OR, BIG-WIGS AT PLAY.
Somebody in the Old Country discovered, with the aid of a hint or two, that the tooth (exact molar not specified) of the General Staff Officer 3 was sweet. As a natural result a certain famous firm of confectioners was indented upon heavily. Day in, day out, perspiring orderlies arrived festooned with parcels containing all kinds of wonderful things crammed with all sorts of wonderful surprises. Life in the General Staff Office resolved itself into four meals a day between sweetmeats. The whole routine underwent a complete change. Everyone who visited the place made, as a matter of course, a bee line for the General Staff Canteen cupboard, and while searching for the particular dainty he fancied broached the subject of his visit in general terms. He then turned to the officer he was addressing and politely offered him the kind of delicacy he thought would blend best with the matter in hand.
And then Chockchaw arrived. It began by letting the G.S.O.3 down badly the first day. All unsuspicious of its properties he rang up a Division, popped a piece into his mouth and waited. In due time the call came through, but no word could he utter. "Chockchaw lockjaw" had set in. Only a horrible sound like the squelching of ten gum-boots in the mud reached the indignant Staff at the other end. After a minute's monologue they rang off in disgust.
Yet in spite of all difficulties the vogue of Chockchaw swept through the Corps. It is such a ripe, rich, full-flavoured irresistible concoction. Disadvantages there are, of course, but, on the other hand, if you want to be quiet, it is easy to lure the unsuspecting intruder on to Chockchaw and leave it at that. After vain efforts the poor fellow usually creeps away like a cat with too big a bone and chews himself back to speech round the corner. He seldom returns, and if he does—there is always more Chockchaw. Should he refuse it this time you can take a piece yourself and save the trouble of answering, anyway.
Chockchaw entailed more perilous chances than at first appeared probable. Indeed at one time it looked like seriously impeding the course of final victory.
On a certain brown November day the G.S.O.2 suddenly jumped up from his chair, ran to the Canteen cupboard, popped a piece of Chockchaw into his mouth (because he had a difficult March Table to make out and needed sustenance) and fell to work whistling like an ordinary human being (who cannot whistle). I.O. (not the gadfly, but the Intelligence Officer) dropped in with his usual list of suspected hostile emplacements. He took Chockchaw in case he was asked pertinent questions. He has to be so careful what he gives away unofficially. He knows so much. Germans try to steal his summaries to find out what their own intentions really are. The A.D.C. dropped in for his usual morning chat and Chockchaw. The Staff Officer R.A. (S.O.R.A.), that inveterate sweet-guzzler, also dropped in.
"Hullo, what are you fellows munching?" asked the General, coming in muddied all over. "Give me a bit; I've had no breakfast. What's the news, Intelligence?" (No answer) "Is that Move Order done, by the way?" (No answer.) "Why, what the—Good Lord, I'm stuck! What stuff is this you've given me?" And there they all stood chumping in silence.
The telephone rang. The absurdity of a dumb Staff tickled everybody. They winked their appreciation of the situation at one another. Not to be able to say "Thank you" on being instructed "with reference to my telegram of to-day for L/Cpl. Plunkett read L/Cpl. Plonkett," appealed to them. Amidst the chuckles and gluggels of all, the G.S.O.3 was obliged to lift the receiver. Something of the seriousness of the occasion must have communicated itself to the others, for they crowded round him, mumbling and munching sympathetically. Speechless, the poor fellow wrote hastily on a buff slip of paper a Name, and passed it round. It was the name of an Excessively Resplendent One, whose lightest word results in headlines in the less expensive daily press.
A frightful panic came over all. What—a General Staff ceasing to function even for a minute? It was unthinkable. The news would be flashed through to all concerned and become the subject of conversation in ten thousand messes that evening. It must not be. Never was there such a kneading and gnashing of teeth. But to no purpose. You cannot hurry Chockchaw; time, and time alone, will defeat it. The General tried to pack it all into one cheek. Useless; to attempt to sculpture in seccotine would have been a simpler task. The G.S.O.2 tried a frontal swallow, but only lined his throat more and more thickly until respiration became difficult. The S.O.R.A. nearly swallowed his tongue. The A.D.C., having cricked his jaw in the first five seconds, counted ten and threw up the sponge. The voice at the telephone became louder and more insistent. Flushed, hot and flurried, the G.S.O.3 thrust the receiver into the hands of the G.S.O.2, who handed it on to the General, who dropped it. Nobody spoke. Only the crackling and cackling voice could be heard from the receiver as it hung face downwards at the end of its cord.
It was a moment demanding imagination. Naturally the Intelligence Officer felt the responsibility. He stepped forward, slapped the mouthpiece three times with the palm of his hand, rang off, rang on and slapped it again. The effect at the other end must have been horrible, but it achieved its purpose. By the time connection had been restored and the blood of the Signal Master demanded, the A.D.C. had cheated with a handkerchief and was able to gasp out that the Corps Commander would enjoy seeing the Resplendent One any time that day.