Authors: Bryce Courtenay
‘Right, Private Spencer.’ Ben would have preferred someone else to have come back with the answer. He is concerned that rather than think for themselves, too many have come to rely on young Spencer to answer for them. He picks up the axe and absently strokes the slightly curved blade with the ball of his thumb. It is severely blunted from its recent mishandling by the platoon and he thinks how it will take him most of the evening to hone it back to its former razor-sharp cutting edge. ‘This is a fighting axe,’ Ben pronounces, holding it above his head. ‘It was used in the Maori wars around 1860 against the British by my grandfather’s platoon, the Tommo Te Mokiri.’
‘Your grandfather was a Maori, Sergeant?’ Numbers Cooligan exclaims in a surprised voice.
‘No, my grandmother was. My grandfather was a first-generation Tasmanian, a timbergetter like Private Horne here, but from the Southwest Wilderness. He perfected the use of the fighting axe for the Maori and made it a very effective weapon.’
‘He fought against the British, Sergeant?’ Spencer asks quietly.
‘Yes, Spencer, the British aren’t always on the side of God. But that’s enough o’ that,’ Ben says, impatient to continue. ‘The point I’m trying to make is that Private Rigby here is a great shot because he’s practised most of his life. I guess I can do what I did to Private Cooligan for the same reason. I too have practised throwing a fighting axe for most of my life. Throwing it sixty, perhaps more, times a day since I was seven years old.’
‘How old are you, Sergeant?’ Cooligan now asks.
‘Twenty-six, Cooligan, and prematurely aged by having you in my platoon asking unnecessary questions.’
Cooligan hardly hesitates. ‘Sixty times a day, shit that’s four hundred and sixteen thousand and one hundred times you’ve thrown that axe, Sergeant.’
‘Thank you, Cooligan, I thought by now you would have learned not to be a smart arse!’ Ben pauses and looks about him. ‘So that’s my point.’ He indicates the gum tree with a jerk of his head, ‘I apologise for showing off back there, but it’s my job to try to keep you alive against the odds. If you can use a rifle better than the enemy it may just one day save your life.’ Ben pauses again and spreads his hands. ‘So don’t despair, you ain’t gunna be a marksman right off. Private Rigby here is just as much an amateur with the fighting axe as you are with the Lee-Enfield.’ Ben shrugs. ‘So there you go, practise, practise, practise. There’s few that’s born to do anything instinctively except to suck on our mamas’ tits.’
This brings a few titters from the seated platoon, but Ben isn’t through talking yet. ‘Remember, you don’t have to be able to hit the badge on a German soldier’s cap at a hundred yards to kill him. A metal jacket will make a fair bit of mess wherever you hit him. Remember, you’ve got a target as big as yourself and the enemy has the same, so always conceal as much of your body as possible. If you’ve practised holding a rifle, firing it, spending time with your S.M.L.E., then, when you’re firing at the enemy, the accuracy will come to you soon enough. Statistics gathered in the Crimean War and again in the Boer War show that only one in one hundred rounds fired will cause any sort of damage, that is, find its mark. You can improve on that statistic. The platoon that uses its concerted and practised firepower effectively and aims accurately is the one most likely to stay alive. The enemy is least likely to directly attack a section of the trenches where the firepower is accurate and sustained. Now, do you understand me, you blokes? Get to know your rifle and you may just come out of this war alive.’
Over the subsequent weeks Ben’s platoon is constantly jeered at, the other platoons in the battalion and the company chiacking them mercilessly. They become known as ‘Trigger Clickers’ because of the manner in which they constantly practise with an unloaded rifle. There is even a chant some wag has dreamed up.
Tiddly-winks young man
Get a woman if you can
If you can’t get a woman
Get a Trigger Clickin man!
