robbed of all importance, and only gained a new importance by our
power to hang on and to develop a new efficiency as soldiers. When
men "went sick" they were labelled scrimshankers and struck off the
course. It was an offence to let your body interfere with your duty;
if it tried to, you must ignore it. If a man caught cold in Kingston,
what would he not catch in the trenches? Very many went down under the
physical ordeal; of the class that started, I don't think more than a
third passed. The lukewarm soldier and the pink-tea hero, who simply
wanted to swank in a uniform, were effectually choked off. It was a
test of pluck, even more than of strength or intelligence--the same
test that a man would be subjected to all the time at the Front. In a
word it sorted out the fellows who had "guts."

"Guts" isn't a particularly polite word, but I have come increasingly
to appreciate its splendid significance. The possessor of this much
coveted quality is the kind of idiot who,

"When his legs are smitten off
Will fight upon his stumps."

The Tommies, whom we were going to command, would be like that; if we
weren't like it, we wouldn't be any good as officers. This Artillery
School had a violent way of sifting out a man's moral worth; you
hadn't much conceit left by the end of it. I had not felt myself so
paltry since the day when I was left at my first boarding-school in
knickerbockers.

After one had qualified and been appointed to a battery, there was
still difficulty in getting to England. I was lucky, and went over
early with a draft of officers who had been cabled for as