Private Mulrooney relaxed, gratefully. After three weeks he would, by Army regulations, be struck off the strength of the Fifth Battalion.

No, he said, when the policeman leaned over him again, he had no statement to make. No statement at all.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Ready to move

ON SUNDAY, MAY 28TH, Private Charlie Venable came back to the Fifth Battalion.

It was just after six o’clock in the evening when he walked past the astounded sentry at the main gate, strolled into the guard-room, flipped his beret on to the table and greeted the guard commander.

‘Wotcher, my old tosh. ‘Ow’s the ol’ battalion gettin’ on?’

The sergeant put down the pen with which he had been scratching at his guard report, and stared at Charlie.

‘You wanner poke your eyes back in, tosh,’ said Charlie pleasantly, ‘before they come poppin’ out. Any char left in the ol’ bucket, Sarge? I’m entitled to me supper, you know.’

‘Strewth!’ said the sergeant at last. ‘I’d better let the orderly room know you’re back.’

Charlie hung his greatcoat on a nail and settled himself comfortably on a rolled-up palliasse. ‘Not ’alf,’ he said, ‘give ’em a chance to put the flags out. I should ’a let you know I was comin’, shouldn’t I? Then you would ’a turned out the guard to welcome me.’

‘We’ll welcome you, all right,’ said the sergeant. ‘It’ll be close arrest for you, and a court martial.’

‘Nah,’ scoffed Charlie, ‘not now. We’ll be away in a few days. You know what Dad’s like. ’E’ll keep me under escort till we’re on the ship, then ’e’ll turn me loose.’

The off-duty men of the guard had all come crowding round. They had rather the air of courtiers doing homage.

‘Do you mean to say you knew what you was comin’ back to?’ one of them asked in awe.

‘Course I did,’ said Charlie calmly.

‘How?’

‘Ah,’ said Charlie, ‘if I told you, you’d be as wise as me.’

‘Those mates of yours been writing to you, I suppose,’ said the sergeant. ‘A little thing like the censorship wouldn’t worry them.’ He knew that the Doggy Boys had their own mysterious channels of communication; even now, when the battalion was becoming more and more cut off from the outside world, they were able to place their bets and to collect their winnings, and to live in their accustomed aristocratic ease. The battalion drivers were their loyal couriers; rat-faced little men from the nearby town would come daily to the village to transact their furtive business at the Horse and Hounds with Sergeant Bender, or with Dickie Crawford, or with Rabinowitz. Charlie Venable, hanging about for the last two months in the back rooms of shabby little London cafes, spending his nights at the tracks, could without difficulty have kept in constant touch with them.