“Afternoon. Afternoon. Your Colonel in?” said Colonel Starcross, a heavy man, white with rage, shaking with excitement, perspiration beading lined forehead under gold-rimmed cap-peak.
“No, sir. He’s at home.”
“At home. At home. Good God, on an afternoon like this. Why hasn’t your first half battery started? Good God, why hasn’t it started yet? . . .”
Peter looked calmly at his wrist-watch. “First half of ‘Don’ Battery hooks-in at 4:30, sir. Head of column passes barrack-gates at 4:50 p. m.”
“Christ in Heaven! You’ll never be in time. The 3rd Brigade’s not entrained yet. Half the traffic of the South of England’s disorganized. Colonel Brasenose ought to be relieved of his command—relieved of his command, I tell you.”
“This isn’t Colonel Brasenose’s Brigade, sir,” said Peter stiffly.
Colonel Starcross stamped on the gravel: “Don’t argue with me, young man. Don’t argue with me. Go and turn your men out. Turn ’em out, damn it.”
“It’s exactly four-thirty, sir,” announced Peter imperturbably. Even as he spoke, they heard Bromley’s whistle, saw him striding, fully equipped, across the gun-park. Came now, from their tin stables, two by two, drivers between, the harnessed teams. Came, at the double, the dismounted men, filled haversacks flopping at their sides. . . . Five minutes of crisp commands, backing horses, bobbing heads, bending bodies.
“Ready, Sergeant Major?” Bromley’s voice rang clear across the turmoil. “Ready, sir.”
“Stand to your horses.” The ex-Cavalryman swung to his saddle.