On reaching a suitable spot, the mortar party proceed to erect their
apparatus with as little ostentation as possible. But they are soon
discovered. The platoon subaltern hurries up.
"Awfully sorry, old man," he says breathlessly, "but the C.O. gave
particular orders that this part of the trench was on no account to be
used for trench-mortar fire. You see, we are only about seventy yards
from the Bosche trenches here--"
"I know," explains the T.M.O.; "that is why I came."
"But it is most important," continues the platoon commander, still
quoting glibly from an entirely imaginary mandate of the C.O., "that
no retaliatory shell fire should be attracted here. Most serious
for the whole Brigade, if this bit of parapet got pushed over. Now,
there's a topping place about ten traverses away. You can lob them
over from there beautifully. Come along."
And with fair words and honeyed phrases he elbows the dispirited band
to a position--for his platoon--of comparative inoffensiveness.
The Trench Mortar Officer drifts on, and presently, with the uneasy
assurance of the proprietor of a punch-and-judy show who has
inadvertently strayed into Park Lane, attempts once more to give his
unpopular entertainment. This time his shrift is even shorter, for he
encounters Major Kemp--never at his sunniest in the small hours of the
morning.
Field officers have no need to employ the language of diplomacy when
dealing with subalterns.
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