VI Ye Merrie Buzzers
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—’”
“That’ll be ‘scouts,’” says the ever-ready M’Micking. “Carry on!”
Wamphray continues obediently,—“‘Country’; stop; ‘Have thrown out flank guns’; stop; ‘Shall I advance or re—’”
“—tire,” gabbles M’Micking, writing it down.
“—‘where I am’; stop; ‘From O C Advance Guard’; stop; message ends.”
“And aboot time, too!” observes the scribe severely. “Haw, Johnny!”
The Lance-Corporal, who has been indulging in a pleasant reverie upon a bank of bracken, wakes up and reads the proffered message.
“Tae G O C, Reid Airmy, Hazlemere. Reconnoitring patrol reports hostile cavalry scouts country. Have thrown oot flank guns. Shall I advance or retire where I am? From O C Advance Guard.”
“This message doesna sound altogether sense,” he observes mildly. “That ‘shall’ should be ‘wull,’ onyway. Would it no’ be better to get it repeatit? The officer—”
“I’ve given the ’message-read’ signal now,” objects the indolent Wamphray.
“How would it be,” suggests the Lance-Corporal, whose besetting sin is a penchant for emendation, “if we were tae transfair yon stop, and say: ‘Reconnoitring patrol reports hostile cavalry scouts. Country has thrown oot flank guns’?”
“What does that mean?” inquires M’Micking scornfully.
“I dinna ken; but these messages about Generals and sic’-like bodies—”
At this moment, as ill-luck will have it, the Signal Sergeant appears breasting the hillside. He arrives puffing—he has seen twenty years’ service—and scrutinises the message.
“You boys,” he says reproachfully, “are an aggravate altogether. Here you are, jumping at your conclusions again! After all I have been telling you! See! That worrd in the address should no’ be Haslemere at all. It’s just a catch! It’s Hazebroucke—a Gairman city that we’ll be capturing this time next year. ‘Scouts’ is no ‘scouts,’ but ‘scouring’—meaning ’sooping up.’ ‘Guns’ should be ’guarrd,’ and ’retire’ should be ’remain.’ Mind me, now; next time, you’ll be up before the Captain for neglect of duty. Wamphray, give the ‘C.I.,’ and let’s get hame to oor dinners!”
II
But “oot here” there is no flag-wagging. The Buzzer’s first proceeding upon entering the field of active hostilities is to get underground, and stay there.
He is a seasoned vessel, the Buzzer of to-day, and a person of marked individuality. He is above all things a man of the world. Sitting day and night in a dug-out, or a cellar, with a telephone receiver clamped to his ear, he sees little; but he hears much, and overhears more. He also speaks a language of his own. His one task in life is to prevent the letter B from sounding like C, or D, or P, or T, or V, over the telephone; so he has perverted the English language to his own uses. He calls B “Beer,” and D “Don,” and so on. He salutes the rosy dawn as “Akk Emma,” and eventide as “Pip Emma.” He refers to the letter S as “Esses,” in order to distinguish it from F. He has no respect for the most majestic military titles. To him the Deputy Assistant Director of the Mobile Veterinary Section is merely a lifeless formula, entitled Don Akk Don Emma Vic Esses.
He is also a man of detached mind. The tactical situation does not interest him. His business is to disseminate news, not to write leading articles about it. (O si sic omnes!) You may be engaged in a life-and-death struggle for the possession of your own parapet with a Boche bombing-party; but this does not render you immune from a pink slip from the Signal Section, asking you to state your reasons in writing for having mislaid fourteen pairs of “boots, gum, thigh,” lately the property of Number Seven Platoon. A famous British soldier tells a story somewhere in his reminiscences of an occasion upon which, in some long-forgotten bush campaign, he had to defend a zareba against a heavy attack. For a time the situation was critical. Help was badly needed, but the telegraph wire had been cut. Ultimately the attack withered away, and the situation was saved. Almost simultaneously the victorious commander was informed that telegraphic communication with the Base had been restored. A message was already coming through.
“News of reinforcements, I hope!” he remarked to his subordinate.
But his surmise was incorrect. The message said, quite simply:—
“Your monthly return of men wishing to change their religion is twenty-four hours overdue. Please expedite.”
