"Silence in the ranks," I said sternly.
A little later, when we were halted, an old, old man, the Nestor of
the section, asked if he might speak to me.
"Certainly, my lad," I said.
"I think he du be right," he said, indicating James; "I've heerd tell
on 'un. Great-great-grandfayther used to play."
Another man said that he had seen an old print of the game in a shop,
but he thought it was called Ludo.
And then, in a most curious way, I had the sudden feeling that I
myself had played the game in some previous existence--when I was a
king in Babylon, perhaps, and James was a Christian caddie. It was
most odd. When we got back to camp, I spoke to him about it.
"On Boxing Day, James," I whispered, "one might pursue one's
researches in this matter. I should like to find out the truth about
it. We might meet at----h'r'm! To the left, to two paces, ex-_tend!_"
I added this loudly for the benefit of our platoon commander who was
passing, and James (who in ordinary life extends two paces to the
front) withdrew slowly into the darkness.
I won't refer to what happened on Boxing Day; one does not talk about
these things. But I must tell you of its unfortunate sequel.
Last week, in the course of a route-march, we were suddenly turned on
to distance-judging. I had never done this before, and a remote and
lonely tree, half-hidden in the mist, conveyed nothing definite to me.
"What do you think?" I asked James.
"A drive and a mashie, about."
"S'sh," I said warningly. However, I determined to act on the
suggestion. Remembering Boxing Day I allowed eighty yards for James's
drive, and thirty-five for a mashie off the socket. Total, 115. It
looked more, but the mist was deceptive. However, when the results
were read out, the distance was given as 385 yards, and James, if you
please, had said 350!
Let us leave this painful subject and turn to signalling. We are
getting a little more proficient. Every message we send now starts
properly with prefix, service instructions, code time, and so on, and
the message itself gets in as many hyphens, horizontal lines,
fractions and inverted commas as possible. Here, for instance, is the
beginning of a thrilling message (sent to the Editor of _The Times_)
which I was receiving last Sunday.
"Fore-warned being fore-armed Lieut. Z. SMITHSON, 21st Foot on the
_Przemysl-Rzeszow-Olkusz_ road, with £3 9_s._ 7-1/2_d._ in his pocket
(interest on 5-1/2% DEBENTURES at 97--brokerage 1/8th) proceeded at
9.25 P.M. to----"
At this point the "Fall-in" sounded and we had to stop. I never heard
what happened to Lieut. Smithson. My own theory is that he murdered
Emma and put the blame on Lt.-Col. St. George, D. S. O., who only had
three-and-a-half per cents, and had never seen the girl before.
Perhaps the matter will be cleared up when the War is over.
But it was a sad blow to us to be told in a lecture that same
afternoon that despatch-riding has proved to be much more useful than
signalling at the Front. It had an immediate effect on James, and the
advertisement in _The Times_ beginning "WANTED TO EXCHANGE a pair of
blue-and-white silk flags (new) for motor-bicycle," is generally
supposed to be his.
"And all the time I've spent on signalling has been wasted," he said
indignantly.
"Not wasted, James. Your silhouette as you signalled an 'i' has made
many a wet day bright. Anyway, it's no excuse for not coming to
bayonet drill. That won't be wasted."
James made some absurd excuse about wanting to improve his shooting
first.
"One is more independent with the bayonet," I assured him. "The
Government doesn't like us as it is, and it's not going to waste much
ammunition on us. But once you've tied the carving-knife on to the end
of your umbrella, there you are."
"Well, I'll think about it," said James.
But I have heard since that he had already attended one class; and
that in the middle of it James the solicitor advised James the soldier
not to proceed further with the matter.
"Your time," said James the solicitor, "will be better spent on the
range--where you can lie down."
And James the soldier made it so.