ing.) I was thankful enough when a M.O. rode over next morning, and marked me for Stavros. I left that night in an old mule ambulance. I reached the advanced station of the Field Ambulance that night, and crossed by the lighter next day to Stavros, where I boarded the old Fbound for Malta. The lighter was crowded with bad dysentery cases, so I went up on deck. I sat down, and presently, after all the oot cases had come on board, a stretcher was carried on with a little faded Union Jack resting on something very still and quiet. ("That's the bloke what went West last night," said a man near me.) The stretcher was laid down by me and covered with tarpaulin. Some walking cases came on a little later, and seeing every inch of the deck crowded except a tempting piece of tarpaulin, they made straight for it. Before I could stop them they had plumped down a heap of equipment, and were just going to seat themselves, when I said, "That's a corpse under there." "Bloke went West last night," said the same man as before. The late-comers stared at it for a second; one remarked, "We ain't waked 'im," and then they wearily resumed their equipment, and stolidly moved off to find another dumping-ground. It was one of those little incidents that remain fixed for ever in one's mind. behind our golden wake, and Athos, that fairy mountain, shone up before us, I looked back at that short dark break in the hills where the Struma seeks the sea, and in a shameful glow of sentiment I delivered myself of this little tribute: "Good-bye, Macedonia! I have called you many hard names in my time, I have many times cursed your fiery suns, the storms that sweep you, your shadeless, pitiless roads deep in your most choking dust. Your nightmare insects have many times stung me to despair. I have left no less than a stone and a half of my substance in your keeping. And yet sometimes I have known my curses to ring false. Something from 8 within me came out to meet you, something that despised the body you chastened, something that, if one will allow it, will always come out to meet the untamed, the lonely, and the beautiful. Perhaps it was the many good fights I had with you, perhaps it was that I was so often at your mercy, perhaps it was because that tumult called Civilisation got so few chances to come between us. It may be you purposely keep the path to your temple difficult and hard." However that may be, as I saw the last shadows of the hills dip below the sea, I felt I was leaving, and leaving for ever, something baffling, implacable, and unconquerable, yet something that had changed me, something that had taught me much, something I had almost learnt to love. A few days later we sailed, and as Stavros faded away "CARRY ON!" THE CONTINUED CHRONICLE OF K (1). BY THE JUNIOR SUB. PART II. CHAPTER ONE. "THE NON-COMBATANT." WE will call the village St Gregoire. That is not its real name; because the one thing you must not do in war-time is to call a thing by its real name. To take a hackneyed example, you do not call a spade a spade: you refer to it, officially, as Shovels, General Service, One. This helps to deceive, and ultimately to surprise, the enemy; and as we all know by this time, surprise is the essence of successful warfare. On the same principle, if your troops are forced back from their front-line trenches, you call this "successfully straightening out an awkward salient." dition to their prolonged and strenuous labours in the trenches, the Hairy Jocks had taken part in a Push-a part not altogether unattended with glory, but prolific in casualties. They had not been "pulled out" to rest and refit for over six months, for Divisions on the Western Front were not at that period too numerous, the voluntary system being at its last gasp, while the legions of Lord Derby had not yet crystallised out of the ocean of public talk which held them in solution. So the Seventh Hairy Jooks were bone tired. But they were as hard as a rigorous winter in the open could make them, and they were going back to rest at last. Had not their beloved C.O. told them so? And he had added, in a voice not altogether free from emotion, that if ever men deserved a solid rest and a good time, "you boys But this by the way. Let us get back to St Gregoire. Hither, mud-splashed, ragged, hollow-cheeked, came our battalion - they call us the Seventh Hairy Jocks nowadays after four months' continuous employment in the firing line. Ypres was a do!" household word to them; Plugstreet was familiar ground; Givenchy they knew intimately; Loos was their wash-pot- or rather, a collection of wash - pots, for in winter all the shell-oraters are full to overflowing. In ad So the Hairy Jocks trudged along the long, straight, nubbly French road, well content, speculating with comfortable pessimism as to the character of the billets in which they would find themselves. Meanwhile, ten miles ahead, the advance party were going master-Sergeant, who is not round the town in quest of accustomed to strenuous exerthe billets. cise, mops his brow and glances expectantly round the place. His eye comes gently to rest upon a small but hospitablelooking estaminet. Billet-hunting on the Western Front is not quite so desperate an affair as hunting for lodgings at Margate, because in the last extremity you can always compel the inhabitants to take you in or at least, exert pressure to that end through the Mairie. But at the best one's course is strewn with obstacles, and fortunate is the Adjutant who has to his hand a subaltern capable of finding lodgings for a thousand men without making a mess of it. The billeting officer on this, 88 on most occasions, one Cockerell - affectionately known to the entire Battalion as "Sparrow "—and his qualifications for the post were derived from three well-marked and invaluable characteristics, namely, an imperious disposition, a thick skin, and an attractive bonhomie of manner. Behold him this morning dismounting from his horse in the place of St Gregoire. Around him are grouped his satellitesthe Quartermaster - Sergeant, four Company Sergeants, some odd orderlies, and a forlorn little man in a neat drab uniform with light blue facingsthe regimental interpreter. The party have descended, with the delicate care of those who essay to perform acrobatic feats in kilts, from bicycles-serviceable but appallingly heavy machines