the world except a British soldier would wear
four shirts and three jerseys at the same time. The British
soldier--it is one of his characteristics--puts on all the clothes he
can get in any weather.

The voice at the other end of the wire swore--unnecessarily, I think.
Then it told me that one of the shirts was marked with my name and
that I must identify it and the man. I refused, of course. The voice
offered to send the shirt round for my inspection. I did not in the
least want to inspect a shirt that had been worn, probably for a long
time without washing, along with six other thick garments by a
deserter; but I consented to look at the thing from a distance.

In the end I did not even do that. The unfortunate man confessed to
having stolen the shirt from an officer in the trenches near Ypres.
How it came to have my name on it I do not yet know. I did miss a
couple of shirts from my store of civilian clothes when I got home.
But I am sure no officer stole them. Indeed I do not see how any
officer could.

That voice--I do not know that I ever met its owner--had a wonderful
power of language, strong, picturesque, and highly profane language,
suitable for expressing violent emotion over a telephone wire. It was
once rebuked by a very gentle captain with a remark that was widely
quoted afterwards. The language had been unusually flamboyant and
was becoming worse. "Hold on a minute," said the listener, "and let
the line cool. It's nearly red hot at this end."

When life failed to provide a joke or two we fell back on rumours and
enjoyed them thoroughly. They say that Fleet Street as a
breeding-ground for rumour is surpassed only by the drawing-rooms of
the wives of ministers of state. I have no experience of either; but
a base camp in France would be hard to beat. The number of naval
battles declared by the best authorities to have been fought during
the early months of 1916 was amazing. We had them once a week, and
torpedo-boat skirmishes on off days.

Men in "the signals"--all rumour goes back to the signals in the
end--had lively imaginations. We mourned the loss of Kut months
before General Townshend was forced to surrender. We revelled in
extracts from the private letters of people like the Brazilian
ambassador in Berlin. We knew with absolute certainty the English
regiments which were taking part in the defence of Verdun. The
Guards, by a sudden move, seized the city of Lille, but owing to
faulty staff work