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I do not know any one who has a more consistently disagreeable job than a draft-conducting officer. He crosses and recrosses the Channel under the most uncomfortable conditions possible. He has a lot of responsibility. He gets no praise and little credit. He is generally an elderly man. He has, most likely, been accustomed for years to an easy life. He is often an incurable victim to seasickness.
A major, a draft-conducting officer, who happened to be with us one day when this story was told, improved on it boldly. "As we marched in from the steamer to-day," he said, "we passed a large field on the right of the road about a mile outside the camp perhaps you know it?" "Barbed wire fence across the bottom of it," I said, "and then a ditch." "Exactly," said the major.
He may be embarked and disembarked again three or four times before his steamer actually starts. The men of his draft are strangers to him. He does not know whether his sergeants are trustworthy or not. Yet there is no epidemic of suicide among draft-conducting officers, though there very well might be. Great and unconquerable is the spirit of the British dug-out officer.
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