Out here the telephone exists largely as a vehicle for the _jeux
d'esprit_ of the Brass Lids. It is a one-way affair, working only
from the inside out, for if you have a trifle of repartee to impart
to the Brazen Ones, the apparatus is either indefinitely engaged, or
_Na poo_ (as the French say). If you are one of these bulldog lads
and are determined to make the thing talk from the outside in, you
had better migrate _chez_ Signals, taking your bed, blankets, beer,
tobacco and the unexpired portion of next week's ration, and camp at
the telephone orderly's elbow. After a day or two it will percolate
through to the varlet's intelligence that you are a desperate dog in
urgent need of something, and he will bestir himself, and mayhap in a
further two or three days' time he will wind a crank, pull some
strings, and announce that you are "on," and you will find yourself
in animated conversation with an inspector of cemeteries, a jam
expert at the Base, or the Dalai Lama. If you want to give back-chat
to the Staff you had best take it there by hand.
A friend of mine by name of Patrick once got the job of Temporary
Assistant Deputy Lance Staff Captain (unpaid), and before he tumbled
to the one-way idea, his telephone worked both ways and gave him a
lot of trouble. People were always calling him up and asking him
questions, which of course wasn't playing the game at all. Sometimes
he never got to bed before 10 p.m., answering questions; often he was
up again at 9 a.m., answering more questions--and such questions!
A sample. On one occasion he rang up his old battalion. One Jimmy
was then Acting Assistant Vice-Adjutant. "Hello, wazzermatter?" said
Jimmy. "Staff Captain speaking," said Patrick sternly. "Please
furnish a return of all cooks, smoke-helmets, bombs, mules, Yukon
packs, tin bowlers, grease-traps and Plymouth Brothers you have in
the field!"
"Easy--beg pardon, yes, Sir," said Jimmy and hung up.
Presently the 'phone buzzed and there was Jimmy again.
"Excuse me, Sir, but you wanted a return of various commodities we
have in the field. What field?"
"Oh, the field of Mars, fat-head!" Patrick snapped and rang off. A
quarter of an hour later he was called to the 'phone once more and
the familiar bleat of Jimmy tickled his ear. "Excuse me, Sir--whose
mother?"
On the other hand the great Brass Hat is human and makes a slip, a
clerical error, now and again, sufficient to expose his flank. And
then the humble fighting man can draw his drop of blood if he is
quick about it. To this same long-suffering Jimmy was vouchsafed the
heaven-sent opportunity, and he leapt at it. He got a chit from
H.Q., dated 6/7/17, which ran thus:--
"In reference to 17326 Pte. Hogan we note that his date of birth is
10/7/17. Please place him in his proper category."