As he looked (and ducked) a flock of aerial torpedoes, propelled by the explosion of one of their number, rose and scattered as if at the approach of a hostile sportsman.  Another explosion blew what seemed to be a million rockets sizzling into the air.

The store was on fire!

The Brigade Major retired.
       * * * * *
Everybody was in the Signal dug-out (Signals build deep and strong).  Secretly the clerks were praying for the disintegration of the typewriter and the total destruction of the overwhelming mass of paper (paper warfare had been terrible of late).  The Staff Captain and the O.C.  Gum Boots, who had been approaching the Headquarters, were already half a mile down the road and still going strong.

The Division rang up.  One need hardly have mentioned that.  In times of stress the higher formations rarely fail.

“What’s going on?” they asked.

The Brigade Major was just going to say, when suddenly he remembered.  That very morning he had been severely strafed for speaking of important things over the telephone when so near the enemy.  “Had he not read the Divisional G 245/348/24 of the 29th inst.?  What was the good of issuing orders to defeat the efficiency of the Bosch listening apparatus if they were not obeyed?” etc., etc.

True, it was conceivable that even without the aid of a delicate listening apparatus the Bosch was cognisant of an explosion that made his whole front line quiver; still orders is orders.  So the Brigade-Major swallowed hard.

“C-can’t tell you over the wires.  Your G 245/348/24....”

“Yes, yes, we know all about that.  Don’t say it definitely, but give us an idea. Where is all this noise?”

“Here!—­Oh!” piped the B.M. as a crump shook the receiver out of his hand.

“Send it in code at once.  The G.O.C. is strafing horribly to know.”

To encode a message which may be your last words on earth is not the easiest of tasks.  It has no romance about it.  Who would relish an obituary such as:  “He died like a hero, his last words being ‘XB35/067K’”?

To the ramping of the continuous crump the B.M. scraped away the dirt and stuff that had fallen from the throbbing walls of his dug-out and fished out the Code-Book.  Hurriedly he turned over the pages to “Ammunition” and read down the set phrases and their code equivalents.  Four times he relit the candle.  There seemed nothing under this heading applicable to the situation.  “Send up” was one, but that had already been done.  “Am/is/are/running short of” was another, but it was doubtful if the Division would see the real meaning of it.

“Ah, here we are,” he muttered, relighting the candle for the fifth time.  “Dumps.”  Alas, there was nothing to convey the situation very clearly even under this heading.  Finally he picked out the nearest he could find and sent it over the wires.