However, on the final occasion Ben’s platoon appears on the firing range, they achieve the highest aggregate ever scored at Broadmeadows. Moreover, Numbers Cooligan has taken the opportunity to run a book at the camp, betting that the Trigger Clickers, now abbreviated among themselves to ‘The Click’, who have come to take pride in their nickname, will beat any other platoon in the camp at final range practice. He offers the attractive odds of three to one and he isn’t short of punters willing to have a bet as some platoons consist of mainly country lads who know their way around a rifle. After the big win he shares his takings with the others, making every man in the platoon two pounds richer, eight days’ pay after deductions.
‘So what if you’d lost, Private Cooligan?’ Ben enquires while graciously accepting the two pounds Cooligan proffers after the shoot-out.
‘No way, Sergeant, I give the scorer at the shooting range two quid to gimme the total score of every platoon in the battalion for all six times we’ve been to the range. By the time we got to the last practice we was an average of thirty points ahead o’ the second best, that’s a fair margin to play with.’ He pauses and taps one forefinger against the other, explaining, ‘Now, with Crow Rigby shooting a possible one hundred or near as dammit every time we go out,’ he taps his forefinger a second time, ‘and taking into consideration that one or two of us is gunna go off the boil, so deduct say, twenty points, we’d still ‘ave won hands down. It’s averages, Sergeant, numbers don’t lie.’ He pauses. ‘A champion ‘orse don’t win every race he runs, but if you know the form of all the ‘orses in the race and put him in accordingly, lemme tell ya, he ain’t gunna get beat too bloody often.’
‘What did you do in civilian life, Cooligan? I seem to recall you were a strapper, that right?’
‘Nah, I only said that because I ‘oped to get into the Light Horse, Sarge, fancied them emu feathers in me hat.’ He continues, ‘But they found out soon enough I couldn’t ride, never been on an ‘orse in me life. Bookmaker’s clerk, Sergeant, me uncle’s an on-course bookmaker at Flemmo. I pencil for him. Cooligan’s the name, numbers is the game!’
Ben waves the two pound notes Numbers Cooligan has given him. ‘Well, thanks for including me in, Private Cooligan.’
Cooligan’s hair, like all the others’, has been cut short back ‘n sides but he’s managed to persuade the camp barber to keep the front a bit longer so that it looks like he is wearing the hairy part of a snow-white shaving brush above his brow. He constantly smooths it with his palm as he talks, ‘Well, matter a fact, Sergeant, The Click was, well we was ‘oping, you know, that you could sort a spend it with us? Two quid each in our pocket will go a long way to drown a man’s sorrows durin’ a night on the town before we embark on the slippery dip. Lads reckon that’d be real good, you know, a final beer or twenty before we all leave ‘ome?’
‘You’re on. Name the time and the place, I’ll be there.’
‘Hornbill, er… Private Horne, says his uncle will lay on the pies at cost price and throw in the sauce bottle, so we thought we’d meet at Young & Jackson’s, the pub with the bollocky sheila painting above the bar. Know it, Sergeant?’
‘She’s called Chloe, yeah, I know it, what time?’
‘Tuesday, seven o’clock, er… nineteen ‘undred hours, Sergeant,’ Numbers Cooligan says, clearly chuffed that Ben has accepted their invitation.
*
It is October 16th, just five days before the battalion will depart on the Orvieto, part of the fleet assembled to transport the troops across the Great Australian Bight to Albany and then eventually across the Indian Ocean via the Suez Canal to Britain.
Ben spends as much time as he can with Victoria and Hawk, both of whom are becoming increasingly aware that the war in Europe is not going to be over by Christmas, as all the newspapers confidently predicted when war was declared.
The war of movement had started with the retreat from Mons, where in the first weeks the German successes caused consternation throughout Britain and the Empire. The Germans swept everything before them to come within fifty miles of Paris before they were finally halted by the French and British Expeditionary Forces at the battle of the Marne. But it was achieved at a terrible cost to the Allies, two hundred thousand killed, wounded or missing in September alone, eight thousand dead at the battle of Le Cateau, by no means the biggest battle fought, yet more had died here than Wellington had lost at Waterloo. The battle of Ypres, still going on, promises ten times as many. Slowly it is beginning to sink into the consciousness of thinking Australians that this is no grand excursion in Europe to which the flower of our young blood is being invited but a bloody slaughter such as the world has never witnessed before. They wonder how Britain has managed to involve herself in such an ungodly mess.