There was a time when one laughed at that anecdote as a playful invention. But we know now that it is true, and we feel a sort of pride in the truly British imperturbability of our official machinery.
Thirdly, the Buzzer is a humourist, of the sardonic variety. The constant clash of wits over the wires, and the necessity of framing words quickly, sharpens his faculties and acidulates his tongue. Incidentally, he is an awkward person to quarrel with. One black night, Bobby Little, making his second round of the trenches about an hour before “stand-to,” felt constrained to send a telephone message to Battalion Headquarters. Taking a good breath,—you always do this before entering a trench dug-out,—he plunged into the noisome cavern where his Company Signallers kept everlasting vigil. The place was in total darkness, except for the illumination supplied by a strip of rifle-rag burning in a tin of rifle-oil. The air, what there was of it, was thick with large, fat, floating particles of free carbon. The telephone was buzzing plaintively to itself, in unsuccessful competition with a well-modulated quartette for four nasal organs, contributed by Bobby’s entire signalling staff, who, locked in the inextricable embrace peculiar to Thomas Atkins in search of warmth, were snoring harmoniously upon the earthen floor.
The signaller “on duty”—one M’Gurk—was extracted from the heap and put under arrest for sleeping at his post. The enormity of his crime was heightened by the fact that two undelivered messages were found upon his person.
Divers pains and penalties followed. Bobby supplemented the sentence with a homily on the importance of vigilance and despatch. M’Gurk, deeply aggrieved at forfeiting seven days’ pay, said nothing, but bided his time. Two nights later the Battalion came out of trenches for a week’s rest, and Bobby, weary and thankful, retired to bed in his hut at 9 P.M., in comfortable anticipation of a full night’s repose.
His anticipations were doomed to disappointment. He was roused from slumber—not without difficulty—by Signaller M’Gurk, who appeared standing by his bedside with a guttering candle-end in one hand and a pink despatch-form in the other. The message said:—
“Prevailing wind for next twenty-four hours probably S.W., with some rain.”
Mindful of his own recent admonitions, Bobby thanked M’Gurk politely, and went to sleep again.
M’Gurk called again at half-past two in the morning, with another message, which announced:—
“Baths will be available for your Company from 2 to 3 P.M. to-morrow.”
Bobby stuffed the missive under his air-pillow, and rolled over without a word. M’Gurk withdrew, leaving the door of the hut open.
His next visit was about four o’clock. This time the message said:—
“A Zeppelin is reported to have passed over Dunkirk at 5 P.M. yesterday afternoon, proceeding in a northerly direction.”
Bobby informed M’Gurk that he was a fool and a dotard, and cast him forth.
M’Gurk returned at five-thirty, bearing written evidence that the Zeppelin had been traced as far as Ostend.
This time his Company Commander promised him that if he appeared again that night he would be awarded fourteen days’ Field Punishment Number One.
The result was that upon sitting down to breakfast at nine next morning, Bobby found upon his plate yet another message—from his Commanding Officer—summoning him to the Orderly-room on urgent matters at eight-thirty.
But Bobby scored the final and winning trick. Sending for M’Gurk and Sergeant M’Micking, he said:—
“This man, Sergeant, appears to be unable to decide when a message is urgent and when it is not. In future, whenever M’Gurk is on night duty, and is in doubt as to whether a message should be delivered at once or put aside till morning, he will come to you and ask for your guidance in the matter. Do you understand?”
“Perrfectly, sirr!” replied the Sergeant, outwardly calm.
“M’Gurk, do you understand?”
M’Gurk looked at Bobby, and then round at Sergeant M’Micking. He received a glance which shrivelled his marrow. The game was up. He grinned sheepishly, and answered,—
“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.
Now, if you put your ear to the receiver of a field-telephone, you find yourself, as it were, suddenly thrust into a vast subterranean cavern, filled with the wailings of the lost, the babblings of the feeble-minded, and the profanity of the exasperated. If you ask a high-caste Buzzer—say, an R.E. Signalling Officer—why this should be so, he will look intensely wise and recite some solemn gibberish about earthed wires and induced currents.
The noises are of two kinds, and one supplements the other. The human voice supplies the libretto, while the accompaniment is provided by a syncopated and tympanum-piercing ping-ping, suggestive of a giant mosquito singing to its young.
