"That list of men for a bombing course," says Division.
"Yes, Sir," I reply brightly, though my heart sinks.
"You ought to have sent it in at 6 P.M.," says Division. "And it has not yet arrived."
I look at my wrist-watch, but realise too late that this graceful gesture is lost on him. "I am sorry, Sir," I reply with dignity, "but the delay was inevitable. It shall be with you on the breakfast-table. The difficulty of communication in this great War ..."
Division laughs sardonically.
At ten minutes past twelve I go to bed again, and at twelve-fifteen an orderly shines an electric torch in my eyes in order to prevent my reading a wire which he hands me. It says, "Ref. your S.C. 1985 please ask PIG if they have salvaged any German socks. A.A.A. urgent."
I stand up, and the orderly, completely unnerved by the sight of a Staff Captain in undress uniform, releases the button of his torch and retires under cover of darkness.
I twirl the handle of the telephone and listen. There is silence. I turn it again with vigour. For twenty minutes I behave like an organ-grinder. Towards dawn the bell rings and I receive an electric shock.
"Hullo!" says the operator.
I tell him what I think of him. When I have finished the sun is up and the first aeroplane is dropping its glad bombs on the dewy earth below.