r men feel that their reputation is
too sacred to leave in the hands of Maxwell"; that Sir William Birdwood
"has not the fighting quality or big brain of a great General"; that
General Spens was "a man broken on the Continent" (although he never was
broken and never served on the Continent); that "Kitchener has a
terrible task in getting pure work from the General Staff of the British
Army, whose motives can never be pure, for they are unchangeably
selfish"; that "from what I saw of the Turk, I am convinced he is ... a
better man than those opposed to him" (although, actually, Mr. Murdoch
saw nothing of the Turks). The P.M. may have taken these views at their
face values: even, he _may_ have swallowed Mr. Murdoch's picture of the
conscientious Altham "wallowing" in ice whilst wounded were expiring of
heat within a few hundred yards; but _Mr. Asquith has seen the K. Army_
and, therefore, _he cannot have believed_ that these soldiers have
suddenly been transformed into "merely a lot of childish youths without
strength to endure or brains to improve their conditions."

Once more; these reckless scraps of hearsay would not be worth the paper
they are printed on were it not that they are endorsed with the letters
C.I.D., the stamp of the ministerial Holy of Holies. Only the Prime
Minister himself, personally, can so consign a paper. Lord K. and I were
both members of the C.I.D., and members of long standing. For the
President to circularize our fellow members behind our backs with
unverified accusations is a strange act, foreign to all my ideas of Mr.
Asquith. On this point Callwell is quite clear: the Murdoch letter was
published to the C.I.D. on the 28th ult. and Callwell writes on the 2nd
inst., and says Lord K. "has not had time to read it yet."[16] But
nothing else is clear. In fact, the whole thing is foreign to all my
ideas of Mr. Asquith. He does not need to work the C.I.D. oracle in this
way. As P.M. he has only to speak the word. He does not work the Press
oracle either: not his custom: also he likes K. The whole thing is a
mystery, of which I can only say with Hamlet--"miching mallecho; it
means mischief."

_14th October, 1915. Imbros._ Colder than ever. We are told that the
winter will kill the flies and that with their death we shall all get
hearty and well. Meanwhile, they have turned to winged limpets.

Being Mail day as well as rough, stuck to camp. My friend England sailed
into harbour in the _Chelmer_ and