“Large and small, 102.” There was no pause between question and answer.
Several of the audience had pencil and paper out (including the Transport specialist), and were making detailed calculations.
“By Jove,” said the expert, “the figures work out about correct, so far as I can see.” Then, in a fit of suspicion: “Do you know anything about transport, Doc.?”
“Devil a bit,” said the Doctor. “An’ I know Bones doesn’t. He’s only a week-end gunner.”
“We all know that,” said Alec.
I grinned and bore it. I knew only one thing about transport. I had read somewhere and some-when that a modern division needs seven tons of shipping per head for a long voyage, and my poor old memory had stored up this useless bit of lore. The Spook got the credit and went on cheerily to outline the American scheme for strengthening the Russian front. Next day, in the lane, Staff Officers spent a happy morning arguing about the length of time it would take the Siberian railway to transport the troops to the front!
Meanwhile another factor was contributing greatly to overcome the suspicions of the camp in general and of my own investigators in particular. The Hospital House Spook was going great guns. It produced some first-rate “evidential” matter about various officers—usually relating to some secret of a “lurid” past which was grudgingly admitted by the victim to be true—and was exceedingly well informed on matters relating to the war. Neither Nightingale nor Bishop had any special acquaintance with the geography of the Western Front—(that was an “accepted fact” in the camp)—yet their Spook continually referred to obscure towns and villages all along the line! This was regarded as a peculiar phenomenon. It is a still more curious phenomenon why the average Britisher always will under-estimate the strength of his opponent.
Then one morning our orderly came in with a dixieful of the whole-wheat mush which we dignified with the name of porridge. He had obviously something to tell us. He stood rubbing the instep of one foot slowly up and down the calf of the other leg, and regarding me whimsically.
“What’s up, Hall?” asked Pa Davern.
Hall ran his fingers reflectively through his hair.