I noticed officers in the trenches with their trousers carefully
pressed. It is all to the good, I think. Wellington said that the
dandies made his best officers. It is difficult for the men to get
rattled or despondent when they see the debonair appearance of their
leaders.

Among the many neat little marks upon the French uniforms which
indicate with precision but without obtrusion the rank and arm of the
wearer, there was one which puzzled me. It was to be found on the left
sleeve of men of all ranks, from generals to privates, and it consisted
of small gold chevrons, one, two, or more. No rule seemed to regulate
them, for the general might have none, and I have heard of the private
who wore ten. Then I solved the mystery. They are the record of wounds
received. What an admirable idea! Surely we should hasten to introduce
it among our own soldiers. It costs little and it means much. If you
can allay the smart of a wound by the knowledge that it brings lasting
honour to the man among his fellows, then surely it should be done.
Medals, too, are more freely distributed and with more public parade
than in our service. I am convinced that the effect is good.

* * * * *

The rain has now stopped, and we climb from our burrow. Again we are
led down that endless line of communication trench, again we stumble
through the ruins, again we emerge into the street where our cars are
awaiting us. Above our heads the sharp artillery duel is going merrily
forward. The French are firing three or four to one, which has been my
experience at every point I have touched upon the Allied front. Thanks
to the extraordinary zeal of the French workers, especially of the
French women, and to the clever adaptation of machinery by their