Out here the telephone exists largely as a vehicle for the _jeux
d'esprit_ of the Brass Lids. It is a one-way affair, working only from
the inside out, for if you have a trifle of repartee to impart to the
Brazen Ones the apparatus is either indefinitely engaged, or _Na poo_
(as the French say). If you are one of these bulldog lads and are
determined to make the thing talk from the outside in, you had better
migrate _chez_ Signals, taking your bed, blankets, beer, tobacco and
the unexpired portion of next week's ration, and camp at the telephone
orderly's elbow. After a day or two it will percolate through to the
varlet's intelligence that you are a desperate dog in urgent need of
something, and he will bestir himself, and mayhap in a further two or
three days' time he will wind a crank, pull some strings, and announce
that you are "on," and you will find yourself in animated conversation
with an inspector of cemeteries, a jam expert at the Base, or the
Dalai Lama. If you want to give back-chat to the Staff you had best
take it there by hand.
A friend of mine by name of Patrick once got the job of Temporary
Assistant Deputy Lance Staff Captain (unpaid), and before he tumbled
to the one-way idea his telephone worked both ways and gave him a
lot of trouble. People were always calling _him_ up and asking _him_
questions, which of course wasn't playing the game at all. Sometimes
he never got to bed before 10 P.M., answering questions; often he was
up again at 9 A.M., answering more questions--and such questions!
A sample. On one occasion he rang up his old battalion. One Jimmy
was then Acting Assistant Vice-Adjutant. "Hello, wazzermatter?" said
Jimmy. "Staff Captain speaking," said Patrick sternly. "Please furnish
a return of all cooks, smoke-helmets, bombs, mules, Yukon-packs, tin
bowlers, grease-traps and Plymouth Brothers you have in the field!"
"Easy--beg pardon, yes, Sir," said Jimmy and hung up.
Presently the phone buzzed and there was Jimmy again.
"Excuse me, Sir, but you wanted a return of various commodities we
have in the field. What field?"
"Oh, the field of Mars, fat-head!" Patrick snapped and rang off. A
quarter of an hour later he was called to the phone once more and
the familiar bleat of Jimmy tickled his ear. "Excuse me, Sir--whose
mother?"
On the other hand the great Brass Hat is human and makes a slip, a
clerical error, now and again sufficient to expose his flank. And
then the humble fighting-man can draw his drop of blood if he is
quick about it. To this same long-suffering Jimmy was vouchsafed the
heaven-sent opportunity, and he leapt at it. He got a chit from H.Q.,
dated 6/7/17, which ran thus:--
"In reference to 17326 Pte. Hogan we note that his date of birth is
10/7/17. Please place him in his proper category."