Open-mouthed and eager we watched and, while watching, a strange-looking
figure of a soldier ambled, or shuffled, up the path toward our place.
He was a man about 45, though looking more like 55, quite grizzled,
furrowed face, and a stubby mustache, thickly stained with tobacco
juice, decorated his upper lip. He was chewing tobacco as if his life
depended on the quantity of juice he could extract from each mouthful,
and dried tricklings of the liquid ornamented his chin. As he came
toward us his face was turned upward, taking in the scrimmage in the
sky. "What's them bloody things?" he asked, indicating the air sausages.
He had evidently just come up the line fresh from England. I told him
and he jerked out an indelible pencil and made a note, sucking the lead
of the pencil two or three times before he finished, and this habit,
continuous with him, kept his lip constantly stained with the indelible
lead.

Just then a mighty roar of delight went up from the entire crowd, as our
bird gobbled the last remaining sausage, but our indelible friend paid
no attention to the uproar,--he simply took out his little book and made
another note.

The "Fall-in!" whistle was blown and we were a bit surprised as well as
amazed to see our strange friend fall in in front, still chewing
vigorously; he evidently didn't know or didn't care a damn whether it
was against the rules to chew tobacco when parading. The Sergeant-Major
eyed him curiously and then stepping to his side whispered something; we
knew he was explaining to him that he was infringing orders, but a
non-commissioned officer is not permitted to bawl out another non-com in
the presence of the men. Hastily bestowing the quid in his hand he
stood to attention. Roll call finished and we retired to our bunks.