“No, no! Quite the reverse. One of the straightest and bravest men I ever had dealings with. Herbert was of limited mental capacity, but bright enough to know it. He had no wish for promotion. He adopted a paternal role towards Private Fox. We all did. The kid was seventeen years old and just out of training, having joined up the previous year. Young Sydney was fresh-faced, naïf, youngest of three brothers and—I’d have guessed—had been rather spoiled by his mother.” He smiled. “I remember he was always hungry. On our march north we were short of supplies. Our daily ration of three hardtack biscuits and a can of bully beef had been reduced to one biscuit and half a can of beef. This was a nasty shock to all of us, but especially to young Syd, whose father owned a grocer’s shop on some murky street corner in . . . Leeds, I think it was.

“Syd had clearly never gone short of rations before. He would gobble down his campaign biscuit for the day, then look about him in despair like an open-beaked chick on the nest. I used to break my hardtack in two when no one was looking and give him half, for which he was always tearfully grateful. Until I realised that young Sydney was creating occasions when he could be alone with each of us. A bit of quiet shadowing and I had it! The scheming little bugger was getting a half or a quarter of every man’s biscuit! Not getting fat on it, by any means. With all the marching and fighting, not even Syd retained his puppy fat, but he was surviving well.

“When I was quite certain that the lad’s behaviour was calculated, cunning and detrimental to the well-being and, yes, the discipline of the group, I had a word with the men. With each in turn. I told them to hold back. But Herbert Sexton wasn’t listening. ‘That poor little boy! He’s nobbut a bairn! If we can’t look after our own young ’uns, what are we then?’”

“Not a bad sentiment! I’m beginning to like Private Sexton,” Redfyre said heartily, beginning to wonder quite where this road map was now leading him. Round the houses again, or off a cliff?

The prisoner’s look, a blend of despair and pity for his naïveté, told him there would be no happy ending to this South African Christmas story.

Chapter 6

Chapter 6

Cambridge, Saturday, the 7th of June, 1924

“So, reprovisioned, fortified by a refresher course in self-defence, out-of-date map in hand, the fearless six of the tactical sub-unit set off into the sunset to reoccupy and man the main artery of communication of the South African Empire?” Redfyre sighed. “Am I getting this right?”

The prisoner smiled. “Pretty much.”

“Did they at least give you horses?”