Barefoot was fifty years old; he had a bald head shaped like an egg. He had just enlisted to serve his King and country, and was overflowing with goodwill.
The next morning twenty of his men were dead-drunk, two were absent at roll-call, and Sergeant Scott had a scar on his nose which seemed to be the result of a somewhat sudden encounter with mother earth.
"No matter," said the worthy N.C.O., "Barefoot is an ass, and never notices anything."
Next day the first batch of Portuguese
troops arrived. British tugs towed the huge transports round the tiny harbour with graceful ease, and the decks seethed with masses of troops. The harbour captain and the Ponts et Chaussées engineer were loud in protest against these wonders, as being "contrary to the ideas of the Service." The wharves were filled with motor lorries, mountains of pressed hay, sacks of oats and boxes of biscuits.
Colonel Musgrave, who was to take charge of this treasure-store, began to make his plan of campaign.
"To-morrow, Friday," he said, "there will be a parade on the wharf at 7 a.m. I shall hold an inspection myself before work is begun."
On Friday morning at seven, Barefoot, his labourers and the lorries were all paraded on the wharf in excellent order. At eight the colonel got up, had his bath and shaved. Then he partook of eggs and bacon, bread and jam, and drank
two cups of tea. Towards nine o'clock his car took him to the wharf. When he saw the men standing motionless, the officer saluting and the lorries all in a row, his face went as red as a brick, and he stood up in his car and addressed them angrily:
"So you are incapable of the slightest initiative! If I am absent for an hour, detained by more important work, everything comes to a standstill! I see I cannot rely on anyone here except myself!"