They were grinning as they swung by him. That was a good thing, the colonel thought, remembering the weeks of training through which the battalion had passed, the nights spent shivering under frosty hedgerows, the days of crawling in the mud, hacking with pick and shovel at the chalk hillsides, practising on the ranges with rifle and grenade, streaming over assault courses, squatting round maps in the lecture hut. Already the hundred newcomers, veterans and recruits, had found their place in the battalion; men who had frozen and sweated together, ate, slept and grumbled together, boxed and played football together for six weeks were no longer strangers to each other. And here it all was, on this route march, the grinning, the pride, the arms going up together, the boots thudding along the rutted lane. Colonel Pothecary was proud of his battalion.

* * *

There was an old man from Lancashire,

He swallowed a blade of grass,

One grew out of his ear-’ole

And the other grew out of his arse.

The battalion had left the main road and was marching along a grassy ride that followed the ridge of a great, bare backed spur of downland. The salt wind from the Channel battered at the men’s faces and as, platoon by platoon, they recovered from the long uphill march, they joined in the singing.

If you don’t believe me and you think I’m telling a lie,

Just ask the girls from Manchester, they’ll tell you the reason why.

The colonel was marching at the head of the battalion with his second-in-command. The colonel was swinging his walking stick as if he were out for a morning’s walk in the country. He was singing lustily.

‘Don’t be anti-social, Noel,’ he shouted above the buffeting wind. ‘Let’s hear you sing.’

Norman eyed him ferociously. ‘You love this, don’t you?’ he complained. ‘You’re like those damned open-air enthusiasts I always have the misfortune to meet on holiday, who won’t rest until they’ve dragged me out for nice, healthy walks and nice, healthy games of golf.’

‘Cheer up, Noel,’ said the colonel, ‘this’ll put ten years on your life.’

‘No thank you,’ said Major Norman. ‘I’d rather die young.’

‘No doubt you will,’ said the colonel. They marched on in silence for a while; then he spoke again. ‘Had a letter from the wife last night,’ he said. ‘She hasn’t heard from the boy yet. She went down to the shipping office the other day. They told her not to worry, it was quite normal. I shall have to get her down here for a few days. Take her mind off things. Any idea where she could stay?’

They talked hotels. The regimental sergeant-major approached them. It was time for a break, he said.

‘We’ll get down into the valley out of the wind,’ said the colonel, ‘then we’ll give ’em a rest.’