the Government best. Here I have been trying for months to discover how I can get into the Camouflage Corps, which so far as I could learn was a mythical organization which no one knew very much about. Meanwhile, I have been hoping to keep out of the draft army for fear of being side-tracked and given a bayonet, instead of a paint brush, to beat the Huns with.

Material for the camouflage unit

And here I am conscripted, and inside of a week singled out as material for the Camouflage unit, with a nice place waiting for me to stay until said unit needs me. They are doing it up in really businesslike fashion and no doubting it.

But in the shuffle I’ve lost my dog. He’s only been with me a few days and he’s done nothing but get me into trouble all the time, yet I miss the little beggar. He wasn’t about when I gathered up my belongings this morning, and I haven’t had time to look him up all day. Perhaps, before taps I’ll wander down to the other barracks and see if I can find him.

Friday:

Real work began in earnest here this morning, for the officers in command of the various companies of the Headquarters Divisions, or Depot Battalions, or whatever it is these particular departments are called, are determined to rush our drill instructions as fast as possible, because there is no telling when any one or any number of us will be needed somewhere else in the U. S. A. or in France, all of which sounds promising for a quick change. I’m willing, and I sure hope it’s France.

Our day is just filled full of hay-footing and straw-footing and squads righting and all that sort of thing. I am learning things gradually by dint of much cussing on the part of our Sergeant, who is also late of the Regular, and who certainly has as choice a vocabulary as our former drillmaster.

We must have a very capable Mess Sergeant in this barracks, for the meals here are mighty good; better than those we received in the other barracks. We actually had ice cream and tea this noon, a thing unheard of in most of the barracks.

And our cook is a wonder. He’s an old cockney sea-dog, who looks like a regular buccaneer, and he has a parrot, too, whom he calls Jock. Jock spends most of his time sitting on the edge of the coal bin shrieking “Lazy Pig.” But neither Jock nor his master has a sense of humour; the cook gets mad when he finds a man trying to ring in a third helping and when he gets mad, Jock screams: “Lazy pig, lazy pig,” and dances up and down in a frenzy.