“George,” he said (you may not believe it, but there can be a world of pathos put into that simple name). “George, we are Goners.”
By this time they had reached the front line.
My thoughts flew to the Vermoral sprayer, last time it had been the Vermoral sprayer. Was the V.S. filled, or was it not...?
They came from scent to view, and pulling himself together with a click of the heels closely imitated by the S.I.C., the O.C. “AK” Coy. saluted.
“Good morning, sir!”
The General acknowledged the salute, but the ends of his moustache quivered. G.S.O. one, directly in rear, frowned. The Colonel looked apprehensive, and glared at both of us. The Brigadier was glum, the Brigade Major very red in the face. Two of those beastly supercilious Aides looked at each other, smiled, glanced affectionately at their red tabs and smiled again.
It was exactly 2.29 “pip emma” when the mine went up.
“Discipline, sir,” said the General, “discipline is lacking in your company! You have a sentry on duty at the head of Chelwyn Road. A sentry! What does he do when he sees me? Not a damn thing, sir! Not a damn thing!”
Of course the O.C. “AK” made a bad break; one always does under such circumstances.
“He may not have seen you, sir.”