_Scene_.--A Battalion "Orderly" Room in France during a period of
"Rest." Runners arrive breathlessly from all directions bearing
illegible chits, and tear off in the same directions with illegible
answers or no answer at all. Motor-bicycles snort up to the door and
arrogant despatch-riders enter with enormous envelopes containing
leagues of correspondence, orders, minutes, circulars, maps, signals,
lists, schedules, summaries and all sorts. The tables are stacked with
papers; the floor is littered with papers; papers fly through the
air. Two type-writers click with maddening insistence in one corner.
A signaller buzzes tenaciously at the telephone, talking in a strange
language apparently to himself, as he never seems to be connected
with anyone else. A stream of miscellaneous persons--quarter-masters,
chaplains, generals, batmen, D.A.D.O.S.'s, sergeant-majors,
staff-officers, buglers, Maires, officers just arriving, officers
just going away, gas experts, bombing experts, interpreters,
doctors--drifts in, wastes time, and drifts out again.
Clerks scribble ceaselessly, rolls and nominal rolls, nominal
lists and lists. By the time they have finished one list it is long
out-of-date. Then they start the next. Everything happens at the same
time; nobody has time to finish a sentence. Only a military mind,
with a very limited descriptive vocabulary and a chronic habit of
self-deception, would call the place orderly.
The Adjutant speaks, hoarsely; while he speaks he writes about
something quite different. In the middle of each sentence his pipe
goes out; at the end of each sentence he lights a match. He may or may
not light his pipe; anyhow he speaks:--
"Where is that list of Wesleyans I made?
And what are all those people on the stair?
Is that my pencil? Well, they _can't_ be paid.
Tell the Marines we have no forms to spare.
I cannot get these Ration States to square.
The Brigadier is coming round, they say.
The Colonel wants a man to cut his hair.
I think I _must_ be going mad to-day.
"These silly questions! I shall tell Brigade
This office is now closing for repair.
They want to know what Mr. Johnstone weighed,
And if the Armourer is dark, or fair?
I do not know; I cannot say I care.
Tell that Interpreter to go away.
Where is my signal-pad? I left it there.
I think I _must_ be going mad to-day.
"Perhaps I should appear upon parade.
Where is my pencil? Ring up Captain Eyre;
Say I regret our tools have been mislaid.
These companies would make Sir DOUGLAS swear.
A is the worst. Oh, damn, is this the _Maire?_
I'm sorry, Monsieur--_je suis désolé_--
But no one's pinched your miserable chair.
I think I _must_ be going mad to-day.