He is more hurt than angry at that. "Oh, no, Sir. You rang me up, Sir. This is Zed Esses ..."
I nip that in the bud by saying "Hullo!" very loud. He realizes that the game is up.
"Speak to Division, Sir," he says curtly, and clicks before I can answer. A faint far gnat-voice says, "Is that Zed Ess?"
"No," I shout. "What the ..."
"Through to Division," says gnat-voice and clicks me off. Another voice carries on the good work. Upstairs the shells burst playfully on the parapet, and under the starlit sky a gas cloud drifts slowly across the fields, almost hiding the cattle who are grazing peacefully there in the long wet grass.
At midnight I am through to Division.
"Is that you?" says Division. "There is a list ..."
"Finished, please?" says the operator so near and loud that I jump.
Division and I are at one here—we are agreed that we have not finished. Like the Brothers Crosstalk, we say so simultaneously, using the same swearword.
The operator clicks off, baffled.