“This is Captain Helen Frogg. I’m calling on behalf of the Commandant General of the Royal Marines, General Sir Jeremy Pink.”

“Yes?”

“You are requested to present yourself to the commandant at Naval Headquarters in Whitehall at three o’clock this afternoon.”

“Yes, I’ll be there.”

“Thank you, Brigadier.” She hung up.

Now there was a ray of hope in the gloom, the brigadier felt. Otherwise he would not be seeing the commandant. He took his uniform to the neighborhood dry cleaners and waited while it was pressed, then he returned to his flat and got into it.

—

At three o’clock sharp, the brigadier presented himself at the offices of the commandant, and, to his surprise, was not kept waiting but told to go straight in. He marched into the office, braced, and saluted. “Brigadier Fife-Simpson reporting as ordered. Good morning, Commandant.”

Instead of being asked to sit, the commandant rose from his desk and directed the brigadier to the conference table at one end of his office, where there were some papers stacked, then told to sit. He did, and the commandant sat opposite him at the table.

“Now then, Brigadier,” he said, “at the request of the First Sea Lord, I am presenting you with two options. First, there is the post of commander of the Royal Marine detachment in the Falkland Islands.” His nose wrinkled. “I’ve served there, and I don’t recommend either the climate or the landscape. The sailing is pretty good, though, if you have a yacht. Alternatively, I am pleased to tell you that, after the intervention of the First Sea Lord, the promotions board has, in your case, agreed to waive the thirty-year-service requirement for full retirement pay and benefits. Your choice is clear: If you wish to accept the Falklands posting, kindly sign the documents on your left. If you, alternatively, wish to accept retirement with immediate effect and full benefits, kindly sign the document on your right.” The commandant took a fountain pen from his jacket pocket, unscrewed the cap, and laid the instrument on the table between the documents.

“Sir . . .”

The commandant interrupted him. “I assure you, Brigadier, there is no other posting available.”

The brigadier picked up the pen, thought briefly of the Falklands, then signed his retirement document.

The commandant picked up his pen, screwed on the cap, returned it to his pocket, and stood, gathering and sorting papers.

The brigadier stood and saluted him.

The commandant offered him a handshake and thanks for his service.

Thus dismissed, the brigadier turned and, with an envelope containing his retirement documents and those explaining the terms, marched out of the office and into civilian life.

—