The instrument with which we are contending is capable (in theory) of transmitting a message either telephonically or telegraphically. In practice, this means that the signaller, having wasted ten sulphurous minutes in a useless attempt to convey information through the medium of the human voice, next proceeds, upon the urgent advice of the gentleman at the other end, and to the confusion of all other inhabitants of the cavern, to “buzz” it, employing the dots and dashes of the Morse code for the purpose.
It is believed that the wily Boche, by means of ingenious and delicate instruments, is able to “tap” a certain number of our trench telephone messages. If he does, his daily Intelligence Report must contain some surprising items of information. At the moment when we attach our invisible apparatus to Mr. M’Gurk’s wire, the Divisional Telephone system appears to be fairly evenly divided between—
(1) A Regimental Headquarters endeavouring to ring up its Brigade.
(2) A glee-party of Harmonious Blacksmiths, indulging in the Anvil Chorus.
(3) A choleric Adjutant on the track of a peccant Company Commander.
(4) Two Company Signallers, engaged in a friendly chat from different ends of the trench line.
(5) An Artillery F.O.O., endeavouring to convey pressing and momentous information to his Battery, two miles in rear.
(6) The Giant Mosquito aforesaid.
The consolidated result is something like this:—
REGIMENTAL HEADQUARTERS (affably). Hallo, Brigade! Hallo, Brigade! HALLO, BRIGADE!
THE MOSQUITO. Ping!
THE ADJUTANT (from somewhere in the Support Line, fiercely). Give me B Company!
THE FORWARD OBSERVING OFFICER (from his eyrie). Is that C Battery? There’s an enemy working-party—
FIRST CHATTY SIGNALLER (from B Company’s Station). Is that yoursel’, Jock? How’s a’ wi’ you?
SECOND CHATTY SIGNALLER (from D Company’s Station). I’m daen fine! How’s your—
Regimental Headquarters. Hallo, Brigade!
THE ADJUTANT. Is that B Company?
A MYSTERIOUS AND DISTANT VOICE (politely.) No, sir; this is Akk and Esses Aitch.
THE ADJUTANT (furiously). Then for the Lord’s sake get off the line!
THE MOSQUITO. Ping! Ping!
THE ADJUTANT. And stop that —— —— —— buzzing!
THE MOSQUITO. Ping! Ping! PING!
THE F.O.O. Is that C Battery? There’s—
FIRST CHATTY SIGNALLER (peevishly). What’s that you’re sayin’?
THE F.O.O. (perseveringly). Is that C Battery? There’s an enemy working-party in a coppice at—
FIRST CHATTY SIGNALLER. This is Beer Company, sir. Weel, Jock, did ye get a quiet nicht?
SECOND CHATTY SIGNALLER. Oh, aye. There was a wee—
THE F.O.O. Is that C Battery? There’s—
SECOND CHATTY SIGNALLER. No, sir. This is Don Company. Weel, Jimmy, there was a couple whish-bangs came intil—
Regimental Headquarters. Hallo, Brigade!
A CHEERFUL COCKNEY VOICE. Well, my lad, what abaht it?
REGIMENTAL HEADQUARTERS (getting to work at once). Hold the line, Brigade. Message to Staff Captain. “Ref. your S.C. fourr stroke seeven eight six, the worrking-parrty in question—”
THE F.O.O. (seeing a gleam of hope). Working-party? Is that C Battery? I want to speak to—
THE ADJUTANT. }
BRIGADE HEADQUARTERS. } Get off the line!
REGIMENTAL HEADQUARTERS. }
FIRST CHATTY SIGNALLER. Haw, Jock, was ye hearin’ aboot Andra?
SECOND CHATTY SIGNALLER. No. Whit was that?
FIRST CHATTY SIGNALLER. Weel—
THE F.O.O. (doggedly). Is that C Battery?
REGIMENTAL HEADQUARTERS (resolutely). “The worrking-parrty in question was duly detailed for tae proceed to the rendiss vowse at”—
THE ADJUTANT. Is that B Company, curse you?
