I am one of the million or more male residents of the United Kingdom, who a year ago had no special yearning towards military life, but who joined the army after war was declared. At Chelsea I found myself a unit of the 2nd London Irish Battalion, afterwards I was drilled into shape at the White City and training was concluded at St. Albans, where I was drafted into the 1st Battalion. In my spare time I wrote several articles dealing with the life of the soldier from the stage of raw "rooky" to

What the psychological processes were that led to my enlisting in "Kitchener's Army" need not be inquired into. Few men could explain why they enlisted, and if they attempted they might only prove that they had done as a politician said the electorate does, the right thing from the wrong motive. There is a story told of an incident that occurred in Flanders, which shows clearly the view held in certain quarters. The Honourable Artillery Company were relieving some regulars in the trenches when t

It has been said that an army moves upon its stomach, and, as if in confirmation of this, the soldier is exhorted in an official pamphlet "Never to start on a march with an empty stomach." To a hungry rifleman the question of his rations is a matter of vital importance. For the first few weeks our food was cooked up and served out on the parade ground, or in the various gutter-fringed sheds standing in the vicinity of our headquarters. The men were discontented with the rations, and rumour had i

One of the first things we had to learn was that our ancient cathedral town has its bounds and limits for the legions of the lads in khaki. Beyond a certain line, the two-mile boundary, we dare not venture alone without written permission, and we can only pass the limit in a body when led by a commissioned officer. The whole world, with the exception of the space enclosed by this narrow circle, is closed to the footsteps of Tommy; he cannot now visit his sweetheart, his sweetheart must come and

As I have said, I have learned among other things to obey my officers and depend upon my rifle. At first the junior officers appeared to me only as immaculate young men in tailor-made tunics and well-creased trousers, wearing swords and wrist-watches, and full of a healthy belief in their own importance. My mates are apt to consider them as being somewhat vain, and no Tommy dares fail to salute the young commissioned officers when he meets them out with their young ladies on the public streets.

What the pump is to the villager, so the coffee-shop is to the soldier of the New Army. Here the men crowd nightly and live over again the incidents of the day. Our particular coffee-shop is situated in our corner of the town; our men patronise it; there are three assistants, plump, merry girls, and three of our men have fallen in love with them; in short, it is our very own restaurant, opened when we came here, and adapted to our needs; the waitresses wear our hat-badges, sing our songs, and ma

There are three things in military life which make a great appeal to me; the rifle's reply to the pull of the trigger-finger, the gossip of soldiers in the crowded canteen, and the onward movement of a thousand men in full marching order with arms at the trail. And at no time is this so impressive as at night when with rifles held in a horizontal position by the side, the arm hanging easily from the shoulder, we march at attention in complete silence. Not a word is spoken by anyone save officers

Divisional exercise is a great game of make-believe. All sorts of liberties are taken, the clock is put forward or back at the command of the general, a great enemy army is created in the twinkling of an eye, day is turned into night and a regular game of topsy-turvydom indulged in. On the occasion of which I write the whole division was out. The time was nine o'clock in the forenoon, and an imaginary forced march was nearly completed, and an imaginary day was at an end. We were being hurried up

One of our greatest trials is the general inspection, which takes place every month, and once Lord Kitchener inspected the battalion, in company with the division quartered in our town. But that was before I joined. It involves much labour in the way of preparation. On one occasion, midnight the night before, a Friday, found us still busy with our work. My cot-mate was in difficulties with his rifle—the cloth of the pull-through stuck in the barrel, and he could not move it, although he broke a

Rumour had been busy for days; the whole division was about to move, so every one stated, except our officers, and official information was not forthcoming. "You are going between midnight and five o'clock to-morrow morning," announced my landlord positively. He is a coal-merchant by trade. "How do you know?" I inquired. "Because I can't get any coal to-morrow—line's bunged up for the troops." "No, he'll be going on Tuesday," said his wife, whose kindliness and splendid cooking I should miss gre

"Children of the Dead End" came upon the literary world as something of a surprise; it dealt with a phase of life about which nothing was known. It was compared with the work of Borrow and Kipling. Incidentally three editions, aggregating 10,000 copies, were called for within fifteen days. In his new book Mr. MacGill still deals with the underworld he knows so well. He tells of a life woven of darkest threads, full of pity and pathos, lighted up by that rare and quaint humour that made his first

The Autobiography of a Navvy. By Patrick MacGill . Crown 8vo. Price 6/-. Inland Postage 5d. extra. Manchester Gdn. "A grand book." Globe "A living story." D. Citizen "Still booming!" Standard "A notable book." Saturday Review "An achievement." Bookman "Something unique." Outlook "A remarkable book." Bystander "A human document." Country Life "A human document." Truth "Intensely interesting." Ev. Standard "A thrilling achievement." D. Telegraph "Will have a lasting value." Pall Mall Gaz. "Nothing

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