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Full text of "TheCompleteMemoirsOfGeorgeSherston"

a few months before the Armistice, he was still out-
wardly unconscious of the casualty lists which had
lost (and gained) him such a legion of customers.

As soon as he had put me at my ease I became as
wax in his hands. He knew my needs so much better
than I did that when I paid a second visit to try on
my tunics, there seemed no reason why he shouldn't
put me through a little squad drill. But he only made
one reference to the cataclysm of military training
which was in progress, and that was when I was
choosing khaki shirts. "Ton carit ham them too dark"
he insisted, when my eye wandered toward a paler
pattern. "We have to keep those in stock—they're
for the East of course—but it's quite unpermissible
the way some of these New Army officers dress:
really, the Provost-Marshal ought to put a stop to all
these straw-coloured shirts and ties they're coming
out in." He lifted his eyes in horror. . . .

A few weeks later (a second lieutenant in appear-
ance only) I arrived at the training depot of the
"Twenty-Fifth". The whole concern had recently
migrated from the small peace time barracks in Flint-
shire to a new camp of huts on the outskirts of Liver-
pool. On a fine afternoon at the end of April I got
out of the local electric railway at Clitherland Station.
Another evidently new officer also climbed out of the
train, and we shared a cab up to the camp, with our
brand new valises rolling about on the roof. My
companion was far from orthodox in what he was
wearing, and from his accent I judged him to be a
Yorkstureman. His good-humoured face was sur-
mounted by a cap, which was as soft as mine was
stiff. His shirt and tie were more yellow than khaki.
And his breeches were of a bright buff tint. His tunic
was of the correct military colour, but it sat uneasily

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