REGIMENTAL HEADQUARTERS (quite impervious to this sort of thing),—“the rendiss vowse, at seeven thirrty Akk Emma, at point H two B eight nine, near the cross-roads by the Estamint Repose dee Bicyclistees, for tae”—honk! honkle! honk!
BRIGADE HEADQUARTERS (compassionately). You’re makin’ a ‘orrible mess of this message, ain’t you? Shake your transmitter, do!
REGIMENTAL HEADQUARTERS (after dutifully performing this operation). Honkle, honkle, honk. Yang!
BRIGADE HEADQUARTERS. Buzz it, my lad, buzz it!
REGIMENTAL HEADQUARTERS (dutifully). Ping, ping! Ping, ping! Ping, ping, ping! Ping—
GENERAL CHORUS. Stop that ——, ——, ——, —— buzzing!
FIRST CHATTY SIGNALLER. Weel, Andra says tae the Sergeant-Major of Beer Company, says he—
THE ADJUTANT. Is that B Company?
FIRST CHATTY SIGNALLER. No, sir; this is Beer Company.
THE ADJUTANT (fortissimo). I said Beer Company!
FIRST CHATTY SIGNALLER. Oh! I thocht ye meant Don Company, sir.
THE ADJUTANT. Why the blazes haven’t you answered me sooner?
FIRST CHATTY SIGNALLER (tactfully). There was other messages comin’ through, sir.
THE ADJUTANT. Well, get me the Company Commander.
FIRST CHATTY SIGNALLER. Varra good, sirr.
A pause. Regimental Headquarters being engaged in laboriously “buzzing” its message through to the Brigade, all other conversation is at a standstill. The Harmonious Blacksmiths seize the opportunity to give a short selection. Presently, as the din dies down—
THE F.O.O. (faint, yet pursuing). Is that C Battery?
A JOVIAL VOICE. Yes.
THE F.O.O. What a shock! I thought you were all dead. Is that you, Chumps?
THE JOVIAL VOICE. It is. What can I do for you this morning?
THE F.O.O. You can boil your signal sentry’s head!
THE JOVIAL VOICE. What for?
THE F.O.O. For keeping me waiting.
THE JOVIAL VOICE. Righto! And the next article?
THE F.O.O. There’s a Boche working-party in a coppice two hundred yards west of a point—
THE MOSQUITO (with renewed vigour). Ping, ping!
THE F.O.O. (savagely). Shut up!
THE JOVIAL VOICE. Working-party? I’ll settle them. What’s the map reference?
THE F.O.O. They are in Square number—
THE HARMONIOUS BLACKSMITHS (suddenly and stunningly). Whang!
THE F.O.O. Shut up! They are in Square—
FIRST CHATTY SIGNALLER. Hallo, Headquarters! Is the Adjutant there? Here’s the Captain tae speak with him.
AN EAGER VOICE. Is that the Adjutant?
REGIMENTAL HEADQUARTERS. No, sirr. He’s away tae his office. Hold the line while I’ll—
THE EAGER VOICE. No you don’t! Put me straight through to C Battery—quick! Then get off the line, and stay there! (Much buzzing.) Is that C Battery?
THE JOVIAL VOICE. Yes, sir.
THE EAGER VOICE. I am O.C. Beer Company. They are shelling my front parapet, at L8, with pretty heavy stuff. I want retaliation, please.
THE JOVIAL VOICE. Very good, sir. (The voice dies away.)
A SOUND OVER OUR HEADS (thirty seconds later). Whish! Whish! Whish!
SECOND CHATTY SIGNALLER. Did ye hear that, Jimmy?
FIRST CHATTY SIGNALLER (with relish). Mphm! That’ll sorrt them!
THE F.O.O. Is that C Battery?
THE JOVIAL VOICE. Yes. What luck, old son?
THE F.O.O. You have obtained two direct hits on the Boche parapet. Will you have a cocoanut or a ci—
THE JOVIAL VOICE. A little less lip, my lad! Now tell me all about your industrious friends in the Coppice, and we will see what we can do for them!
And so on. Apropos of Adjutants and Company Commanders, Private Wamphray, whose acquaintance we made a few pages back, was ultimately relieved of his position as a Company Signaller, and returned ignominiously to duty, for tactless if justifiable interposition in one of these very dialogues.
