In the dim and distant days before such phrases as "Boche," and
"T.N.T.," and "munitions," and "economy" were invented; when we lived
in houses which possessed roofs, and never dreamed of lying down
motionless by the roadside when we heard a taxi-whistle blown thrice,
in order to escape the notice of approaching aeroplanes,--in short, in
the days immediately preceding the war,--some of us said in our haste
that the London Telephone Service was The Limit! Since then we have
made the acquaintance of the military field-telephone, and we feel
distinctly softened towards the young woman at home who, from her
dug-out in "Gerrard," or "Vic.," or "Hop.," used to goad us to
impotent frenzy. She was at least terse and decided. If you rang her
up and asked for a number, she merely replied,--

(a) "Number engaged";

(b) "No reply";

(c) "Out of order"--

as the case might be, and switched you off. After that you took a taxi
to the place with which you wished to communicate, and there was an
end of the matter. Above all, she never explained, she never wrangled,
she spoke tolerably good English, and there was only one of her--or at
least she was of a uniform type.

Now, if you put your ear to the receiver of a field-telephone, you
find yourself, as it were, suddenly thrust into a vast subterranean
cavern, filled with the wailings of the lost, the babblings of the
feeble-minded, and the profanity of the exasperated. If you ask a