With the Turks closing the Dardanelles and thus denying Russia access to the Mediterranean via the Black Sea, it now looks increasingly likely that they will declare themselves on the German side. Most Australians give little thought to what might be. The glory of a young nation proving itself in battle is still the ideal most hold dear to their hearts. As far as the hoi polloi are concerned, all the Allied casualties prove is that we’d better get the 1st Division over there in a hurry so that our lads can have a go and show the Germans what good colonial stock can do in this made-to-order stoush.
The morning of October 21st brings a cloudless dawn which will later be followed by bright sunshine. Victoria rises early and, putting on her dressing gown and slippers, pads through the silent house towards the kitchen to make herself a pot of tea. Passing Hawk’s study on the way, she sees his light is still on. She taps on the door which is slightly ajar and pushing it open a little further sees Hawk at his desk writing.
‘Grandfather, you’re up early?’
‘Hmmph, what is the time, my dear?’ Hawk asks absently, not looking up or pausing from his writing.
‘It is just after five, not yet completely light.’ Victoria then realises that the curtains are drawn and Hawk is still dressed as he was the previous evening. She knows her grandfather to be a meticulous man who bathes and changes into a fresh suit and linen every morning. He’d once explained to her that most folk think of black people as being naturally dirty, ‘It comes with the chocolate colour, my dear.’ From some deep sense of inferiority which he has long since overcome in other things, he has accustomed himself to change his suit and linen every day and, sometimes, if the day has been hot, twice a day. ‘You haven’t been to bed, have you, Grandfather?’ she chides.
‘Couldn’t sleep,’ Hawk says brusquely, putting his pen away and turning stiffly to smile at her, rubbing the back of his neck with a huge hand. She sees his weary face and realises that he is now an old man, it is only his enormous size that still gives him the impression of strength. She has also noticed that the joints of his fingers have become swollen and nobbled with arthritis and that he has taken to holding his pen awkwardly, though, typically, he has not said anything about the pain he must be experiencing.
‘Oh, what’s going to happen? Will Ben be all right?’ she asks in a tremulous voice.
‘I hope so, my dear, though it’s looking less and less like the grand picnic in Europe the recruitment posters so ardently promised our lads, the great adventure.’
‘Grandfather, can’t we do what Abraham’s done for Joshua Solomon and find a nice safe position for Ben so he doesn’t have to fight? Surely you have the influence, if Sir Abraham can, then you can too!’ Victoria cries in sudden despair.
Hawk raises his eyebrows in surprise. ‘My dear, we don’t know for sure that’s the case with Joshua, all we know is that he’s one of the few selected to go to England for further training, a singular honour I believe.’
‘Yes, to be on the staff of one of the fat old generals! What is it? Liaison officer? It’s not fair. Why should he get away with it?’
‘Well, someone has to do it. Joshua has been to Oxford, he knows the English and their ways extremely well. Why, he’s almost become one of them and he’s a clever young man to boot. I’d say he was an admirable choice as a liaison officer, wouldn’t you?’
‘Grandfather, you know what I mean, it was fixed!’ Victoria reproaches him. ‘It’s not like that at all!’
‘Well, we can’t prove that and nor should we try to. As for Ben, how do you think your brother would feel if we even attempted to remove him from the coming fray?’
Victoria sniffs defensively. ‘He needn’t know,’ she shrugs, tearfully.
‘Don’t be foolish, Ben would most certainly know. He’s not a lad to be easily fooled. Besides, you of all people with your egalitarian Labor views, how could you suggest such a thing? Even if we could, it would be grossly unfair to use our influence in such a manipulative manner.’
