He called three men out. Each lay behind a gun. At his word of command they stripped the weapons down until, twenty seconds later, the parts of each gun lay neatly spread on its groundsheet. Three more men came forward. They dropped to the ground, and as deftly and skilfully reassembled the guns.

Sergeant Shannon looked around him. Most of the platoon were watching intently. One or two seemed bored. The big Irishman stood slackly, looking away over their heads towards the sea. He caught the sergeant’s eye and for a moment returned his stare. Then he turned his head and looked out to sea again.

The move was deliberate, studied. Sergeant Shannon knew about men, and he knew that there was a challenge to him here. But he was determined not to pick on the man; he ignored him, and moved over again towards the men at the guns.

Three more men came out. They were just beginning to dismantle the guns when the sergeant heard a rumbling whisper behind him. He knew before he turned that it was the Irishman.

‘That’ll do, Mulrooney,’ he said quietly, ‘pay attention now, like the rest.’

‘Private Mulrooney,’ rumbled the Irishman.

‘What’s that?’ The sergeant straightened up sharply towards him.

‘Address me by me rank, Sergeant,’ said the Irishman, ‘same as I do you. I’m a soldier wid service, Sergeant. I know me rights.’’

The sergeant sucked at his lower lip for a second. ‘You may be with us quite a bit,’ he said quietly. ‘Why look for trouble? You’d do best to learn to get on wi’ the lads an’ wi’ me. This lawyer stuff’ll do you no good ’ere. I know your rights as well as you do, an’ I’ll not try an’ deny ’em to you. Now stand up straight an’ pay attention.’

The Irishman straightened up. The other men were watching him now; he did it exaggeratedly, derisively. His face was impassive but his eyes were grinning.

The sergeant ignored him and called the attention of the platoon back to the guns. As he directed the next three men he fought with a little core of worry within. Was he being too easy? he wondered. Was he giving this man the idea that he was frightened of an encounter? Maybe, he thought, I should have acted on my hunch and ridden him from the start. Give this kind an inch and they take a yard an’ a half. The Irishman would be clever; he knew that; damned clever, able to goad and ridicule an n.c.o. without saying anything punishable, able to call to his aid every rule in the King’s Regulations.

The sergeant looked up to call the next three men. He found half the platoon ignoring the guns, looking instead at the Irishman. Mulrooney stood, turned half-away, leaning on his rifle.

‘Mulrooney,’ said the sergeant, ‘I’ll not tell you again. Face your front.’

Mulrooney faced front.