Lord Kitchener is dead, but there are two things that are with us
still—that rare little note that he gave to his men as they went out,
warning them of drink; and that infamous note sent out by a drink firm
in London, begging our people to send out drink to our men. They can
guarantee it right up to the firing line, they say, and even when our
shells could not get there through drink, drink seems to have found its
way. It can get on to transports when the Ministry of Munitions is
waiting urgently for shipping space; it can commandeer our vans and
horses and trains when these mean life or death to us; it seems to get
past any regulation; it goes about with the power of a king, doing its
work where it will.
It is regrettable that our troops at the Front cannot get more
British Beer.