Now and then a batch of men were put into khaki which arrived at the
quartermaster's stores in driblets. Some had greeny puttees and sandy
slacks, a "civvy" coat and a khaki cap. Others were rigged out in
"Kitchener's workhouse blue," with little forage caps on one side. The
sprinkling of khaki and khaki-browns and greens increased every time
we came on parade: until one day the whole of the three field
ambulances were fitted out.

The drill went on like clockwork. It was as if some curse had fallen
upon us. The officers were "fed up" you could see.

And now, just a word as to army methods. Immediately opposite the
barracks was a cloth factory, which was turning out khaki uniforms for
the Government every day.

For five months we went about in civilian clothes. We were a disgrace
as we marched along. Yet because no order had been given to that
factory to supply us with uniforms, we had to wait till the uniforms
had been shipped to England, and then sent back to Ireland for us
to wear!

The spark of patriotism which was in each man when he enlisted was
dead. We detested the army, we hated the routine, we were sickened and
dulled and crushed by drill.

The old habit of being always on the alert for anything picturesque
saved me from idiotcy. Whenever opportunity offered, or whenever I
could take French leave, I went off with sketchbook and pencil, and
forgot for a time the horror of barrack-room life, with its unending