--but it was
remarkable. So was his language. One of us had a