THE GREAT MAN.

What am I doing, Dickie? Well, I'll tell you. I'm one of those
subalterns you hear of sometimes. You know the kind of things they do?
They look after their men and ask themselves every day in the line
(as per printed instructions), "Am I offensive enough?" In trenches
they are ever to the fore, bombing, patrolling, raiding, wiring and
inspecting gas helmets. Working-parties under heavy fire are as meat
and drink, rum and biscuits to them. Once every nine months, and when
all Staff officers have had three goes, they get leave in order to
give excuse for the appointment of A.P.M.'s. There are thousands of
us, and we are supposed to run the War. These are the things which
I am sure (if you get newspapers in Ceylon) jump into your mind the
moment I mention the word subaltern, and I may as well tell you that
in associating me with any one of these deeds at the present time you
are entirely wrong.

I sit in a room, an office papered with maps in all degrees of
nakedness, from the newest and purest to those woad-stained veterans
called objective maps. In this room, where regimental officers tread
lightly, speak softly and creep away, awed and impotent--HE sits.
"HE" is a G.S.O.3, or General Staff Officer, third grade. He it is
who looks after the welfare of some hundred thousand troops (when
everybody else is out). I am attached to him--not personally, be
it understood, but officially. I am there to learn how he does it
(whatever it is). High hopes, never realised, are held out to me that
if I am good and look after the office during mealtimes I shall have
a job of my very own one day--possibly two days.