The men, plunged suddenly into the chill of the night, stood shivering over their rifles, peering sullenly at the slim, straight officer who stood before them; Major Maddison, commander of ‘B’ Company, the orderly officer for the night. He turned on the guard commander who stood, swaying slightly, beside him.

‘I’ll have you stripped for this, Sergeant,’ he said. The words, flat, hard, even, whined past the men’s ears like bullets. ‘Sleeping over the stove on guard. If we’d been overseas you’d have all been dead men by now. I came past your sentry without being challenged. I opened the door of your guardroom. I threw a sixty-nine grenade in among you. If I’d been a German I’d have tossed something a little more deadly at you, you know. You’d have all been in little pieces now. And I could have taken a raiding party into the camp and shot the whole battalion to ribbons.’

The sergeant licked his dry lips and pressed his clenched fists into his sides. He could not speak.

‘Get the men into open order.’ The voice was lashing at his blistered face again. ‘I’ll inspect them.’

The sergeant croaked a command and the ranks parted. Major Maddison moved from man to man, flashing the light of his electric torch on each man’s equipment to see that it was correctly worn, groping over their bodies with his hands to see that their water-bottles were full and their pouches packed with ammunition. Within the rough, enveloping clothes lean bodies cringed and stomach muscles contracted with shame and anger under the insulting hands.

The officer was away from them again, and the voice came at them once more from the dawn darkness.

‘Change your sentries, Sergeant. Put the sentry on Number Three post under open arrest. And consider yourself under open arrest.’

The sergeant brought his rifle up on to his left shoulder and slapped the butt in salute. He spoke a final command and the men broke ranks and returned to the hut. He stood watching as the officer walked briskly away. Pain stabbed at his face and humiliation choked like a fist in his throat; his eyes were hot and he wished he were able to cry.

The men were waiting for him inside the hut.

‘That mad bastard,’ one of them growled, as the sergeant closed the door behind him and leaned wearily back against it, ‘you can get him court martialled for that.’

‘Them sixty-nine grenades,’ said another, ‘they’re dangerous things. Mister Paterson told us. They can blow your foot off if they drop near enough. And that little lead pellet in them can kill someone.’

The ‘sixty-nine’ was a training grenade, made of bakelite, dangerous only for its noise and its blast; its use in confined spaces was forbidden.