‘What’s the first thing you do,’ snapped the sergeant, ‘when you strip a Bren?… Private Mulrooney?’

‘No offence, Sergeant,’ answered Mulrooney. His voice was unexpectedly soft, and deadly. ‘But I was strippin’ them guns before you was out o’ school. Do you not wonder I don’t interest myself in it no more? Look…’ He held up his arm with the service stripes on the sleeve. ‘Seven years, Sergeant,’ he said. ‘You’ll not be ignorin’ them now, will youse?’

Here was the challenge direct. Sergeant Shannon knew that his platoon liked him; but they had not yet been into battle with him; some of them had only known him for this short period of training; he knew how uneasy was the relationship, how easily it could be upset, how quickly he could be discredited. He knew that this man, sullen and alone though he was, had the fire in him and the brute power that would make him contend for the leadership of any group in which he found himself, regardless of rank. Threats or punishment would not stop this man; Shannon knew that. The Irishman had the resource and the prestige of an old soldier; and above all, he would be among the men, day and night, living with them in their hut, while Shannon only saw them on parade; intriguing, provoking, telling his tale with the sly skill of an old soldier. Shannon knew his man; and he knew that the only way to avoid being made a fool of by this towering Irishman was to make a fool of him, to win the rest of the platoon against him, to isolate him. There would be no absorbing of this man into the group; to try would be foolish.

‘Out here,’ barked Sergeant Shannon, ‘at the double.’

The Irishman came out into the centre of the square.

‘Smarter than that,’ said the sergeant. ‘You’ll have to learn to move smarter than that wi’ us. Get back in t’ ranks, an’ when I shout “Move!” – let’s see you move.’

The Irishman went back.

‘Move!’

The Irishman came out – fast. He flopped behind a gun and expertly dismantled it. He climbed to his feet, grinning.

‘Are ye happy, Sergeant?’ he asked. He knew that he had disappointed Shannon.

‘Fall in,’ snapped the sergeant, ‘an’ none of your sauce.’ He watched the Irishman’s awkward bulk thoughtfully. He had done wrong, he knew, to tackle Mulrooney on his own ground. Weapon drill, everything that was of the parade ground, would be second nature to this man. But there were other things, new things, that were strange to an old soldier. And the man was clumsy.

‘Right, my lads,’ said the sergeant a few minutes later, ‘we’ll finish off wi’ five minutes of all-in, then we’ll have a double back to camp.’