n order to distinguish it from F. He has no respect for the
most majestic military titles. To him the Deputy Assistant Director of
the Mobile Veterinary Section is merely a lifeless formula, entitled
Don Akk Don Emma Vic Esses.

He is also a man of detached mind. The tactical situation does not
interest him. His business is to disseminate news, not to write
leading articles about it. (_O si sic omnes!_) You may be engaged in a
life-and-death struggle for the possession of your own parapet with a
Boche bombing-party; but this does not render you immune from a pink
slip from the Signal Section, asking you to state your reasons in
writing for having mislaid fourteen pairs of "boots, gum, thigh,"
lately the property of Number Seven Platoon. A famous British soldier
tells a story somewhere in his reminiscences of an occasion upon
which, in some long-forgotten bush campaign, he had to defend a zareba
against a heavy attack. For a time the situation was critical. Help
was badly needed, but the telegraph wire had been cut. Ultimately
the attack withered away, and the situation was saved. Almost
simultaneously the victorious commander was informed that telegraphic
communication with the Base had been restored. A message was already
coming through.

"News of reinforcements, I hope!" he remarked to his subordinate.

But his surmise was incorrect. The message said, quite simply:--

"Your monthly return of men wishing to change their religion is
twenty-four hours overdue. Please expedite."

There was a time when one laughed at that anecdote as a playful
invention. But we know now that it is true, and we feel a sort of
pride in the truly British imperturbability of our official machinery.

Thirdly, the Buzzer is a humourist, of the sardonic variety. The
constant clash of wits over the wires, and the necessity of framing
words quickly, sharpens his faculties and acidulates his tongue.
Incidentally, he is an awkward person to quarrel with. One black
night, Bobby Little, making his second round of the trenches about an
hour before "stand-to," felt constrained to send a telephone message
to Battalion Headquarters. Taking a good breath,--you always do this
before entering a trench dug-out,--he plunged into the noisome cavern
where his Company Signallers kept everlasting vigil. The place was in
total darkness, except for the illumination supplied by a strip of
rifle-rag burning in a tin of rifle-oil. The air, what there was o