We progress. The days when the whole art of war consisted of "On the
left, form platoons.... On the _left_, blanket," are over. Skirmishing,
signalling, musketry, Swedish drill--a variety of entertainment is now
open to us; there is even a class for buglers. To give you an idea of
the Corps at work, I offer you a picture of James and myself semaphoring
to each other.
James is in the middle distance, a couple of flags draped over his
person. I am going to send him a message. I signal to him that I am
about to begin; he waves back that he is ready. Now then....
My mind becomes a complete blank. I find that I have absolutely nothing
to say to James.
"Go on," says my instructor.
"Yes, but what?" I ask. All desire to interchange thought with James has
left me.
"Anything. Ask him, if a herring and a half costs three ha'pence, how
much----"
"Yes, but that's too long. It would take me at least a week, and by that
time the herring would be censored. No, I've got it."
It has occurred to me suddenly that it would annoy James if I reminded
him of his professional life. He looks so military in his puttees and
khaki shirt.
"_Do--you--want--a--nice--mortgage?_" I signal.
James takes it up to "nice," and then breaks down. The "m-o" he reads as
"s-w" (an easy mistake to make), and he imagines that I am offering him
a nice sword--a fitting offer to one of his martial appearance. When the
third letter turns out to be not the "o" which he expected, he loses his
head and signals "Repeat."
I give it him again slowly. He reads the first five letters as s-w-r-t-g
and assumes this time that I am offering him a nice town in Poland. It
is five minutes before we get the mortgage properly established, and by
then James is utterly disgusted.
He is now going to send a message to me. There is nothing half-hearted
about James when he has his khaki shirt on.
"_Why the devil don't you send up those guns?_" he signals.
General James is hard pressed. The enemy is advancing in echelon against
his left wing; cavalry beat themselves against the hollow square on his
right; his centre has formed platoon after platoon unavailingly. Still
the enemy comes on. Where the devil are those guns?