II
Meantime we must follow Mr. Nowell down the trench. He was full of his thoughts and almost collided round a corner with a red-hatted Captain.
“Sorry, sir,” said he, saluting.
“Righto! my mistake. Can you tell me where I shall find the I.S.O. of this battalion?” asked the Staff Officer.
“My name’s Nowell, sir. I am the Sniping and Intelligence Officer.”
“Good. I’m Cumberland of Corps Intelligence.”
Nowell looked up with new interest. He had heard of Cumberland as a man of push and go, who had made things hum since he had come to the Corps a few weeks back.
“Anything you want?” continued Cumberland. “You’ve been sending through some useful stuff. I thought I’d come down and have a talk.”
Nowell led the way to his dug-out. He had suffered long from a very official Corps Intelligence G.S.O., whom Cumberland had just replaced. Under the old regime it never really seemed to matter to the Higher Intelligence what anyone in the battalion did, but now Cumberland seemed to take an interest at once. After a quarter of an hour’s talk Cumberland was taking his leave.
“Well,” said he, “anything you want from Corps, don’t hesitate to ask. That’s what we’re there for, you know. Sure there isn’t anything?”
“As a matter of fact there is, but I hardly like to ask you.”
“Why not?”
“It’s such a long shot, sir.”
“Well, what is it?”
“I’d like aeroplane photos taken of K.22 squares C. and D. opposite here. New photographs, sir.”
Cumberland was about to ask a question, but looking up he caught the slight flush of colour that had risen in Nowell’s face.
“Righto,” he said easily. “We rather pride ourselves on quick work with aeroplane photos up at Corps. I’ll have the squares taken to-morrow morning if visibility is pukka. And the finished photos will be in your hands by five o’clock. Good afternoon.”
Cumberland strode along the trench, and Nowell stood staring after him.
“Never asked me what I wanted ’em for,” he muttered. “Taken in the morning; in my hands by afternoon. Why, in old Baxter’s time such efficiency would have killed him of heart-disease. Well, let’s hope that cat’s playing the game, and not leading a poor forlorn British Battalion Intelligence Officer to make a fool of himself.”