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be armed with a bayonet, but was disappointed. It seemed just worthwhile asking if he had merely forgotten it.
    ‘Only sergeants carries sidearms, walking out.’
    ‘Why?’
    ‘Regulation.’
    ‘Don’t you ever?’
    ‘On parade.’
    ‘Never else?’
    ‘Reckon we will when the Germans comes.’
    The humorous possibilities of a German invasion I had often heard adumbrated. Sometimes my father – in spite of my mother’s extreme dislike of the subject, even in jest—would refer to this ludicrous, if at the same time rather sinister – certainly grossly insulting – incursion as something inevitable in the future, like a visit to the dentist or ultimately going to school.
    ‘You’ll carry a bayonet always if the Germans come?’
    ‘You bet.’
    ‘You’ll need it.’
    ‘Bayonet’s a man’s best friend in time of war,’ said Bracey.
    ‘And a rifle?’
    ‘And a rifle,’ Bracey conceded. ‘Rifle and bayonet’s a man’s best friend when he goes to battle.’
    I thought a lot about that remark afterwards. Clearly its implications raised important moral issues, if not, indeed, conflicting judgments. I used to ponder, for example, what appeared to be its basic scepticism, so different from the supreme confidence in the claims of heroic companionship put forward in all the adventure stories one read. (Thirty years later, Sunny Farebrother – in contrast with Bracey – told me that, even though he cared little for most books, he sometimes re-read For Name and Fame; or Through Khyber Passes , simply because Henty’s narrative recalled to him so vividly the comradeship he had himself always enjoyed under arms.) Bracey shared none of the uplifting sentiments of the adventure stories. That was plain. Even within my own then strictly limited experience, I could see, unwillingly, that there might be something to be said for Bracey’s point of view. All the same, I knew Bracey had himself seen no active service. His opinion on such subjects must be purely theoretical. In short, the door was not irretrievably closed on the romantic approach. I felt glad of that. During the rest of our journey to the Barracks, however, Bracey did not enlarge further upon the theme of weapons versus friendship.
    We had a brief conversation at the gate with the Orderly Corporal, stabled the pony, set off across the parade-ground. The asphalt square was deserted except for three figures pacing its far side, moving briskly and close together, as if attempting to keep warm in the sharp weather of early spring. This trio marched up and down continually, always turning about at the same point in their beat. The two outside soldiers wore equipment; the central file was beltless, his right hand done up in a white bandage.
    ‘Who are they?’
    ‘Prisoner and escort.’
    ‘What are they doing?’
    ‘Exercising a bloke under arrest.’
    ‘What’s he done?’
    ‘Chopped off his trigger finger.’
    ‘By accident?’
    ‘Course not.’
    ‘How, then?’
    ‘With a bill.’
    ‘On purpose?’
    ‘You bet.’
    ‘Whatever for?’
    ‘Saw his name in Orders on the draft for India.’
    ‘Why didn’t he like that?’
    ‘Thought the climate wouldn’t suit him, I reckon.’
    ‘But he won’t have any finger.’
    ‘Won’t have to go to India neither.’
    ‘Were you surprised?’
    ‘Not particular.’
    ‘Why not?’
    ‘Nothing those young blokes won’t do.’
    Once again Bracey expressed no judgment on the subject of this violent action, but I was aware on this occasion of a sense of disapproval stronger than any he had allowed to take shape in relation to assaulting Military Policemen. Here, certainly, was another story to make one ponder. I saw that the private soldier under arrest must have felt a very active dislike for the thought of army life in the East to have taken so extreme a step to avoid service there: a contrast with the builder of Stonehurst, deliberately reminding himself by the contents and architecture of his house of