Part 22

REGIMENTAL HEADQUARTERS (resolutely). "The worrking-parrty in question was duly detailed for tae proceed to the rendiss vowse at"--

THE ADJUTANT. Is that B Company, curse you?

REGIMENTAL HEADQUARTERS (quite impervious to this sort of thing),--"the rendiss vowse, at seeven thirrty Akk Emma, at point H two B eight nine, near the cross-roads by the Estamint Repose dee Bicyclistees, for tae"--honk! honkle! honk!

BRIGADE HEADQUARTERS (compassionately). You're makin' a 'orrible mess of this message, ain't you? Shake your transmitter, do!

REGIMENTAL HEADQUARTERS (after dutifully performing this operation). Honkle, honkle, honk. Yang!

BRIGADE HEADQUARTERS. Buzz it, my lad, buzz it!

REGIMENTAL HEADQUARTERS (dutifully). Ping, ping! Ping, ping! Ping, ping, ping! Ping--

GENERAL CHORUS. Stop that ----, ----, ----, ---- buzzing!

FIRST CHATTY SIGNALLER. Weel, Andra says tae the Sergeant-Major of Beer Company, says he--

THE ADJUTANT. Is that B Company?

FIRST CHATTY SIGNALLER. No, sir; this is Beer Company.

THE ADJUTANT (fortissimo). I said Beer Company!

FIRST CHATTY SIGNALLER. Oh! I thocht ye meant Don Company, sir.

THE ADJUTANT. Why the blazes haven't you answered me sooner?

FIRST CHATTY SIGNALLER (tactfully). There was other messages comin' through, sir.

THE ADJUTANT. Well, get me the Company Commander.

FIRST CHATTY SIGNALLER. Varra good, sirr.

A pause. Regimental Headquarters being engaged in laboriously "buzzing" its message through to the Brigade, all other conversation is at a standstill. The Harmonious Blacksmiths seize the opportunity to give a short selection. Presently, as the din dies down--

THE F.O.O. (faint, yet pursuing). Is that C Battery?

A JOVIAL VOICE. Yes.

THE F.O.O. What a shock! I thought you were all dead. Is that you, Chumps?

THE JOVIAL VOICE. It is. What can I do for you this morning?

THE F.O.O. You can boil your signal sentry's head!

THE JOVIAL VOICE. What for?

THE F.O.O. For keeping me waiting.

THE JOVIAL VOICE. Righto! And the next article?

THE F.O.O. There's a Boche working-party in a coppice two hundred yards west of a point--

THE MOSQUITO (with renewed vigour). Ping, ping!