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power?’
    â€˜Same way we’re expected to run it on reduced funds and last decade’s equipment,’ offered Tom, voicing a universal grouch.
    â€˜And we always manage it, somehow. Ah, here we are. Smith J.H. Take a look-see.’
    Tom studied the screen showing a somewhat faint image of Smith’s personal details and a rundown of his service with the West Wilts. The date of birth showed him to be just twenty. Place of birth given as Bournemouth. Nationality, British. Next of kin: Edward Frederick Smith (father), with a Bournemouth address.
    A lad who had lived all his short life in his home town? mused Tom. Recruits who had never left home before were the ones who found it most difficult to settle on joining. Not unnaturally, they could not take the taunts of others who had had more experience of life, and they had a rough ride for a while. However, Smith had been approaching the first anniversary of signing on, so he should have found his feet by now and sorted out how to integrate.
    Smith’s educational standard just met the minimum requirement, and he apparently had no technical or manual skills. The grade he was given after basic training showed he was an average recruit, no more. During eight months’ service with the battalion he had received no disciplinary charges or warnings. Reasonably well behaved, then.
    Tom glanced up at Harry Canning. ‘Nothing here to suggest he’d do a runner, as Sar’nt Miller claims.’
    Canning grinned. ‘Read on screen the records of half the regiment and you wouldn’t recognize the men you meet. Seem like model soldiers according to what’s on there,’ he added, pointing at the pale image. ‘That simply classifies them, but they’re all individuals, aren’t they? So Private Bloggs has a low educational standard. Does that make him thick as a plank? You’d be surprised how many Bloggses make first-rate soldiers. Brains that might not absorb academic subjects can be right sharp on tactics.’ He grinned again. ‘More use to us than guys who can quote Shakespeare as they panic under fire.’
    Tom straightened from studying the screen. ‘And Smith was a sharp tactician?’
    â€˜He was sharp. That’s as far as I’ll go.’
    â€˜Oh?’
    â€˜Nothing specific. Just things I heard,’ Canning said hastily. ‘Anything going, Smith was first in the queue. Unless it involved effort, hard work, or loss of free time. Then he was nowhere to be seen.’
    â€˜Not popular, then?’
    Canning’s eyebrows rose. ‘You know what it’s like, sir. Every so often you come across a soldier you know right off is a bad ’un.’ He waved a hand at the computer. ‘Doesn’t say so there, but experience tells you.’
    Tom knew what the other man was saying. He had come across men who exuded malevolence, although they had already committed a crime when he had encountered them.
    â€˜Thanks for that, Staff. I need to take a look at Smith’s room. Detail someone to go with me as a witness. You’ll get a copy of the inventory.’
    Smith’s living space was still enclosed by curtains, although the other occupant of that room was lying asleep in full view from the corridor. The NCO with Tom made to rouse the man, but Tom stopped him.
    â€˜We’ll do this as quietly and swiftly as possible.’
    Pushing aside the curtain, he entered to find the bed neatly made, as Smith had left it to go on the exercise. The room told little about its occupant. No photographs of family or friends; no girlie calendar; no posters of pop groups, footballers, racing-car drivers or other enthusiasms. Curious. All young men hung their walls with such things. It was as if Smith had taken away his personality, knowing he would not return. Had he planned to leave the ranks when he set off from here?
    Tom nodded at the scratch pad held by the corporal. ‘Not much to list