hold-all longer than the other when on active service.

When I kicked the bell-push towards the end of last guest-night the
Adjutant said he should mark me down for the job of Physical Training
Officer; but I hope he was only joking. I am not built for the work.
My frame is puny and my countenance irresolute. I hate bending and
stretching my arms; they creak and frighten me. I never could squat on
my heels like a thingummy.

I might, if allowed, make a hit as Messing Officer. With the aid of
my Cookery Course notes I can differentiate between no fewer than
thirty-four different types of rissole. Unfortunately we already have
a Messing Officer of deadly efficiency. He can classify dripping by
instinct. He can memorise at sight all the revolting contents of a
swill-tub. My rissole lore is a poor asset in comparison.

No, James, I think I have it. One day you will read that our Armies
of Occupation consist of so many hundred thousands of all ranks,
including, perhaps, 35,001 officers. That is why they retain me.
I shall be the "1" at the end of the thousands. It is your humble
servant's function to keep the Armies of Occupation up to strength.

Are we to be robbed of the fruits of victory? The reply is in the
negative. Therefore, when next June comes along and you yearn for
the early filberts, do not be fretty. Remember that I am gathering
in fruits of another and a nobler kind. Yours ever,

WILLIAM.

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