I

Practically all the business of an Army in the field is transacted by telephone.  If the telephone breaks down, whether by the Act of God or of the King’s Enemies, that business is at a standstill until the telephone is put right again.

The importance of the disaster varies with the nature of the business.  For instance, if the wire leading to the Round Game Department is blown down by a March gale, and your weekly return of Men Recommended for False Teeth is delayed in transit, nobody minds very much—­except possibly the Deputy Assistant Director of Auxiliary Dental Appliances.  But if you are engaged in battle, and the wires which link up the driving force in front with the directing force behind are devastated by a storm of shrapnel, the matter assumes a more—­nay, a most—­serious aspect.  Hence the superlative importance in modern warfare of the Signal Sections of the Royal Engineers—­tersely described by the rank-and-file as the “Buzzers,” or the “Iddy-Umpties.”

During peace-training, the Buzzer on the whole has a very pleasant time of it.  Once he has mastered the mysteries of the Semaphore and Morse codes, the most laborious part of his education is over.  Henceforth he spends his days upon some sheltered hillside, in company with one or two congenial spirits, flapping cryptic messages out of a blue-and-white flag at a similar party across the valley.

A year ago, for instance, you might have encountered an old friend, Private M’Micking,—­one of the original “Buzzers” of “A” Company, and ultimately Battalion Signal Sergeant—­under the lee of a pine wood near Hindhead, accompanied by Lance-Corporal Greig and Private Wamphray, regarding with languid interest the frenzied efforts of three of their colleagues to convey a message from a sunny hillside three quarters of a mile away.

“Here a message comin’ through, boys,” announces the Lance-Corporal.  “They’re in a sair hurry:  I doot the officer will be there.  Jeams, tak’ it doon while Sandy reads it.”

Mr. James M’Micking seats himself upon a convenient log.  In order not to confuse his faculties by endeavouring to read and write simultaneously, he turns his back upon the fluttering flag, and bends low over his field message-pad.  Private Wamphray stands facing him, and solemnly spells out the message over his head.

“Tae g-o-c—­I dinna ken what that means—­r-e-d, reid—­a-r-m-y, airmy—­h-a-z—­”

“All richt; that’ll be Haslemere,” says Private M’Micking, scribbling down the word.  “Go on, Sandy!”

Private Wamphray, pausing to expectorate, continues—­

“R-e-c-o-n-n-o-i-t-r—­Cricky, what a worrd!  Let’s hae it repeatit.”

Wamphray flaps his flag vigorously,—­he knows this particular signal only too well,—­and the word comes through again.  The distant signaller, slowing down a little, continues,—­

“‘Reconnoitring patrol reports hostile cavalry scou—­’”