Victoria begins to sob. ‘I’m sorry! I’m so sorry, but I can’t help it, I don’t want Ben to die!’ she howls, and rushes towards the seated Hawk, curling up on her grandfather’s lap and, like the little girl he used to comfort when she was upset, she weeps against his chest.
‘There, there, my dear, we simply have to hope for the best. Ben’s a sensible lad and knows how to keep his nose clean. He won’t go looking for trouble.’
‘Oh, Grandfather Hawk, I have such a terrible feeling,’ Victoria sobs. ‘Ben never lets anyone do what he can do himself! He’ll want to fight the Germans all on his own,’ she whimpers.
Letting her weep for a while, Hawk finally reaches into his pocket and hands her his handkerchief. Victoria dries her eyes and then blows her nose. Rising from his lap she stands before him, her eyes red-rimmed and now level with his own. Hawk, with a sense of shock, sees the same sudden blazing defiance in them he has only before seen in Mary Abacus. It is a defiance that brooks no possible compromise.
‘Grandfather, so help me God, if Ben dies and Joshua comes home unscathed from some cushy job behind the lines,’ Victoria pauses, and in a voice and accent that is more evocative of Mary than her own, declares, ‘may Gawd ‘elp him!’
THE DEPARTURE
Albany, Western Australia 1914
Never before have the Melbourne docks seen a day like October 21st 1914. For the past three days eleven troopships carrying nearly eight thousand men and three thousand horses have departed for Albany, with the Orient liner Orvieto, the fastest and the largest ship, departing last. Dock workers are bleary-eyed, having worked double shifts during the several embarkations. Exhausted tugboat captains are hoarse from trying over four days to make some sense of a convoy of ships where each vessel is preoccupied with a hundred tasks at once and seems to have neither the time nor the nous to complete any one of them correctly. It is madness and mayhem and anyone who pretends to know what they are doing is indulging a fevered imagination.
Yet somehow the troops say their last farewells to weeping mothers, sisters and tearful girlfriends. Sons, brothers and sweethearts are embraced one last time and urged to look upon the evening star with the knowledge that their loved one will be on the front porch every night they remain apart, gazing at the same heaven’s light and praying for their safe return. Gravel-voiced fathers suck in their stomachs and comport themselves in what they imagine is a military posture, gravely shaking the hands of their sons, exhorting them not to let the family name down. ‘Go to it, son, show the Hun what we Aussies are all about, there’s a good lad, your mother and me are real proud of you.’
‘We’ve drawn the short straw, lads,’ Ben tells his platoon after returning from the sergeants’ briefing on the departure. ‘We’re on the Orvieto and so is the top brass, General Bridges and the entire collection of red tabs.’ He continues, ‘If we should go to the bottom, Australia’s part in this war is over. You’ll have to watch your dress, mind. It’ll be spit and polish all the way and your saluting arm won’t get a lot of rest neither.’
‘She’s an Orient-line ship, Sergeant, there’ll be cabins and all, even a ship’s library,’ Library Spencer pipes up.
‘Sure, Private Spencer, though I can’t see you loungin’ about in a club chair doing a lot of reading, it’s steerage for such as you lot, real cosy accommodation. There’s two extra bunks built into each cabin and when you’re lying down, there won’t be enough room between you and the bottom of the next bunk for a highly polished cockroach to squeeze through. One good thing, though, the chow’s likely to be a bit better, the high-ups tend to like their tucker, but I daresay the standard will drop a little towards the bottom of the stew pot. I hope you’ve all brought your curry powder?’
Hawk and Victoria are up early to see Ben off, though they are aware that he will not be permitted to break ranks to meet them. Victoria has obtained a pre-war photograph of the Orvieto from somewhere and has marked the exact spot where Ben must stand, roughly midships with the second funnel directly behind him. He is to wave a red silk scarf she has given him, while Hawk, with his head and shoulders well clear of the crowd, will do the same. Hawk and Victoria both count themselves fortunate that the departure has been delayed and over the past three weeks have taken great delight in enjoying more of Ben’s company.
