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.
"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.
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