‘D’yer want ter frighten my muvver ter deaf?’ exclaimed Dickie Crawford indignantly. ‘Sendin’ the p’lice round the ’ouse. We’ve never ’ad no coppers in our ’ouse an’ we don’t want ’em now. And,’ he added, ‘it’s no use sending ’em round the girl’s place. She’d say anything ter stop me getting a leave, wouldn’t she? It’s only natural.’

The major stared at the wooden table-top in silence for a few seconds, chewing at his nails. He looked up at Dickie and spoke.

‘Crawford,’ he said reflectively, ‘get me the orderly sergeant.’

‘Yessir.’ Dickie went to the door and called the orderly sergeant in.

‘Orderly Sergeant,’ said Major Norman, ‘take this man down to the cookhouse and find him a job. One that’ll last him the rest of the day.’

The orderly sergeant grinned gloatingly at Dickie. ‘I got just the job, sir,’ he said. The cookhouse drains are blocked up.’

‘Oh,’ said Dickie bitterly, ‘so that’s where the smell comes from. I fought it was the sergeants’ mess.’

‘Quiet,’ said the orderly sergeant. ‘Salute the officer an’ fall out prop’ly.’

‘And Crawford.’ Major Norman was speaking again, and Dickie halted by the door. ‘You’re damn lucky it’s me you came to see with a story like that. The colonel would probably have had you in the guard-room by now.’

‘Yessir.’ Dickie made to move off again.

‘Crawford.’

Half-in, half-out of the hut, Dickie stopped again and turned wearily.

‘Yessir.’

‘There’ll be a pass waiting for you at the guard-room Thursday night. See you’re back in camp by next Tuesday morning. Don’t let me down, mind.’

Dickie gaped.

‘Mad,’ he said wonderingly to the orderly sergeant as they walked off together, ‘stone mad.’

A platoon of riflemen in battle order came crashing along the cinder path at the double. Dickie Crawford and the orderly sergeant drew back to let them go by.

‘Hep right, hep right, hep right, hep right.’ Shannon, a stocky little sergeant, burdened like the rest of his men with steel helmet, rifle and pack, was gasping the step at the head of the platoon. Mister Paterson, Number Nine Platoon’s officer, was bounding easily alongside.

There was Easter in the air, with the sun coming up among the veils of high cloud and the cool, damp breeze stirring the hedgerows. The men gulped the sweet breeze as they ran; it stirred their blood as it stirred the leaves in the treetops. They were excited and eager; they ran confidently and unflaggingly.

They left the camp behind them, crossed the main road, stumbled – cursing and laughing – for half a mile across a field of clogging stubble. In a meadow beyond they slowed down to quick time at the sergeant’s word of command and thudded across the turf, slack and breathless now, until there came the merciful halt.