“Yis, sirr!”

III

Having briefly set forth the character and habits of the Buzzer, we will next proceed to visit the creature in his lair.  This is an easy feat.  We have only to walk up the communication-trench which leads from the reserve line to the firing-line.  Upon either side of the trench, neatly tacked to the muddy wall by a device of the hairpin variety, run countless insulated wires, clad in coats of various colours and all duly ticketed.  These radiate from various Headquarters in the rear to numerous signal stations in the front, and were laid by the Signallers themselves. (It is perhaps unnecessary to mention that that single wire running, in defiance of all regulations, across the top of the trench, which neatly tipped your cap off just now, was laid by those playful humourists, the Royal Artillery.) It follows that if we accompany these wires far enough we shall ultimately find ourselves in a signalling station.

Our only difficulty lies in judicious choice, for the wires soon begin to diverge up numerous byways.  Some go to the fire-trench, others to the machine-guns, others again to observation posts—­or O.P.’s—­whence a hawk-eyed Forward Observing Officer, peering all day through a chink in a tumble-down chimney or sandbagged loophole, is sometimes enabled to flash back the intelligence that he can discern transport upon such a road in rear of the Boche trenches, and will such a battery kindly attend to the matter at once?

However, chance guides us to the Signal dug-out of “A” Company, where, by the best fortune in the world, Private M’Gurk in person is installed as officiating sprite.  Let us render ourselves invisible, sit down beside him, and “tap” his wire.

In the dim and distant days before such phrases as “Boche,” and “T.N.T.,” and “munitions,” and “economy” were invented; when we lived in houses which possessed roofs, and never dreamed of lying down motionless by the roadside when we heard a taxi-whistle blown thrice, in order to escape the notice of approaching aeroplanes,—­in short, in the days immediately preceding the war,—­some of us said in our haste that the London Telephone Service was The Limit!  Since then we have made the acquaintance of the military field-telephone, and we feel distinctly softened towards the young woman at home who, from her dug-out in “Gerrard,” or “Vic.,” or “Hop.,” used to goad us to impotent frenzy.  She was at least terse and decided.  If you rang her up and asked for a number, she merely replied,—­

(a) “Number engaged”;

(b) “No reply”;

(c) “Out of order”—­

as the case might be, and switched you off.  After that you took a taxi to the place with which you wished to communicate, and there was an end of the matter.  Above all, she never explained, she never wrangled, she spoke tolerably good English, and there was only one of her—­or at least she was of a uniform type.