It was a dark and cheerless night in mid-winter. Ominous noises in front of the Boche wire had raised apprehensive surmises in the breast of Brigade Headquarters. A forward sap was suspected in the region opposite the sector of trenches held by “A” Company. The trenches at this point were barely forty yards apart, and there was a very real danger that Brother Boche might creep under his own wire, and possibly under ours too, and come tumbling over our parapet.
To Bobby Little came instructions to send a specially selected patrol out to investigate the matter. Three months ago he would have led the expedition himself. Now, as a full-blown Company Commander, he was officially precluded from exposing his own most responsible person to gratuitous risks. So he chose out that recently-joined enthusiast, Angus M’Lachlan, and put him over the parapet on the dark night in question, accompanied by Corporal M’Snape and two scouts, with orders to probe the mystery to its depth and bring back a full report.
It was a ticklish enterprise. As is frequently the case upon these occasions, nervous tension manifested itself much more seriously at Headquarters than in the front-line trenches. The man on the spot is, as a rule, much too busy with the actual execution of the enterprise in hand to distress himself by speculation upon its ultimate outcome. It may as well be stated at once that Angus duly returned from his quest, with an admirable and reassuring report. But he was a long time absent. Hence this anecdote.
Bobby had strict orders to report all “developments,” as they occurred, to Headquarters by telephone. At half-past eleven that night, as Angus M’Lachlan’s colossal form disappeared, crawling, into the blackness of night, his superior officer dutifully rang up Battalion Headquarters, and announced that the venture was launched. It is possible that the Powers Behind were in possession of information as to the enemy’s intentions unrevealed to Bobby; for as soon as his opening announcement was received, he was switched right through to a very august Headquarters indeed, and commanded to report direct.
Long-distance telephony in the field involves a considerable amount of “linking-up.” Among other slaves of the Buzzer who assisted in establishing the necessary communications upon this occasion was Private Wamphray. For the next hour and a half it was his privilege in his subterranean exchange, to sit, with his receiver clamped to his ear, an unappreciative auditor of dialogues like the following:—
“Is that ‘A’ Company?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Any news of your patrol?”
“No, sir.”
Again, five minutes later:—
“Is that ‘A’ Company?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Has your officer returned yet?”
“No, sir. I will notify you when he does.”
This sort of thing went on until nearly one o’clock in the morning. Towards that hour, Bobby, who was growing really concerned over Angus’s prolonged absence, cut short his august interlocutor’s fifteenth inquiry and joined his Sergeant-Major on the firing-step. The two had hardly exchanged a few low-pitched sentences when Bobby was summoned back to the telephone.
“Is that Captain Little?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Has your patrol come in?”
“No, sir.”
Captain’s Little’s last answer was delivered in a distinctly insubordinate manner. Feeling slightly relieved, he returned to the firing-step. Two minutes later Angus M’Lachlan and his posse rolled over the parapet, safe and sound, and Bobby was able, to his own great content and that of the weary operators along the line, to announce,—
“The patrol has returned, sir, and reports everything quite satisfactory. I am forwarding a detailed statement.”
Then he laid down the receiver with a happy sigh, and crawled out of the dug-out on to the duck-board.
“Now we’ll have a look round the sentries, Sergeant-Major,” he said.
But the pair had hardly rounded three traverses when Bobby was haled back to the Signal Station.
“Why did you leave the telephone just now?” inquired a cold voice.
“I was going to visit my sentries, sir.”
“But I was speaking to you.”
“I thought you had finished, sir.”
“I had not finished. If I had finished, I should have informed you of the fact, and would have said’ Good-night!’”
“How does one choke off a tripe-merchant of this type?” wondered the exhausted officer.
From the bowels of the earth came the answer to his unspoken question—delivered in a strong Paisley accent—
“For Goad’s sake, kiss him, and say ‘Good-Nicht,’ and hae done with it!”
As already stated, Private Wamphray was returned to his platoon next morning.
IV
But to regard the Buzzer simply and solely as a troglodyte, of sedentary habits and caustic temperament, is not merely hopelessly wrong: it is grossly unjust. Sometimes he goes for a walk—under some such circumstances as the following.
