Out here the telephone exists largely as a vehicle for the jeux d'esprit of the Brass¹ Lids. It is a one-way affair, working only from the inside out, for if you have a trifle of repartee² to impart to the Brazen³ Ones, the apparatus⁴ is either indefinitely engaged, or Na poo (as the French say). If you are one of these bulldog lads and are determined⁵ 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 ration⁶, and camp at the telephone orderly's elbow. After a day or two it will percolate⁷ 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 strings⁸, and announce that you are "on," and you will find yourself in animated⁹ conversation with an inspector¹⁰ of cemeteries¹¹, 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.