Utter silence follows, save (as Mr. BEACH THOMAS would say) for the
monotonous drone of the great shells bursting outside.
I repeat my original remark. "Hullo!" I say brightly, "Hullo!...
Hullo!"
I shake the microphone. It sounds as though sand had got into it, and
still there is silence. The minutes creep on and my voice begins to
fail. Outside in the quiet night a solitary gas-alarm chirps a few
quiet notes to the stars and is still. I continue to say "Hullo!"
At eleven-fifteen the operator at the other end finishes the story of
what he said to her and what she, on the other hand, said to him, and
turns refreshed to his instrument.
With a dexterous twist of his wrist he sounds a deafening peal in the
bell at my ear, and says, "Hullo!"
I retaliate. When the score is vantage out, I put all the red tabs I
can into my voice, and his tone changes. He is at once the cheerful
and willing artisan, eager to please.
"Yes, Sir ... Yes, Sir ... Who do you want, Sir? This is Zed Esses Pip
Ack five, Sir ..."
"You called me," I say.
He is more hurt than angry at that. "Oh, no, Sir. You rang me up, Sir.
This is Zed Esses ..."
I nip that in the bud by saying "Hullo!" very loud. He realizes that
the game is up.
"Speak to Division, Sir," he says curtly, and clicks before I can
answer. A faint far gnat-voice says, "Is that Zed Ess?"
"No," I shout. "What the ..."
"Through to Division," says gnat-voice and clicks me off. Another
voice carries on the good work. Upstairs the shells burst playfully
on the parapet, and under the starlit sky a gas cloud drifts slowly
across the fields, almost hiding the cattle who are grazing peacefully
there in the long wet grass.
At midnight I am through to Division.
"Is that you?" says Division. "There is a list ..."
"Finished, please?" says the operator so near and loud that I jump.
Division and I are at one here--we are agreed that we have not
finished. Like the Brothers Crosstalk, we say so simultaneously, using
the same swearword.
The operator clicks off, baffled.
"That list of men for a bombing course," says Division.
"Yes, Sir," I reply brightly, though my heart sinks.
"You ought to have sent it in at 6 P.M.," says Division. "And it has
not yet arrived."
I look at my wrist-watch, but realise too late that this graceful
gesture is lost on him. "I am sorry, Sir," I reply with dignity, "but
the delay was inevitable. It shall be with you on the breakfast-table.
The difficulty of communication in this great War ..."
Division laughs sardonically.
At ten minutes past twelve I go to bed again, and at twelve-fifteen
an orderly shines an electric torch in my eyes in order to prevent my
reading a wire which he hands me. It says, "Ref. your S.C. 1985 please
ask PIG if they have salvaged any German socks. A.A.A. urgent."
I stand up, and the orderly, completely unnerved by the sight of a
Staff Captain in undress uniform, releases the button of his torch and
retires under cover of darkness.
I twirl the handle of the telephone and listen. There is silence.
I turn it again with vigour. For twenty minutes I behave like an
organ-grinder. Towards dawn the bell rings and I receive an electric
shock.
"Hullo!" says the operator.
I tell him what I think of him. When I have finished the sun is up
and the first aeroplane is dropping its glad bombs on the dewy earth
below.
I demand PIG. PIG is a Machine Gun Company. By breakfast-time I have
discovered that PIG has salvaged socks, German, one.