Ultimately
the attack withered away, and the situation was saved. Almost
simultaneously the victorious commander was informed that telegraphic
communication with the Base had been restored. A message was already
coming through.
"News of reinforcements, I hope!" he remarked to his subordinate.
But his surmise was incorrect. The message said, quite simply:--
"Your monthly return of men wishing to change their religion is
twenty-four hours overdue. Please expedite."
There was a time when one laughed at that anecdote as a playful
invention. But we know now that it is true, and we feel a sort of
pride in the truly British imperturbability of our official machinery.
Thirdly, the Buzzer is a humourist, of the sardonic variety. The
constant clash of wits over the wires, and the necessity of framing
words quickly, sharpens his faculties and acidulates his tongue.
Incidentally, he is an awkward person to quarrel with. One black
night, Bobby Little, making his second round of the trenches about an
hour before "stand-to," felt constrained to send a telephone message
to Battalion Headquarters. Taking a good breath,--you always do this
before entering a trench dug-out,--he plunged into the noisome cavern
where his Company Signallers kept everlasting vigil. The place was in
total darkness, except for the illumination supplied by a strip of
rifle-rag burning in a tin of rifle-oil.
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