This is what they decoded to the expectant G.O.C. of the Division:  “Advanced ammunition depot has moved.”

The G.O.C. said something which impelled the entire Divisional Staff to the telephone, where they all grabbed for the receiver.

“What the devil is this code message?  We can’t understand it.  You’ve sent in something about the dump at your Brigade Headquarters.”

“Ah!” said the B.M. meaningly, “there is not a dump at Brigade Headquarters now.”

“Well, I don’t care.  We want to know what all this noise is about.”

“It’s the dump.  It’s m-moved.”

“Moved?  Moved where?  Give the map reference.”

“Map reference?” murmured the B.M.  “Oh, my sacred aunt, what fools ...  I’m sorry” (he smiled at them through his teeth) “I can’t give you the m-map reference, but I can give you the area roughly.”

“Barmy!” was the word he heard spoken to a bystander at the other end.

“Look here, old man,” they said kindly, “we know you’re all very tired and worried, but just try to think a moment.  Never mind dumps now.  You can’t be making all that noise moving a dump—­what?” (Specimen of Divisional joke—­very rare.) “Tell us, is the Bosch shelling?”

“No.  They’ve stopped.”

“Good.  Then it’s all over?”

“No.  It’s still going on.”

“But you just said that it had stopped.”

“Yes, it has.  But the dump hasn’t.  It keeps m-moving.”

“Poor old bird,” they said, “his nerve’s gone at last.  All right,” they shouted, “don’t you worry.  The storeman will look after the dump.  You go to bed and have a good sleep.”

“Have a g-good sleep!” muttered the B.M., “that’s just like the Divis—­Oh!” and he sat down as a torpedo flopped into his bedroom a few doors away and made a hole of it.

Then he sat up.  The storeman of the Brigade dump was not two hundred yards away from the active one.  The poor fellow was to have gone on leave that night.  Presently it occurred to him that, instead of trying to decide who should have the reversion of the storeman’s leave, it would be better to go and see if there really was a vacancy.  Fifteen boxes of melinite delayed him but a moment.  With melinite you know the worst at once; it doesn’t hang round like boxes of ammunition, for instance.  He called a clerk and together they raced over to the storeman’s dug-out.

“Jock!” cried the clerk.  “Are ye there, Jock?”

“Is he quite dead?” said the B.M., making up his mind to use his leave warrant for himself.

“No, Sir, he’s very deaf, that’s why he’s a storeman.  Jo-ock!!”

“Hello!” came from the ground.

“Are ye all right, Jock?”

“Na.  There’s an awfu’ to-do here.”

“What’s wrong then?”

“Ma candle keeps going oot.”

“Are ye all right, though, Jock?”

“Na.”