“I couldn’t get a word in. It suited somebody’s politics to blackguard us just then, and I left it at that. It didn’t seem any use arguing, sir.”
“Well, this must be stopped somehow. We shall have the French War Minister taking the matter up with Whitehall, directly, and a nice figure we shall all cut. I’ve known men sent to Salonika or Mespot, as company commanders, for less than this.”
“Very good, sir. What shall I do?”
“Get on with it. Find out who did the beastly damage, and straf him. Straf somebody, anyhow, and bring the remains here in a bag. We can show it to Corps, and they can write a sermon on the efficiency of the Adjutant-General’s Department.”
“Yessir. If you refer to the correspondence you will see that the name of the unit is mentioned.”
Dormer stood perfectly still, while his superior officer turned over the closely written, printed or typed sheets. His face was carefully veiled in official blankness. He had an idea.
“Well, here you are,” the Colonel was saying, “469 Trench Mortar Battery. You’ll have to go and see ’em. You ought to have done so long before!”
Dormer could not help adding, maliciously:
“Wouldn’t it be sufficient if I were to send ’em a chit, sir?”
“No, it wouldn’t. We’ve had quite enough of this procrastination. It’ll land us all in a nice hole, if we’re not careful. You go and see them and insist on getting to the bottom of it.”