Having briefly set forth the character and habits of the Buzzer, we
will next proceed to visit the creature in his lair. This is an easy
feat. We have only to walk up the communication-trench which leads
from the reserve line to the firing-line. Upon either side of the
trench, neatly tacked to the muddy wall by a device of the hairpin
variety, run countless insulated wires, clad in coats of various
colours and all duly ticketed. These radiate from various Headquarters
in the rear to numerous signal stations in the front, and were laid by
the Signallers themselves. (It is perhaps unnecessary to mention that
that single wire running, in defiance of all regulations, across the
top of the trench, which neatly tipped your cap off just now, was laid
by those playful humourists, the Royal Artillery.) It follows that if
we accompany these wires far enough we shall ultimately find ourselves
in a signalling station.
Our only difficulty lies in judicious choice, for the wires soon begin
to diverge up numerous byways. Some go to the fire-trench, others to
the machine-guns, others again to observation posts--or O.P.'s--whence
a hawk-eyed Forward Observing Officer, peering all day through a chink
in a tumble-down chimney or sandbagged loophole, is sometimes enabled
to flash back the intelligence that he can discern transport upon such
a road in rear of the Boche trenches, and will such a battery kindly
attend to the matter at once?
However, chance guides us to the Signal dug-out of "A" Company,
where, by the best fortune in the world, Private M'Gurk in person is
installed as officiating sprite. Let us render ourselves invisible,
sit down beside him, and "tap" his wire.
In the dim and distant days before such phrases as "Boche," and
"T.N.T.," and "munitions," and "economy" were invented; when we lived
in houses which possessed roofs, and never dreamed of lying down
motionless by the roadside when we heard a taxi-whistle blown thrice,
in order to escape the notice of approaching aeroplanes,--in short, in
the days immediately preceding the war,--some of us said in our haste
that the London Telephone Service was The Limit! Since then we have
made the acquaintance of the military field-telephone, and we feel
distinctly softened towards the young woman at home who, from her
dug-out in "Gerrard," or "Vic.," or "Hop.," used to goad us to
impotent frenzy. She was at least terse and decided. If you rang her
up and asked for a number, she merely replied,--
(a) "Number engaged";
(b) "No reply";
(c) "Out of order"--
as the case might be, and switched you off. After that you took a taxi
to the place with which you wished to communicate, and there was an
end of the matter. Above all, she never explained, she never wrangled,
she spoke tolerably good English, and there was only one of her--or at
least she was of a uniform type.
Now, if you put your ear to the receiver of a field-telephone, you
find yourself, as it were, suddenly thrust into a vast subterranean
cavern, filled with the wailings of the lost, the babblings of the
feeble-minded, and the profanity of the exasperated. If you ask a
high-caste Buzzer--say, an R.E. Signalling Officer--why this should be
so, he will look intensely wise and recite some solemn gibberish about
earthed wires and induced currents.
The noises are of two kinds, and one supplements the other. The human
voice supplies the libretto, while the accompaniment is provided by a
syncopated and tympanum-piercing _ping-ping_, suggestive of a giant
mosquito singing to its young.
The instrument with which we are contending is capable (in theory) of
transmitting a message either telephonically or telegraphically. In
practice, this means that the signaller, having wasted ten sulphurous
minutes in a useless attempt to convey information through the medium
of the human voice, next proceeds, upon the urgent advice of the
gentleman at the other end, and to the confusion of all other
inhabitants of the cavern, to "buzz" it, employing the dots and dashes
of the Morse code for the purpose.
It is believed that the wily Boche, by means of ingenious and delicate
instruments, is able to "tap" a certain number of our trench telephone
messages. If he does, his daily Intelligence Report must contain some
surprising items of information. At the moment when we attach our
invisible apparatus to Mr. M'Gurk's wire, the Divisional Telephone
system appears to be fairly evenly divided between--
(1) A Regimental Headquarters endeavouring to ring up its Brigade.
(2) A glee-party of Harmonious Blacksmiths, indulging in the Anvil
Chorus.
(3) A choleric Adjutant on the track of a peccant Company Commander.
(4) Two Company Signallers, engaged in a friendly chat from different
ends of the trench line.
(5) An Artillery F.O.O., endeavouring to convey pressing and momentous
information to his Battery, two miles in rear.
(6) The Giant Mosquito aforesaid.