"It's in the paper this morning," I said. "The War Office telegram we
could keep from her; but not that."
Eric was silent, and began to turn over the papers.
"These maps had better go back to Ordnance," he remarked. "They ought
to have been taken out at Battalion Headquarters, by rights. Some of
these old Orders are interesting: they have a musty flavour now. Listen
to this":
_The C.O. has observed that N.C.O.'s and Men are falling into the habit
of washing their gas-helmets._
"Do you remember those noisome old flannel jelly-bags, Alan?"
"I do! They were abolished, as far as I can remember, about the middle
of nineteen sixteen."
"Yes, that's right. They were about as much use as the sick headache
which they produced."
_Officers Commanding Companies will see that this practice is
discontinued at once. Helmets so washed are entirely useless against a
gas attack._
"Still," I commented, "if you wore them unwashed you died whether there
was a gas attack on or not; so altogether, I don't blame the washers!"
"Hallo," continued Eric; "here's a _billet-doux_ from Corps
Headquarters."
"What is it?"
Eric grinned.
"_Mules, Brief Notes on the Treatment of_. They do manage to think of
things on Olympus!..."
_The mule is much more dainty about what he drinks than about what he
eats._
"I think that's true: my last consignment ate seventeen nose-bags and
three pack-saddles in a single night."
_The mule is not really of a vicious disposition; he is only shy and
nervous, and is very responsive to petting--_
"So am I, for that matter! But let's get on, Eric. Here's a field
despatch book. It has been lying in a puddle, I fancy: these carbon
duplicates have run a bit. Never mind! I don't suppose there is
anything of importance inside it."
"The only legible despatch is the last one," said Eric, turning over the
pages. "A pretty stately epistle, too! Listen!"
_To O.C. 7th Battalion, the Grampian Regiment._
_Sir,--Reference your FZ/357, in which it is stated that the one hundred
picks and shovels which this Battalion was directed to hand over to
yours on the 16th inst. were handed over deficient five picks and four
shovels; I am to inform you that an N.C.O. was duly sent in charge of
the picks and shovels in a G.S. Waggon to Bluepoint Farm at seven a.m.
on that date, and there handed over the full number of picks and shovels
to an N.C.O. of your Battalion, who counted them and gave a receipt for
same, a copy of which I now enclose._
_Your obedient servant,_
_R. T. C. Birnie, Lieut.,_
_For Lt.-Col. Commanding_
_2nd Battalion, Royal Covenanters._
"That fairly puts it across the Grampian Regiment!" was Eric's verdict.
"I congratulate you!"
"It was Roy who was responsible," I said. "He got me out of a nasty mess
with the C.R.E. by producing that receipt. He was a grand adjutant,
bless him!"
Eric continued to turn over the leaves of the despatch book.
"There is nothing in the shape of a will or testament here," he said at
last. "No; wait a minute; there's something in the pocket of the flap."
He held the pocket open, and shook out its contents on to the table
cloth--two faded slips of pinkish paper.
"These don't look very promising," he said. "Field telegraph
despatches!"
He unfolded the first slip, smoothed it out, and read aloud:
_The expression "Dud" will no longer be employed in Official
Correspondence._