of Government manufacture, the property of the "Buzzers," or Signallers, but commandeered for the occasion. The Quarter Lieutenant Cockerell examines his wrist-watch. "Half - past ten!" he announces. "Quartermaster-Sergeant!" "Sirr!" The Quartermaster-Sergeant unglues his longing gaze from the estaminet and comes woodenly to attention. "I am going to see the Town Major about a billeting area. I will meet you and the party here in twenty minutes.' Master Cockerell trots off on his mud-splashed steed, followed by the respectful and appreciative salutes of his followers— appreciative, because a less considerate officer would have taken the whole party direct to the Town Major's office and kept them standing in the street, wasting moments which might have been better employed elsewhere, until it was time to proceed with the morning's work. "How strong are you?" inquired the Town Major. Cockerell told him. The Town Major whistled. "That all? Been doing some job of work, haven't you?" Cockerell nodded, and the Town Major proceeded to examine a large-scale plan of St Gregoire, divided up into different-coloured plots. "We are rather full up at present," he said; "but the Cemetery Area is vacant. The Seventeenth Geordies moved out yesterday. You can have that." He indicated a triangular section with his pencil. Master Cockerell gave a little deprecatory cough. "We have come here, sir," he intimated dryly, "for a change of scene." The stout Town Major-all Town Majors are stout chuckled, "Not bad for a Scot!" he conceded. "But it's quite a cheery district, really. You won't have to doss down in the cemetery itself, you know. These two streets here"- he flicked a pencil-"will hold practically all your battalion, at its present strength. There's a capital house in the Rue Jean Jacques Rousseau which will do for Battalion Headquarters. The corporal over there will give you your billets de logement." in "Are there any other troops the area, sir?" asked Cockerell, who, as already indicated, was no child in these matters. "There ought not to be, of course. But you know what the Heavy Gunners and the A.S.C. are! If you come across any of them, fire them out. If they wear too many stars and crowns for you, let me know, and I will perform the feat myself. You fellows need a good rest and no worries, I know. Good morning." At ten minutes to eleven Cookerell found the Quartermaster - Sergeant and party, wiping their moustaches and visibly refreshed, at the exact spot where he had left them; and the hunt for billets began. "A" Company were easily provided for, a derelict tobacco factory being encountered at the head of the first street. Lieutenant Cockerell accordingly detached a sergeant and a corporal from his train, and passed on. The wants of "B" Company were supplied by commandeering block of four dilapidated houses farther down the street-all in comparatively good repair except the end house, whose roof had been disarranged by a shell during the open fighting in the early days of the war. This exhausted the possibilities of the first street, and the party debouched into the second, which was long and straggling, and composed entirely of small houses. "Now for a bit of the retail business!" said Master Cookerell resignedly. Sergeant M'Nab, what is the strength of 'C' Company?" "One hunner and thairtyfower other ranks, sirr," announced Sergeant M'Nab, consulting a much-thumbed roll-book. "We shall have to put them in two's and three's all down the street," said Cockerell. "Come on; the longer we look at it the less we shall like it. Interpreter ! " The forlorn little man, already described, trotted up, and saluted with open hand, French fashion. His name was Baptiste Bombominet ("or words to that effect," as the Adjutant put it), and may have been so insoribed upon the regimental roll; but throughout the rank and file Baptiste was affectionately known by the generic title of "Alphonso." The previous seven years had been spent by him in the congenial and blameless atmosphere of a Ladies' Tailor's in the west end of London, where he enjoyed the status and emoluments of chief outter. Now, called back to his native land by the voice of patriotic obligation, he found himself selected, by virtue of a residence of seven years in England, to act as official interpreter between Scottish Regiment which could not speak English, and Flemish peasants who could not speak French. No wonder that his pathetic brown eyes always appeared full of tears. However, he followed Cockerell down the street, and meekly embarked upon a contest with the lady inhabitants thereof, in which he was hopelessly outmatched from the start. At the first door a dame of massive proportions, but keen business instincts, announced her total inability to accommodate soldats, but explained that she would be pleased to entertain officiers to any number. This is a common gambit. Twenty British privates in your grenier, though extraordinarily well-behaved as a class, make a good deal of noise, buy little, and leave mud everywhere. On the other hand, two or three officers give no trouble, and can be relied upon to consume and pay for unlimited omelettes and bowls of coffee. That seasoned vessel, Lieutenant Cockerell, turned promptly to the sergeat and corporal of "C" Company. "Sergeant M'Nab," he said, "you and Corporal Downie will billet here." He introduced hostess and guests by an expressive wave of the hand. But shrewd Madame was not to be bluffed. "Pas de sergents, Monsieur le Capitaine!" she exclaimed. "Officiers !" 8ous "Ils sont officiers officiers," explained Cockerell, rather ingeniously, and moved off down the street. At the next house the owner a small, wizened lady of negligible physique but great staying power-entered upon a duet with Alphonso, which soon reduced that very moderate performer to breathlessness. He shrugged his shoulders feebly, feebly, and cast appealing glance towards the Lieutenant. "What does she inquired Cockerell. an say?" "She say dis 'ouse no good, sair! She 'ave seven children, and one malade-seek." "Let me see, " commanded the practical officer. He insinuated himself as politely as possible past his reluctant opponent, and walked down the narrow passage into the kitchen. Here he turned, and inquired "Er-où est la pauvre petite chose?" Madame promptly opened a door, and displayed a little |