"He never asked me, sir. I was not doing any other duty, so he detailed me to act as your guide."
What staff work! But it served me right; and we muddled along, and finally, to my great relief, we entered the station yard.
I walked into the R.T.O.'s office and laid my pile of papers on his desk.
The railway transport officer is an individual who is prominent in the memory of all those who have passed up the line; and many of us have reason to remember at least one of them with indignation.
There are two kinds of R.T.O.'s, and you have met them both.
There is the one who has earned his job at the front by hard work. He has been through the thick of the fighting, and after months in the trenches has been sent back to act as R.T.O. at the rail-head or the base, to give him a well-earned rest beyond the sound of the guns. We have no unpleasant memories of him. He is a man; he is human; he treats you as a comrade; he is helpful and considerate. And you can spot such men in a moment.
But R.T.O. No. 2 carries no sign of war on his features. He has never heard the sound of guns, and never intends to, if he can help it.
Look back upon the time when you left the base, and you find him prominent in your memory. When you are huddled up in your dugout, how you wish he could be transferred to you for a tour of duty in the trenches.
What a delight it would be to send him in his immaculate uniform; his highly polished leggings and boots, along the muddy communication trenches. You know what the feeling is, for oftentimes you have said to yourself in those lonely night-watches: "How I wish I had him here!"
It is 2 o'clock in the morning; the rain is coming down in torrents; danger lurks in every fire-bay; the loneliness and the weirdness give you the creeps.