“Heavens, man, where d’you think we’ve been? All the N.C.O.’s are new since I was with the crowd!”
“But surely there must be some record of men who were with your unit?”
“Well, of course, the pay rolls go back to Base somewhere. But I suppose you can pick the name and number up from the conduct sheet.”
“You see, I don’t know the man’s name. His number was given as 6494.”
“That’s a joke, of course. It’s the number that the cooks sing out, when we hold the last Sick Parade, before going up the line.”
“Of course it is. You’re right. I ought to have remembered that, but I’ve been away from my regiment for some time.” Dormer pondered a moment, relieved. Then the thought of going back to the Q. office with nothing settled, and the queries of the French Mission and the whole beastly affair hanging over his head, drove him on again. He made his air a little heavier, more Divisional, less friendly.
“Well, I’m afraid this won’t do, you know. This matter has got to be cleared up. It will be very awkward if I have to go back and inform Head-quarters that you can’t furnish any information. In fact, they will probably think it’s a case of not wanting to know, and make a regular Court of Inquiry of it.”
He watched the face of the other, and saw in a moment how well he had calculated. The fellow was frightened. A mere unit commander, and a small unit at that! To such a one, of course, Divisional Head-quarters were something pretty near omniscient, certainly omnipotent. Dormer watched the fellow shift in the chair without a qualm. Let some one else be worried too. He himself had had worry enough. The face before him darkened, smirked deferentially, and then brightened.
“Oh, there was old Chirnside. He might know.”
“Who was he?”