"What do you want?" said the Staff Officer. He seemed used to meeting
people who wanted things, and familiarity had evidently bred contempt.

I humbly explained.

"Have you got a written authority to support your application?" he
asked.

I produced my friend's letter, which was endorsed with the stamp of
his Command Headquarters.

The Staff Officer, standing (not out of politeness, I am sure), read
the letter. Then he looked up, suspicion in his eye and in the cock of
his head.

"I don't understand this," he said. "You told me you wanted to go to
Ireland. This letter distinctly refers to your going to Macedonia."

"Macedonia!" I echoed (I had forgotten my friend's Biblical way of
expressing himself).

"Yes, Macedonia," snapped the Staff Officer. "Balkans, isn't it?
Something to do with Salonika?"

"Macedonia!" I repeated, still mystified.

"Yes, yes--Macedonia," he snapped, obviously suspecting me of trying
to obtain a week's leave on false pretences. "Here it is, in black and
white, 'so pleased that you are willing to come over to Macedonia and
help us.' I don't understand this at all."