The sergeant in charge of the clothing store was curt. He couldn't help it: he had run short of tunics, also of
"pants"--except three pairs which wouldn't fit me, wouldn't fit anybody, unless we enlisted three very fat
dwarfs: he had kept on asking for tunics and pants, and they'd sent him nothing but great-coats and
water-bottles: I could take his word for it, he wished he was at the Front, he did, instead of in this blessed hole
filling in blessed forms for blessed clothes which never came. Impossible, anyhow, to rig me out. I was going
on duty, was I? Then I must...