asonable persons are not lacking to
point out that it is of the busman's variety. It is true that we
are no longer face to face with the foe, but we--or rather, the
authorities--make believe that we are. We wage mimic warfare in full
marching order; we fire rifles and machine-guns upon improvised
ranges; we perform hazardous feats with bombs and a dummy trench. More
galling still, we are back in the region of squad-drill, physical
exercises, and handling of arms--horrors of our childhood which we
thought had been left safely interned at Aldershot.

But the authorities are wise. The regiment is stiff and out of
condition: it is suffering from moral and intellectual "trench-feet."
Heavy drafts have introduced a large and untempered element into our
composition. Many of the subalterns are obviously "new-jined"--as the
shrewd old lady of Ayr once observed of the rubicund gentleman at
the temperance meeting. Their men hardly know them or one another by
sight. The regiment must be moulded anew, and its lustre restored by
the beneficent process vulgarly known as "spit and polish." So every
morning we apply ourselves with thoroughness, if not enthusiasm, to
tasks which remind us of last winter's training upon the Hampshire
chalk.

But the afternoon and evening are a different story altogether. If we
were busy in the morning, we are busier still for the rest of the day.
There is football galore, for we have to get through a complete
series of Divisional cup-ties in four weeks. There is also a Brigade
boxing-tournament. (No, that was not where Private Tosh got his black
eye: that is a souvenir of New Year's Eve.) There are entertainments
of various kinds in the recreation-tent. This whistling platoon, with
towels round their necks, are on their way to the nearest convent, or
asylum, or Ecole des Jeunes Filles--have no fear; these establishments
are untenanted!--for a bath. There, in addition to the pleasures of
ablution, they will receive a partial change of raiment.

Other signs of regeneration are visible. That mysterious-looking
vehicle, rather resembling one of the early locomotives exhibited
in the South Kensington Museum, standing in the mud outside a
farm-billet, its superheated interior stuffed with "C" Company's
blankets, is performing an unmentionable but beneficent work.

Buttons are resuming their polish; the pattern of our kilts is
emerging from its superficial crust; and Church Parade is once more
becoming quit