Before the time came, however, a friend of mine, an educational staff officer in Ireland, wrote to me and suggested that I should go over and give him the assistance of my superior intelligence.  I replied that I would be delighted.  He then wrote:—­

“My dear K——­,—­I am so pleased that you are willing to come over to Macedonia and help us.  You had better ask War Office for a week’s extension of leave, by which time my application for you will probably have filtered through.  That will save you the trouble of rejoining your reserve unit.”

I thought this an excellent plan and went to the War Office to see about it.

After the customary wait I was granted a few moments of a Staff Officer’s precious time.

“What do you want?” said the Staff Officer.  He seemed used to meeting people who wanted things, and familiarity had evidently bred contempt.

I humbly explained.

“Have you got a written authority to support your application?” he asked.

I produced my friend’s letter, which was endorsed with the stamp of his Command Headquarters.

The Staff Officer, standing (not out of politeness, I am sure), read the letter.  Then he looked up, suspicion in his eye and in the cock of his head.

“I don’t understand this,” he said.  “You told me you wanted to go to Ireland.  This letter distinctly refers to your going to Macedonia.”

“Macedonia!” I echoed (I had forgotten my friend’s Biblical way of expressing himself).

“Yes, Macedonia,” snapped the Staff Officer.  “Balkans, isn’t it?  Something to do with Salonika?”

“Macedonia!” I repeated, still mystified.

“Yes, yes—­Macedonia,” he snapped, obviously suspecting me of trying to obtain a week’s leave on false pretences.  “Here it is, in black and white, ’so pleased that you are willing to come over to Macedonia and help us.’  I don’t understand this at all.”

He handed me the letter.  Then I realised what was amiss.  My friend had not reckoned with the War Office.  They call a spade a spade in Whitehall (unless they refer to it as “shovels, one.”)

“Oh,” said I, “I see.  Yes, Macedonia.  Slight misunderstanding.  It’s written from Ireland all right.  There’s the Irish Command stamp on it.  ‘Come over to Macedonia and help us.’  Biblical phrase.  St. PAUL, you know.  Just a figure of speech.  My friend meant it metaphorically.”

“The devil he did,” barked the Staff man.  “Then why the blazes didn’t he say so?”

Of course, why didn’t he say so?  Very stupid of him.  One can’t be too literal in dealing with the War Office, that notorious fount of clear and orderly diction.

My plan nearly went West, and I was nearly sent East.  It was only the Headquarters’ stamp that turned the scale in my favour.

It was lucky for my friend that I ultimately got leave to help him in his educational duties.  Cleanly he is himself sadly lacking in the very rudiments of official culture.