They loved it because this man had their confidence. Ever since he had come from the Black Watch with fourteen years’ Regular service behind him, he had shown himself to be just and kindly, always ready to intercede for some inarticulate private on trial before the colonel, always willing to listen, his head cocked interrogatively on one side, to an application for a weekend pass. And he played football. How he played football! Streaking down the field in the attack, whipping the ball past half a dozen defenders with some miracle of sleight-of-foot that brought a roar of ecstasy from the touchline, he had become the talk of the battalion, its idol, its White Hope.

His slogan was, ‘Off parade, off parade; on parade, on parade.’

This morning Regimental Sergeant-Major McBean was on parade.

He began by marching the battalion round the perimeter of the parade ground for five minutes to warm the men up, standing in the middle like the ringmaster in some gigantic circus, calling the time, noting every arm that did not swing high enough, every rifle that wavered. Then he gave them five minutes of arms drill, making them slope arms, present arms, slope arms, order arms, slope arms, present arms, slope arms, order arms, until every move was perfect and not a man flinched between words of command.

‘Goin’ into town today?’ muttered Charlie Venable between motionless lips.

‘Yes,’ whispered Alfie Bradley in the rank in front of him, his head scarcely moving.

‘STOP THAT TALKING IN YOUR PLATOON, SERGEANT SHANNON.’

Now the battalion was wheeling and manoeuvring, splitting up into companies and platoons, coalescing again into a single, snaking column, turning and halting to form one rectangular mass and moving off again into new and more intricate patterns, the material of an artist, shaped and moulded at his command.

The battalion was dismissed and the men swarmed off the parade ground.

‘There won’ ’alf be a queue at the NAAFI,’ said Charlie Venable. ‘Let’s get weaving.’ He broke into a trot. ‘Come on, you silly sods,’ he shouted, ‘last man there’s a bastard.’ Number Nine Platoon streamed after him.

‘Man,’ said Corporal Meadows, ‘look at ’em all. You’d think you were back in Cairo.’

‘Or Catania,’ said Corporal Warne.

They stood in the crowded High Street with their backs to a shop window, hemmed in by the throng of footloose soldiers and Saturday afternoon shoppers.

‘Fifty Div.,’ said Corporal Meadows.

‘Seventh Armoured,’ said Corporal Warne.

‘Jocks.’

‘Durhams, Howards, Seaforths, Gordons — Man, it won’t be long now.’

On the shoulder patches of the soldiers streaming into town, and on the mudguards of the lorries that came charging down the High Street were the old familiar divisional emblems of their Eighth Army days.

‘There’s somethin’ in the air all right,’ said Meadows. ‘They didn’t bring all this lot back for nothing.’

‘Tons of time,’ said Warne.

‘Why tons of time?’