If the casual gods send inquiring strangers into my camp, let them
(the intruders) be civil, please, or at least be male. Citizens I can
at once wave away with a regretful _nescio vos_; foot-officers are
decently reserved in their thirst for knowledge of an essentially
Secret Service; but officers' wives--
I was growing to like the Royal Gapshire Cyclists (H.D.), my
neighbours in the next field, until last Friday, when they perpetrated
their Grand Athletic Tournament. Quite early in the day twos and
threes of subalterns, with here and there a company commander,
dribbled across with a diffident wish to be shown round the guns, and
round we went. By the ninth tour I was wearying fast of the cicerone
act, and hoping they would not mistake my dutiful reticence for
stuffiness. They had made me free of a mess that has its points. Then,
towards tea-time, She came. The Major, who brought, introduced Her,
apologised (not for bringing Her) and withdrew. He was due to start
the Three-Legged Obstacle Relay. She, on the other hand, was _so_
interested, and _would_ I, etc.? Would I not!
"Lovely woman!" thought I. "Fit soil for a romantic seed! Farewell
reserve and half-told truth!" I then proceeded to describe unto her
things unattempted yet in Field, Garrison, or High Angle Ballistics.
Her first question (pointing to the recoil-controlling gear of No.
2 gun), whether _both_ barrels were fired at once, gave me a cue
priceless and not to be missed. My imagination held good for full
fifteen minutes, and by the time we were ambling back to the fence I
had got on to our new sensitive electrical plant for registering the
sound, height, range, speed and direction of hostile aircraft. The
fluent ease of it intoxicated, and I was lucky not to mar the whole
by working in something crude and trite about the pilot's name.
She departed, smiling radiant thanks, and I thought no more of it
until this morning, when Post Orderly handed me the following note:--
"DEAR SIR,--It was too kind of you to tell me all about your guns
the other day, and it was too bad of me to let you. I ought to have
mentioned that my husband is _the_ Colonel Strokes, of the High Angle
Ordnance Council. One of his favourite remarks is that the one woman
of his acquaintance who knows more about artillery than a cow does of
mathematics is
"Very sincerely yours,
"EVELYN STROKES.
"P.S.--Do you by any chance write?"
* * * * *
[Illustration: _Recruit._ "EXCUSE ME, SIR, BUT HAVE THE GERMANS THE
SAME METHODS IN BAYONET-FIGHTING AS WE HAVE?"
_Instructor._ "LET'S HOPE SO. IT'S YOUR ONLY CHANCE."]
* * * * *