“Someday,” Chisholm said as the drumming woke him up, “someday soon, I will take these drummers and beat them to death with their own drum sticks.”
“I can think of something else to do with the drum-sticks,” Cumming said. “I would stick them so far up their arses they would knock out their teeth.”
“Rise up!” Dingwall’s roar shook the tents. “The sun’s burning your b****y eyes from their sockets! Come and do your duty, you lazy scoundrels!”
“Come, children,” Chisholm said. “Papa wants us.”
“Papa can b****y want,” Cumming said, sighed and peered out from his thin blanket. “Can a man not get any peace in this world?”
The drummers paced relentlessly outside the tents, drumsticks hammering on the drumskins. MacKim thrust his face outside the tent, about to shout at them until he realised t
