into are not so famous as I supposed; and on the eighth day I find
myself insulted in twenty-seven places by an angry mosquito, whom in
the small hours of the morning I had occasion to rap over the knuckles
and turn out of my billet. And I've got a nasty cold, and nobody loves
me or cleans my buttons, and if I want to go anywhere there are no
more motor cars and they make me pay a penny for the tram, and my wife
doesn't think I'm a hero any longer, and little James is being taught
to blush and look away and start another subject when anybody says
"Dad-dad," and (if you can believe this) I've just been made to pay a
franc-and-a-half for a tin of bully beef.

But you don't sympathise, not a bit of it; why should you? I
shouldn't if I were in your place. I should just cut off the supply
of cigarettes and shaving-soap, stop wishing me good luck, and, with
haughty contempt, say, "Call yourself a soldier!" Nevertheless, my
friend, whatever I may _be_, I _look_ extraordinarily magnificent, so
much so that a short-sighted Major has taken his pipe out of his mouth
as I have drawn near and has as good as saluted me. When he saw I was
only a Captain (and a temporary Captain at that) he tried to cover his
mistake; but he didn't deceive me; he didn't need to take his pipe out
of his mouth in order to scratch his head, did he?

There is this to be said about being at war, you never know what is
going to happen to you next. For the most part this is just as well.
There is, however, a decent percentage of pleasant surprises, which
is, I suppose, the only thing that makes the business tolerable. No
orderly ever came up to the trenches, when I was in them, but he
gave rise to the hope that he had orders for me to come out at once
and command in chief. Some such orderly did arrive at last, but the
instructions he gave me said nothing about taking over the B.E.F.