The night is as black as Tartarus, and it is raining heavily. Brother Boche, a prey to nervous qualms, is keeping his courage up by distributing shrapnel along our communication-trenches. Signal-wires are peculiarly vulnerable to shrapnel. Consequently no one in the Battalion Signal Station is particularly surprised when the line to “Akk” Company suddenly ceases to perform its functions.
Signal-Sergeant M’Micking tests the instrument, glances over his shoulder, and observes,—
“Line BX is gone, some place or other. Away you, Duncan, and sorrt it!”
Mr. Duncan, who has been sitting hunched over a telephone, temporarily quiescent, smoking a woodbine, heaves a resigned sigh, extinguishes the woodbine and places it behind his ear; hitches his repairing-wallet nonchalantly over his shoulder, and departs into the night—there to grope in several inches of mud for the two broken ends of the wire, which may be lying fifty yards apart. Having found them, he proceeds to effect a junction, his progress being impeded from time to time by further bursts of shrapnel. This done, he tests the new connection, relights his woodbine, and splashes his way back to Headquarters. That is a Buzzer’s normal method of obtaining fresh air and exercise.
More than that. He is the one man in the Army who can fairly describe himself as indispensable.
In these days, when whole nations are deployed against one another, no commander, however eminent, can ride the whirlwind single-handed. There are limits to individual capacity. There are limits to direct control. There are limits to personal magnetism. We fight upon a collective plan nowadays. If we propose to engage in battle, we begin by welding a hundred thousand men into one composite giant. We weld a hundred thousand rifles, a million bombs, a thousand machine-guns, and as many pieces of artillery, into one huge weapon of offence, with which we arm our giant. Having done this, we provide him with a brain—a blend of all the experience and wisdom and military genius at our disposal. But still there is one thing lacking—a nervous system. Unless our giant have that,—unless his brain be able to transmit its desires to his mighty limbs,—he has nothing. He is of no account; the enemy can make butcher’s-meat of him. And that is why I say that the purveyor of this nervous system—our friend the Buzzer—is indispensable. You can always create a body of sorts and a brain of sorts. But unless you can produce a nervous system of the highest excellence, you are foredoomed to failure.
Take a small instance. Supposing a battalion advances to the attack, and storms an isolated, exposed position. Can they hold on, or can they not? That question can only be answered by the Artillery behind them. If the curtain of shell-fire which has preceded the advancing battalion to its objective can be “lifted” at the right moment and put down again, with precision, upon a certain vital zone beyond the captured line, counter-attacks can be broken up and the line held. But the Artillery lives a long way—sometimes miles—in rear. Without continuous and accurate information it will be more than useless; it will be dangerous. (A successful attacking party has been shelled out of its hardly won position by its own artillery before now—on both sides!) Sometimes a little visual signalling is possible: sometimes a despatch-runner may get back through the enemy’s curtain of fire; but in the main your one hope of salvation hangs upon a slender thread of insulated wire. And round that wire are strung some of the purest gems of heroism that the War has produced.
At the Battle of Loos, half a battalion of “K(1)” pushed forward into a very advanced hostile position. There they hung, by their teeth. Their achievement was great; but unless Headquarters could be informed of their exact position and needs, they were all dead men. So Corporal Greig set out to find them, unreeling wire as he went. He was blown to pieces by an eight-inch shell, but another signaller was never lacking to take his place. They pressed forward, these lackadaisical non-combatants, until the position was reached and communication established. Again and again the wire was cut by shrapnel, and again and again a Buzzer crawled out to find the broken ends and piece them together. And ultimately, the tiny, exposed limb in front having been enabled to explain its exact requirements to the brain behind, the necessary help was forthcoming and the Fort was held.
Next time you pass a Signaller’s Dug-out peep inside. You will find it occupied by a coke brazier, emitting large quantities of carbon monoxide, and an untidy gentleman in khaki, with a blue-and-white device upon his shoulder-straps, who is humped over a small black instrument, luxuriating in a “frowst” most indescribable. He is reading a back number of a rural Scottish newspaper which you never heard of. Occasionally, in response to a faint buzz, he takes up his transmitter and indulges in an unintelligible altercation with a person unseen. You need feel no surprise if he is wearing the ribbon of the Distinguished Conduct Medal.