December 2nd. Each honours list brings us greater surprises than the last, for it seems that a man who runs a military grocer's shop at the Base in perfect security is far more likely to reap a reward than a man risking his life daily in all the discomfort of the trenches!

We have been convulsed with laughter lately by the antics of a little chauffeur, erstwhile jockey, whose reckless driving has for some time been the talk of the place. He has long evaded the arm of the law, but the other night, very unwisely, knocked down an important French Staff Officer in the middle of a country road.

"'Op in, and I'll give yer a lift," said the jockey in his most Cockney accent, with a jerk of the thumb towards the car, as he handed the French officer a two-franc piece to hold his tongue!

December 3rd. The French people often come to us with demands for contraband goods. "Will we sell them just a little tea, as it is so expensive in France? Or cigarettes—just a few packets of Woodbines? Or some matches, as theirs, being a Government monopoly, are both dearer and of an inferior quality?"

All these little favours we have regretfully to refuse, explaining that it would be a breach of faith with the French Government, whose kindness permits goods for the British Forces to come in untaxed and under bond, but who would not for a moment tolerate the abuse of this privilege.

But the R.A.M.C. have many opportunities of rendering little services to the civilian war sufferers.

The confidence in khaki felt by the French population is extraordinary and highly complimentary. If a child sprains an ankle or cuts his hand he will go to the first man in khaki for help, be he orderly or medical officer; and owing to the scarcity of French doctors, medical etiquette is waived for the time being, and our R.A.M.C. does wonderfully good work amongst the poor.

To-day our maid—"the little savage"—dropped a heavy window on her hand. It was badly contused, but she was more frightened than hurt, and cried unceasingly. Whilst I was donning a hat and coat to take her to the doctor she disappeared, much to my astonishment.

Half an hour later she turned up, all smiles.

"I was afraid Mademoiselle might take me to a French doctor," she said, brandishing a bottle of lead lotion triumphantly, "so I went along to the big hospital that smells so strongly of good disinfectant!"

December 20th. Our days are busy preparing for our invitation Christmas tea, which, by the way, is to be postponed until New Year's Day, owing to the amount of festivities and work in the hospitals; but our interest is focused on affairs in Macedonia, the fall of Monastir, General Townshend's retreat to Kut-el-Amara, Sir John French's retirement from command in France, and, last of all, the withdrawal from Anzac and Suvla Bay.

December 26th. On Christmas Day we were occupied in decorating the building, whilst the men, true to their long-anticipated licence (for to-day restrictions are relaxed), grew very merry over their dinners, supplemented by unlimited beer. With what results, it were perhaps indiscreet to mention! But hilarious visits from various groups of the prospective artists at hospital concerts, clad in their make-up of mufti and rakish top-hats, with a gait far from steady, make us wonder how much of the afternoon's programme will perforce have to be omitted!

December 30th. Our Sunday evening services are more enthusiastically attended since we organised a male voice choir, with our best pianist as president, and an erstwhile Sheffield photographer, who has sung at the musical festivals, as vice. Quite a number of undreamt-of denominations are drawn together by the bond of music.

One might almost classify music over here under three heads—extemporary, local, and imported; and it is not until one has stood in a crowded hall, or seen the enthusiastic reception accorded to every effort in that direction, that one realises the large rÔle music plays in the existence of the average Briton, usually accredited with lack of artistic appreciation.

Some there are whose hunger for music is such that, all untutored in the art of playing, they are constrained to sit down to any tin kettle of a piano in a vain attempt to pick out some well-loved melody with one finger for hours at a time. At these moments the listeners are not altogether sorry that half the notes have grown dumb from disuse and dampness!

I wonder if there is anything in all billet, trench or Base existence to equal an extemporary concert? Whether the means at hand consist of a penny whistle and comb, a number of lusty voices, or the now almost obsolete Made-in-Germany mouth-organ, it matters not.

Invariably a leader of men arises (usually a pianist), and as invariably he shows a genius for discovering local talent. Maybe he has heard a pal engaged in trench-digging whistle an air from the "Messiah," maybe a deep voice bellows a few notes of "Till the Boys Come Home." As sure as he is there, the leader will collect his material for an impromptu "sing-song."

Then the fun begins. Private Jones, the silent, is discovered to be the possessor of a magnificent tenor voice, whilst Corporal Rawlinson, whose buffoonery is the joy of his company, displays extraordinary aptitude for comic songs and anecdotes, or a newly joined recruit, hitherto dubbed "Snowball" on account of his pallor, is discovered to have been a professional clog-dancer in pre-war days.

The leader realises that here is material for a really good Christmas concert to which every C.O. in the vicinity may be invited with impunity. "A pantomime," someone suggests, and a pantomime is evolved. Solos, duets, choruses, all original, are worked up to a perfection that is incredible, and the neighbourhood is invited to "the Christmas Pantomime in Three Spasms," for which "carriages and stretchers" are to be ordered at nine o'clock.

At least, this is how the sergeant responsible for our splendid Christmas pantomime tells me it originated. Costumiers and wigmakers from home "come up to the scratch," as the men have it, and supply not only complete suits for Robinson Crusoe, Man Friday, Dick Whittington, and Fair Damsels, but make-ups for clowns and harlequins and all the other paraphernalia of pantomime.

Topical allusions and catchwords are the joy of the audience for many days to come, and in the intervals of the performance Sergeant Topham, as a coon, gives humorous anecdotes, and Sapper Hall sings solos, of which the refrains as a chorus are encored at least a dozen times.

