“It had happened so long before that he thought it was impossible to pursue the matter. So I made a report and sent it to the proper authority, to see if an ex. gratia payment could be made.”
“And they have done nothing, of course. So the French Mission have dug it up again.”
“Indeed, sir.”
“Yes. Oh, I can’t wade through all this. But I tell you what, young Dormer. You’ve got yourself involved in this correspondence, and I shouldn’t be at all surprised if you didn’t ever get out. I shouldn’t really.”
“I can’t see that I’ve done anything wrong, sir.”
“Can’t you? Well, it’s no good your telling the French Mission that, I’m afraid. You might go and try to persuade them that there’s a mistake, or an exaggeration, and get them to drop it. You’d better go and see them anyhow. They’re at Flan! Take what’s-his-name with you.”
From this, Dormer, by long experience, understood that he was to go to Army Head-quarters and to take the Divisional French Liaison Officer with him. He neither liked nor disliked the job. It was the sort of thing one had to do in war-time and he was used to it. So he went down the little stony street to the pork-butcher’s, where, upon the swing-gate that admitted one to the dank, greasy, appetizing interior, where every sort of out-of-the-way portion of the pig lay cooked and smelling “sentimental,” hung the placard “French Liaison Officer,” with the number of the Division carefully smudged out. Here, blue-coated, booted and spurred, sat the French Liaison Officer, innumerable small printed sheets of instructions before him, carefully arranged on this pile or on that, while in between lay the cardboard-covered dossiers.
Dormer’s immediate impression was: “Not enough to do. Passing the time away,” but he had too much sympathy with such an attitude to say so. He was greeted with effusion:
“My dear Dormer, to what do I owe the pleasure?”
Dormer never liked effusion. He replied briefly: