The Irishman was tiny and alone now, and limping far behind. The platoon came out on to the main road and slowed down to quick time.

Mister Paterson took his place at their head and gave them the command to march to attention. ‘Come on, my lads,’ urged Sergeant Shannon, ‘never mind those aching legs. This is where you show what you’re made of.’

With their rifles smartly at the slope they marched into camp with pride and precision, in perfect ranks, in perfect step, arms swinging waistbelt-high like linked shafts in a single machine.

‘Platoon…’ they knew they were being watched from a score of huts… ‘halt!’

The platoon cracked to a halt and held it. Not a man wavered. With the same precision they turned to their front, picked up the dressing, ordered arms and stood at ease. They waited; in silence they waited for Mulrooney. Minutes later he reached the parade ground and limped to his place in the ranks. He was finished, beaten; this moment of silence was as decisive, as ceremonial as a drumming-out.

‘Platoon… officer on parade… dis-MISS!’

They broke ranks and rushed for their hut. Mulrooney limped after them, alone.

They were finished training, now, until after Easter. They had four days of leisure which they might spend in camp or in the neighbouring town.

Alfie Bradley changed hurriedly into his best battledress and packed his valise. He was blindly happy, intoxicated with triumph, enraptured, exalted. In front of the platoon, in front of the whole platoon, he – Little Alfie, the baby, the pet to be patted on the head, had brought a giant crashing to the ground. In front of the whole platoon. And now he was going to his girl, to stay for a weekend at the home of his own girl, his Floss.

The whole platoon was busy, noisy, happy.

Only Mulrooney lay face downwards on his bed, silent and immobile.

And, across the hut, Baldy sat gloomily on the edge of his bed, and wondered when he would hear from Charlie Venable.

CHAPTER EIGHT

The Mad Major