It isn't very great music, but, as one who has heard most of the great music in most of the great capitals, I should like to state that there is no more impressive thing in the world than an old barn or outhouse "somewhere in Flanders," filled with men whose voices threaten to bring down what remains of the roof for very lustiness. It may be a hymn, it may be an old melody with modern ribald words, it is the primitive method primitive man employed in primÆval times, of self-expression. And if Britons do not compose complicated "'Ymns of 'Ate," they do at least put into their "Tipperary" all the passion of love and patriotism and determination that otherwise, from sheer natural reserve, must remain unexpressed.

Of local talent there is much to say. Since the time of the troubadours and trouvÈres the fame of the French chansons has spread abroad, nor has the stress of war lessened our Allies' hold on the greatest of arts. Even now it is not hard to get together a number of musical souls to form a miniature orchestra to enliven dreary days.

The appearance of the band is apt to surprise one. The 'cellist, in private's uniform, has to be back in barracks by nine, he informs one; the first violin, a minute boy of twelve years old, with a couple of half-smoked cigarettes tucked behind his ears, casts his eyes longingly on whatever food is near. He is at a local school of music, and works so hard that he has little or no time to eat, he explains. The pianist is a bearded veteran whose six sons are fighting. He was once the chef d'orchestre at the one and only first-rate hotel, which is now full of wounded. An officer in the reserve plays the viola; he was a barber by profession, and picked up his music from an artist sister. Strange and diverse characters, they are all drawn together by the bonds of their art, and once they begin to play with all the finesse, all the charm and taste of their race, the incongruity of their appearance is forgotten. Nor is it necessary to say that the appreciation accorded by their khakied Allies is of unparalleled enthusiasm.

I do not remember ever to have heard anything more haunting than a "Marche des EstropiÉs," written by a wounded Frenchman as he lay in hospital and inspired by the ceaseless stream of lame and limping figures that hobbled past his window. It was a true sample of local talent that bordered on genius.

We had had a concert in a big wooden canteen hut, and for two hours the Frenchmen had entertained their Allies by a series of popular tunes. They did not attempt to hide their contempt at the fact that rag-times were more favourably received than chamber music, but they played them with a right good will nevertheless.

Martial law decreed lights out at nine o'clock, and at nine o'clock the men trooped out. Darkness reigned. Outside the rain beat down drearily on to the mud-bathed road, above which sound an occasional booming of distant guns was audible.

Someone said:

"Can't we have some music now?"

The chef d'orchestre understood and smiled.

By the light of two candles the four musicians began to play. Their repertoire was big—they did not need to call upon Hun music; they played "Manon" and the haunting Slav music, and Italian things that breathed sunshine and joy, and "Sappho."

For fear of the military police we blocked up every crack of the windows. Then, sobbing above the sound of the elements, rose the wail of the "Marche des EstropiÉs," till every corner of the darkened hall seemed flooded with light, and the soul of the most dead materialist was reborn.

"My son composed it," said the bearded old man, who alternately conducted as first violin and acted as pianist, simply, as the last long-drawn note died into the stillness. "And he is in the trenches."

It was only afterwards, when they had gone and the windows were unbarred and the incessant patter of the rain made the desolation of it all more awful than before, that we realised how we had hungered for music, and blessed the local talent that had lifted us for so short a time out of our weary and narrow rut.

Of imported music, one can only state that if it is to be imported from home, no matter what its quality or quantity, it will be greeted uproariously.

Great and small are welcomed alike. From the celebrated oratorio singers and rag-time kings to the obscure little girl who offers her services on the score of her promising soprano voice, no one goes away disappointed with their reception. We show no favouritism! The artists themselves confess that the bad acoustic properties of the ward hastily converted into a concert hall, the less boisterous yet none the less hearty applause, the small audience, necessitated by the beds and stretchers, all are compensated for by the gleam of happiness in the eyes of those blue-coated figures, the whispered "It was heaven" from the boy with the bandaged hand, the hand clasp of the one-armed man. They find their great reward as much in the feeble applause of the wounded as in the tumultuous ovation of the fighting men, or a hall crammed full of white-capped nurses.

A notice announcing the advent of a concert party from "Blighty" is one of the "thrills" of Front and Base existence. Everyone flocks to hear it, and the debt owed to the association whose generosity has made it possible for every Base, and a good many places "Further up the line" than the Base, to enjoy regularly these Lena Ashwell Concert Parties, which are one of the most civilising elements of life out here, can never be repaid.

To be kept in touch with the latest songs, the latest train of thought from home; to see, after months of the same war-worn faces and well-known uniforms, daintily-clad artists whose every movement bears a breath of home; to hear, after the eternal reiteration of the local favourites' small repertoire, new music, new voices, it borders on an earthly Paradise.

And, of course, the artists cater for the tastes of their different audiences, and never forget Mr. Thomas Atkins's love of hearing his own voice. Anything in which he can join rejoices his heart, and a valse tune played by a mediocre 'cellist, to which the men are asked to whistle, often receives an ovation infinitely superior to that accorded to a famous singer's rendering of old folk-songs, much to the concert director's surprise.

But then the valse was one that brought memories of home and twilight evenings spent with loved ones over the piano, or maybe visions of some irresponsible ball-room mood that our generation will never know again, and though it wasn't Great Music it went straight to the hearts of the hearers.

And so, no doubt, one day, when War no longer holds us in its grip, we shall hearken spellbound to the strain of some melody that our local band of tin whistles and combs used to play, and mayhap with the divine discontent of humanity, we shall sigh softly for the good old days of France, bully beef and tin whistles.