The guard of honour presented arms as the ex-servicemen came by. The fat little men thrust their chins up proudly and came to a halt in front of the memorial. One of them walked up the steps to the memorial and turned to face the crowd; the mayor, small and fat and sleek as a pigeon. For ten minutes he spoke. The battalion listened uncomprehendingly as his voice rose and fell, now trembling with emotion, now thundering with indignation, now rising to a peak of patriotic fervour. The mayor concluded, scarlet and sweating; and mopped his face amid a rattle of applause. The colonel came forward and laid a bunch of flowers at the foot of the memorial. He straightened up and saluted rigidly; then he relaxed and shook hands with the mayor.

The village schoolmaster raised his hand and the street fell silent. He brought his hand down and the children began to sing, shrilly and discordantly.

It was some moments before the men of the battalion realised what the children were singing.

Gawsavahgreeshuskeenk,

Lawngleevahnobelkeenk,

Gawsabahkeenk –

The children plunged frantically through the song, straining to remember phonetically the unfamiliar words, racing each other to finish.

Sendeemveectorious,

Hahpeeanglorious,

The mothers rocked in an agony of pride and suspense. The schoolmaster beat time faster and faster.

Longtoreenawvrus,

Gawsavahkeenk.

They finished triumphantly amid a hubbub of shrill congratulations from their mothers and the delighted cheers of the Fifth Battalion.

Arm-in-arm, soldiers and girls strolled quietly through the orchard in the cool, blue dusk. On the four rows of chairs round the improvised platform the villagers perched in their stiff, best clothes. Behind them, sprawling on the grass under the apple trees, were the men of the Fifth Battalion, their bronzed, resolute young faces lit in the shadows by cigarette glow. As the concert progressed and the darkness gathered about them, it became more and more difficult for the entertainers on the platform to discern them, until the audience was only a roar of song or laughter sweeping in on the platform from the gloom.

Private Rabinowitz was playing the piano. He battered tirelessly at the keys, bouncing madly on the upturned ration box that served as his stool, drumming with his boots at the front panel of the piano, turning every few minutes to roll his eyes at the villagers in the front row and hurl a frenzied, ‘Ha-chah-chah!’ at them.