The platoon spread to form a circle. ‘All-in’ was a battalion custom, a favourite with the men. It consisted of five minutes of close combat. Every platoon had it once a day. The colonel insisted on it as the ideal adjuster of relationships between junior leaders and men. They played it as a game. The officer or n.c.o. stood in the middle of the ring. He would point at one of the men, who would rush him and try to throw him, using one of a hundred tricks the whole battalion had been taught in its close combat training. Whichever of the two men was thrown would remain in the centre of the ring and would, in turn, beckon another man to come forward and give combat. No weapons were permitted; nothing else was barred. The only way out of the ring was to throw an opponent.

Now Sergeant Shannon was in the centre of the ring. He knew who he was going to call out; the whole platoon knew. He beckoned to Mulrooney and the Irishman moved forward, his head down. The sergeant was gambling his leadership now on one throw. If this man were able to fling him to the ground, he would be finished as a leader; Mulrooney would always be his master.

Mulrooney was circling him cautiously, keeping well away. The sergeant moved to keep him face-to-face. Brains, he wondered, or brawn? Was this just an old soldier circling him or had he learned new tricks? How much had this man picked up in seven years of brawls in streets and pubs and Indian brothels?

Now! Oh, by Jesus, it was so simple, and the answer came in a second as the Irishman came rushing in towards him with his arms outspread. The sergeant ducked in, seized Mulrooney’s arm, and flung the whole weight of the man – without even feeling it – over his shoulder. So simple, and in a second, and as pat as the gym instructor ever did it.

Mulrooney scrambled to his feet.

‘Had enough?’ mocked the sergeant. Mulrooney rushed again and Sergeant Shannon threw him again. Mulrooney lay on his back, scarlet and panting.

‘On your feet, Mulrooney,’ said the sergeant. ‘Try one of the lads. They can all throw you,’ he taunted, ‘every one of ’em.’ He knew now what he had to do. A primeval wrestle in front of the platoon wasn’t enough. He had to let the men come forward now, every one of them if necessary, and one by one get the better of the Irishman. Every man in the platoon must leave this meadow feeling a better man than Mulrooney, despising him.

‘Well, Mulrooney,’ said the sergeant, ‘who’s it to be?’

Mulrooney looked around him. His eyes were glowing with hatred. He stabbed with his finger at the biggest man in the platoon, Baldy.