icle appeared in one of the leading dailies entitled,
"Women Motor Drivers.--Is it a suitable occupation?" and was cut out by
anxious parents and forwarded with speed to the Convoy.

The headlines ran: "The lure of the Wheel." "Is it necessary?" "The
after effects." We lapped it up with joy. Phrases such as "Women's
outlook on life will be distorted by the adoption of such a profession,
her finer instincts crushed," pleased us specially. It continued "All
the delicate things that mean, must mean, life to the feminine mind,
will lose their significance"--(cries of "What about the frillies you
bought in Paris, Pat?") "The uncongenial atmosphere"--I continued,
reading further--"of the garage, yard, and workshops, the alien
companionship of mechanics and chauffeurs will isolate her mental
standing" (shrieks of joy), "the ceaseless days and dull monotony of
labour will not only rob her of much feminine charm but will instil into
her mind bitterness that will eat from her heart all capacity for joy,
steal away her youth, and deprive her of the colour and sunlight of
life" (loud sobs from the listening F.A.N.Y.s, who still, strangely
enough, seemed to be suffering from no loss of _joie de vivre_!) When
the noise had subsided I continued: "There is of course the possibility
that she will become conscious of her condition and change of mind, and
realize her level in time to counteract the ultimate effects(!). The
realization however may come too late. The aptitude for happiness will
have gone by for the transitory joys of driving, the questionable
intricacies of the magneto--" but further details were suspended owing
to small bales of cotton waste hurtling through the air, and in self
defence I had to leave the "intricacies of the magneto" and pursue the
offenders round the camp! The only reply Boss could get as a reason for
the tumult was that the F.A.N.Y.s were endeavouring to "realize the
level of their minds." "Humph," was Boss's comment, "First I've heard
that some of them even had any," and retired into her hut.

We often had to take wounded German prisoners to No. 14 hospital, about
30 kilometres away. On these occasions we always had three armed guards
to prevent them from escaping. The prisoners looked like convicts with
their shorn heads and shoddy grey uniforms, and I always found it very
difficult to imagine these men capable of fighting at all. They seemed
pretty content with their lot and often tried to smile ingra