But to regard the Buzzer simply and solely as a troglodyte, of
sedentary habits and caustic temperament, is not merely hopelessly
wrong: it is grossly unjust. Sometimes he goes for a walk--under some
such circumstances as the following.
The night is as black as Tartarus, and it is raining heavily. Brother
Boche, a prey to nervous qualms, is keeping his courage up by
distributing shrapnel along our communication-trenches. Signal-wires
are peculiarly vulnerable to shrapnel. Consequently no one in the
Battalion Signal Station is particularly surprised when the line to
"Akk" Company suddenly ceases to perform its functions.
Signal-Sergeant M'Micking tests the instrument, glances over his
shoulder, and observes,--
"Line BX is gone, some place or other. Away you, Duncan, and sorrt
it!"
Mr. Duncan, who has been sitting hunched over a telephone, temporarily
quiescent, smoking a woodbine, heaves a resigned sigh, extinguishes the
woodbine and places it behind his ear; hitches his repairing-wallet
nonchalantly over his shoulder, and departs into the night--there to
grope in several inches of mud for the two broken ends of the wire,
which may be lying fifty yards apart. Having found them, he proceeds to
effect a junction, his progress being impeded from time to time by
further bursts of shrapnel. This done, he tests the new connection,
relights his woodbine, and splashes his way back to Headquarters. That
is a Buzzer's normal method of obtaining fresh air and exercise.
More than that. He is the one man in the Army who can fairly describe
himself as indispensable.
In these days, when whole nations are deployed against one another,
no commander, however eminent, can ride the whirlwind single-handed.
There are limits to individual capacity. There are limits to direct
control. There are limits to personal magnetism. We fight upon a
collective plan nowadays. If we propose to engage in battle, we begin
by welding a hundred thousand men into one composite giant. We weld a
hundred thousand rifles, a million bombs, a thousand machine-guns, and
as many pieces of artillery, into one huge weapon of offence, with
which we arm our giant. Having done this, we provide him with a
brain--a blend of all the experience and wisdom and military genius at
our disposal. But still there is one thing lacking--a nervous system.
Unless our giant have that,--unless his brain be able to transmit its
desires to his mighty limbs,--he has nothing. He is of no account; the
enemy can make butcher's-meat of him. And that is why I say that
the purveyor of this nervous system--our friend the Buzzer--is
indispensable. You can always create a body of sorts and a brain of
sorts. But unless you can produce a nervous system of the highest
excellence, you are foredoomed to failure.
Take a small instance. Supposing a battalion advances to the attack,
and storms an isolated, exposed position. Can they hold on, or can
they not? That question can only be answered by the Artillery behind
them. If the curtain of shell-fire which has preceded the advancing
battalion to its objective can be "lifted" at the right moment and
put down again, with precision, upon a certain vital zone beyond the
captured line, counter-attacks can be broken up and the line held.
But the Artillery lives a long way--sometimes miles--in rear. Without
continuous and accurate information it will be more than useless; it
will be dangerous. (A successful attacking party has been shelled out
of its hardly won position by its own artillery before now--on both
sides!) Sometimes a little visual signalling is possible: sometimes a
despatch-runner may get back through the enemy's curtain of fire; but
in the main your one hope of salvation hangs upon a slender thread of
insulated wire. And round that wire are strung some of the purest gems
of heroism that the War has produced.
At the Battle of Loos, half a battalion of "K(1)" pushed forward into
a very advanced hostile position. There they hung, by their teeth.
Their achievement was great; but unless Headquarters could be informed
of their exact position and needs, they were all dead men. So Corporal
Greig set out to find them, unreeling wire as he went. He was blown to
pieces by an eight-inch shell, but another signaller was never
lacking to take his place. They pressed forward, these lackadaisical
non-combatants, until the position was reached and communication
established. Again and again the wire was cut by shrapnel, and again
and again a Buzzer crawled out to find the broken ends and piece them
together. And ultimately, the tiny, exposed limb in front having been
enabled to explain its exact requirements to the brain behind, the
necessary help was forthcoming and the Fort was held.
Next time you pass a Signaller's Dug-out peep inside. You will find
it occupied by a coke brazier, emitting large quantities of carbon
monoxide, and an untidy gentleman in khaki, with a blue-and-white
device upon his shoulder-straps, who is humped over a small black
instrument, luxuriating in a "frowst" most indescribable. He is
reading a back number of a rural Scottish newspaper which you never
heard of. Occasionally, in response to a faint buzz, he takes up his
transmitter and indulges in an unintelligible altercation with a
person unseen. You need feel no surprise if he is wearing the ribbon
of the Distinguished Conduct Medal.