Out here the telephone exists largely as a vehicle for the jeux d'esprit of the Brass Lids. It is a one-way affair, working only from the inside out, for if you have a trifle of repartee to impart to the Brazen Ones, the apparatus is either indefinitely engaged, or Na poo (as the French say). If you are one of these bulldog lads and are determined to make the thing talk from the outside in, you had better migrate chez Signals, taking your bed, blankets, beer, tobacco and the unexpired portion of next week's ration, and camp at the telephone orderly's elbow. After a day or two it will percolate through to the varlet's intelligence that you are a desperate dog in urgent need of something, and he will bestir himself, and mayhap in a further two or three days' time he will wind a crank, pull some strings, and announce that you are "on," and you will find yourself in animated conversation with an inspector of cemeteries, a jam expert at the Base, or the Dalai Lama. If you want to give back-chat to the Staff you had best take it there by hand.  
A friend of mine by name of Patrick once got the job of Temporary Assistant Deputy Lance Staff Captain (unpaid), and before he tumbled to the one-way idea, his telephone worked both ways and gave him a lot of trouble. People were always calling him up and asking him questions, which of course wasn't playing the game at all. Sometimes he never got to bed before 10 p.m., answering questions; often he was up again at 9 a.m., answering more questions—and such questions!
 
A sample. On one occasion he rang up his old battalion. One Jimmy was then Acting Assistant Vice-Adjutant. "Hello, wazzermatter?" said Jimmy. "Staff Captain speaking," said Patrick sternly. "Please furnish a return of all cooks, smoke-helmets, bombs, mules, Yukon packs, tin bowlers, grease-traps and Plymouth Brothers you have in the field!"
 
"Easy—beg pardon, yes, Sir," said Jimmy and hung up.
 
Presently the 'phone buzzed and there was Jimmy again.
 
"Excuse me, Sir, but you wanted a return of various commodities we have in the field. What field?"
 
"Oh, the field of Mars, fat-head!" Patrick snapped and rang off. A quarter of an hour later he was called to the 'phone once more and the familiar bleat of Jimmy tickled his ear. "Excuse me, Sir—whose mother?"
 
On the other hand the great Brass Hat is human and makes a slip, a clerical error, now and again, sufficient to expose his flank. And then the humble fighting man can draw his drop of blood if he is quick about it. To this same long-suffering Jimmy was vouchsafed the heaven-sent opportunity, and he leapt at it. He got a chit from H.Q., dated 6/7/17, which ran thus:—
 
"In reference to 17326 Pte. Hogan we note that his date of birth is 10/7/17. Please place him in his proper category."
 
To which Jimmy replied:—
 
"As according to your showing 17326 Pte. Hogan will not be born for another four days we are placed in a position of some di............