The Duke’s motto:  “Put me among the girls.”

* * * * *

N. Y. D.

Trench-foot, shell-shock and the other well-known by-products of war on the Western Front always got the bulk of medical notice, while our rarer Macedonian efforts remained neglected.  My friend McTurtle has nervous prostration, with violent paroxysms at the mention of leave or demobilization, and the medical profession can only classify him as “N.  Y. D., or Not Yet Diagnosed (malignant).”

McTurtle is a Staff-officer.  A famous Atlantic liner dumped him at Salonica in 1915, and when the first infantrymen panted through the town in search of non-existent billets McTurtle was to be seen in the window of a villa giving bird-seed to his canary.  At Salonica it is not considered good form to ask openly what a Staff-officer’s job is, but he allowed friends to gather that he had an indirect connection with that fine old regiment, the Macedonian Labour Corps.

After some time (about three decorations and a mention in despatches, as McTurtle measured time) the overland leave route was opened, and the far-reaching shadow of war plunged suddenly across McTurtle’s unlikely threshold.  He was called upon, like many another harmless Staff-officer, to give up his simple comforts and to face hardship and suffering for a scrap of paper (authorising him to travel to Manchester).  At first McTurtle was content to let the younger men of the Base make a stand against the aggression of the front line.  Being the only support of an aged Colonel and no mere youth, he left it to the reckless A.P.M.’s, the dashing Camp Commandants and the carefree dare-devil Field-Cashiers to repel the infantry and gunners.  But his conscience was uneasy, and indeed his apparent lack of proper feeling was commented upon by others.  Once an A.D.C. handed him a white feather in the Rue Venizelos.

At length it became obvious that the Base was losing ground.  The infantry and gunners, outnumbering the Staff by at least two to one, were gaining positions on each leave-party.  The issue was trembling in the balance, and McTurtle answered the call.  With set lips he sought the nearest orderly-room sergeant.

Before a week was out the night saw a train creeping through the gloom towards Athens and McTurtle sitting wakeful amongst four snoring infantrymen.  He thought piously of the time when the Staff should reach such a pitch of organization that it would be needless—­nay, impossible—­for infantry to continue to exist.  Towards dawn he fell into a doze, and when he waked it was light.  He lowered what had been the window and looked out.

McTurtle hates heights, and in his cloistered Salonica life he had never realised that the trains of Greece ran about like mice upon a cornice.  Four hundred precipitous feet yawned beneath his horrified eyes, and at his first involuntary gasp the teeth he owed to art and not to nature left him and swooped like a hawk upon a distant flock of sheep.  The shepherd, a simple rustic unfamiliar with modern dentistry, endeavoured to sell them subsequently to a Y.M.C.A. archaeologist as genuine antiques.