“Front rank! Fix bayonets!” Lieutenant the Honourable Walter Sarsens shouted. “Don’t fumble the damned thing, Wright! I want it neat and sharp. Now, by the left, quick march! Come on, pick up the step!”
Number One Company, the Royal Malverns, toiled over the harsh rocks of Cyprus as the officers and NCOs prepared them for possible active service.
“Keep the pace up!” RSM Deblin circled the men, red-faced with the heat, marching three paces to their one and never relenting.
“Enemy ahead!” Sarsens shouted. “Front rank, kneel! Rear rank, stand. Sight for five hundred yards!”
The men obeyed, blinking the sweat from their eyes, cursing the sergeants, the officers, the heat, the flies, and the weight of their Martini Henrys. Bullard winked to Miller.
“Join the army and sweat,” he mouthed.
M
