Baldy came in and they grappled. For a moment the Irishman got his arms round Baldy and the sergeant leaned forward anxiously. Then Baldy’s smooth, gleaming skull came up and cracked sickeningly against the Irishman’s chin. Mulrooney lurched like a swaying tree. Baldy ducked in at him and Mulrooney crashed to the ground.

The sergeant stood over him without pity. ‘Try again,’ he said coldly, ‘you can’t quit till you’ve thrown someone.’

‘Is it me that’s said I was wantin’ to quit?’ roared Mulrooney. His angry eyes grinned again as he beckoned to little Alfie Bradley.

At once there was absolute silence. The man next to Alfie tried to pull him back, but little Alfie, eager, blond, light and lithe as a whippet, was in the ring.

‘I’ll kill youse,’ Mulrooney snarled, and rushed at the boy. All the choking hatred for these men banded against him exploded, in a mad, blind blood-lust. He was going to obliterate this boy, to trample him into the grass. There was a sudden shout of anger from the watching men and the whole platoon surged forward as Mulrooney swung a great, steel-shod boot in a murderous kick at the boy’s stomach. But Alfie whirled aside like a flicker of light, and raised his own boot; and Mulrooney’s shin, with all the mighty force of Mulrooney’s own kick, met the edge of Alfie’s boot. The Irishman screamed shrilly and toppled, writhing to the ground.

Again there was silence. Then a hubbub of excited talk. The sergeant’s voice slashed through the noise. The platoon quietened and re-formed its ranks.

Mister Paterson, who for the last half-hour had been sitting on a stile watching the platoon, was back at Sergeant Shannon’s side. He looked down at the sprawling, gasping Mulrooney without making any comment.

‘Are you comin’, Mulrooney?’ asked the sergeant pitilessly. Mulrooney struggled to his feet, picked up his rifle and limped into the ranks.

‘Sling your rifles, lads,’ called the sergeant. ‘Left turn. By the right – double march!’

The platoon moved off at a smart double. Mulrooney, in agony, struggled along with them, bobbing up and down with his damaged leg. No one tried to ease the pace for him; there was no mercy. The sergeant, knowing that this was the time to complete his victory, increased the pace. The men, eager to identify themselves with the sergeant, to match him in strength and endurance, followed his lead.

Mulrooney dropped back, yard by yard, through the ranks. His face was streaming with sweat, convulsed with pain and rage. He tried bitterly to keep up, but fell behind the last file. No one even looked round. The platoon drew away and left him pounding agonisedly across the ploughed field. At last, at the limit of endurance, he admitted defeat and slowed down to a walking pace.