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—'"