'Will you GET a F***ING HOLD OF IT [your rifle], soldier! ! ! . . .

You look like a virgin holding her first cock! ! !'

Borne on the depraved rantings of the sergeant-major you're off, down the narrow service road, past the Admin block, twenty times round the square; then up Breakneck Hill and back, at the double, for bren-gun training, or kitchen chores, or floor-scrubbing; in the afternoon, there'll be drill, or arms drill, or Ways of Using your Bayonet (with route march, or assault course -- 'The-only-object-of-this-is-to-make-you-HATE me! ! ! ! ! !' -- still to come).

But now it's NAAFI break.

There's warmth in the Nissen hut; a girl will hand you tea, you can count the rings on her fingers, choose your cake, skim through the Mirror, day-dream of breasts, or faces, re-light your crushed cigarette, have thoughts of leave and when you'll ever get it; imagine new places, and being there; or talk to Mike, or Doug, or Steve of a far-fetched world of random odds and ends where 'Order Rules, OK'; where men have wives, do jobs, walk dogs, skive off, mend cars at weekends, save for a semi-, and know what to do with their lives.

There will be nothing purer than this moment, now or later -- no pain-ceased wondering, no lawless murmurings of delight, no consummation more than this, no happiness greater.

You knew it then for certain; and you were right.