“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.”
III
The next afternoon the aeroplane photos duly arrived, together with a note from Cumberland:
“Dear Nowell,
“Am sending the photographs of K.22.C. and D. taken to-day, also some I have looked out of the same squares which were taken six weeks ago. It would appear from a comparison that a good deal of work has been put in by the Hun round C. 3.5. It looks like a biggish H.Q. I have informed C.R.A. who says it will be dealt with at 3 pip emma to-morrow, 18th inst.
“C. Cumberland,
“Capt. G.S.”