Page:History of the 305th field artillery (IA historyof305thfi01camp).pdf/61

Rh “Oh!"

The executive turned to the operator.

“Tell them it's nearly dark, and what the deuce is the delay?"

A whining buzz came from the shelter tent. It lacked conviction.

"Your man up there got the Saint Vitus dance?" the executive wanted to know.

On the nearest crest one of the lone figures was now etching with eager and excited strokes.

"Says," the private in observation read off, “Colonel—Doyle—wants—to—know—why—wire—communication—has—ceased—function—ing."

"Test your instrument," the telephone officer called to the man in the tent, "and you," he ordered another, "get out on the line."

A stooped figure threaded the underbrush, letting the wire run through his fingers. In a few minutes he was back, saluting.

"Line was cut, sir, not fifty yards out there."

"Probably one of your cannoneers," the telephone officer complained to the executive. "They must learn that wires are sacred, Court-martial offense—carelessness with wires."

"Speaking of courts martial,” the executive whispered.

"Remember that the Hun that hurts you'll be tried by some bigger Hun."

"Got you the first time," the telephone officer grinned. Behold! The white flag fluttering down! The red flag streaming up!

"Lieutenant Lloyd is back," came over the wire. "The range is clear.”

The chief actors became rigid and expectant.

“Cannoneers posts!"