Why did we leap forward to volunteer before we were wanted and
continue to leap till, for very boredom, they sent us embarcation
orders and a free warrant? Was it simply to escape an English Spring?
Was it not rather that we might win our furs--might wear the romantic
outfit which we were led to believe was _de rigueur_ in the most
exclusive circle, namely, the Arctic? What was the first remark of our
female relatives when we showed them the War Office telegram? Was it
not, "Of course you must be photographed in your furs and things?"

No wonder, after the monotony of khaki, if we looked forward to the
glory and distinction of fur-lined caps and coats, Shackleton boots,
huge snow-goggles and enormous gloves turning hands to savage paws.

And now what spectacle greets us at Murmansk, with everybody's camera
cleared for action? What is the example set by those to whom we
naturally look for light and leading? Behold the General and his Staff
coming on board in the snow-reflected sunshine flashing with the gold
and scarlet trimmings of Whitehall. And what of the old residents, our
comrades? They are playing football in shorts and sweaters.

The genial R.T.O. cheered us up a little and kept the more resolute
of our Arctic heroes in countenance by sporting a magnificent and
irresistible fur head-dress; but an R.T.O. can do what would be
regarded as nerve in you and me; and, moreover, here is the A.P.M.
in the familiar flat cap, encircled with the traditional colour of
authority.

Even the nice little Laplander and his lady, driving in to do
shopping, drawn on a sleigh by a nicely-matched trio of reindeer, was