A change of angle was momentarily expected from the observer; we had
been looking for it for some minutes, and the Major was beginning to
rave and rant, very much like a theater manager when the star has not
yet put in her appearance and the impatient audience on the outside are
giving vent to catcalls. He could stand it no longer and ran as fast as
his legs would carry him over to the telephonist's hut; there he found
Graham crouching alongside of his telephone in the folds of a blanket
over his head and face. It was the usual field telephone that we used,
in conjunction with a telegraph buzzer, and Graham was endeavoring to
deliver his messages and fight off the bees at the same time, while
bringing to his aid the smoke of a fag that he was endeavoring to puff
into the faces of his antagonists in the hope that it would help some.

The Major bellowed, "You damned jackass! take off that blanket. What do
you mean?" Graham threw off the blanket and started working his buzzer,
but the bees had as little regard for the rank of the Major as they did
for that of Sergeant Graham, and three or four of them kept pinging away
at him, but as long as the Major was there his splendid discipline
enabled him to do his work. He got into communication at once with the
trenches, gave us our new targets and we kept on with our work until
darkness prevented further registering that night, although the twilight
still prevailed.

"Stand down!" came the order. "Clean up guns and lay on S.O.S. lines for
the night," meaning to load the gun with a fuse shell timed for a
certain range, or to burst on percussion, just as the target requires,
safety catch down, sight set, range on range drum and the gun laid on a
predetermined point to be covered, in both cases being the front line
trench, although it might be a machine-gun emplacement, barbed-wire,