Victoria, teasing Hawk, puts the delay down to the generosity of the new Labor Prime Minister, Andrew Fisher. As it will later show she is not that far off the mark. The two German battleships the Gneisenau and the Scharnhorst visit the capital of Samoa which is only 1,580 miles from Auckland and 2,570 miles from Sydney, and the German light cruiser Emden, of the same squadron, is known to be in the Bay of Bengal. Fisher thinks they are much too close to send an unescorted convoy around the coast of Australia. The government of New Zealand shares his opinion and it is decided to send the Minotaur and the Japanese light cruiser Ibuki to escort the New Zealand troops to Albany. This strategic decision, as well as organising escorts for the Australian contingent from Queensland, New South Wales and Victoria and yet another from Hobart, is the cause of the delay.
Of course, no official explanations for the hold-up are given, as newspapers are forbidden to comment and, as is ever the case in wartime, the wildest rumours spread like a bushfire.
The postponement proved to be a trying time for the men of the A.I.F. They had already said their goodbyes to loved ones and friends and their anticipation was at fever pitch. These were young men trained and ready to go to war, anxious not to miss out on the fray. Now they were thrown back into basic training and the inevitable boredom of repeating the drills and exercises they had long since completed.
In the course of the three-week delay there had been two or three false alarms and any amount of speculation until the troops began to doubt if they would ever get away. A new word for these endless rumours was coined among the Victorian contingent which would go into the Australian language. In the Broadmeadows camp the rear of the sanitary carts that pumped out the latrines carried the name of the manufacturer, Furphy. The rumours became known as ‘furphies’, in other words a whole load of shit.
The delay also put a heavy strain on discipline. Broadmeadows camp was some ten miles from Melbourne. To an infantryman accustomed to route-marching this distance two or three times a week, carrying a rifle and full kit weighing some ninety pounds, wearing only his uniform and a little change jingling in his pocket, the city was considered a mere stroll down the lane. Army rules required every soldier to be in his blankets by half-past nine but men and officers in their hundreds thronged the streets and eateries of Melbourne until the early hours of the morning during the weeks prior to departure.
Ben, taking the opportunity to visit Hawk and Victoria, was often driven back to Broadmeadows and deposited half a mile or so from the camp at around two. On these occasions Victoria would give her brother a last hug, just in case something happened, or the latest rumour proved to be true and they weren’t able to see each other again.
On the morning of Ben’s departure, she has accumulated three weeks of tearful farewells and is, herself, somewhat exhausted by the process.
The Orvieto is docked at the Port Melbourne Pier, which is just off the main road that fringes the bay, and Hawk and Victoria arrive to find a large crowd already gathered on the road. It is a great disappointment to the crowd that the dockside itself has been placed off limits to civilians. The general grumble is that, in the sea of khaki lining the decks, sons and lovers are too far away to be clearly identified. Nevertheless, there is a great deal of shouting and banter going on, people fashion megaphones from folded newspaper and call out names in the direction of the liner at the top of their voices. ‘Good on ya, Billy Thomas!’ ‘Lucky bugger, Kevin O’Shea!’ ‘Give me compliments to the King, Danny!’ ‘Give the Kaiser a kick in the arse from me, lads!’ ‘Up the mighty Crows!’ ‘Paris oo la la!’ What with the noise of the troops embarking together with the rattle, clank and whine of chains, winches, crane engines and the general mayhem of getting under way, it is unlikely these messages can be heard on board, but they greatly amuse the crowd and do much to quell its disappointment at not getting closer to the liner. Towards noon the ship’s horn gives a baleful blast to warn the dock workers and maritime officials on board to go ashore. Perhaps it is the mournful sound of the ship’s horn or the sense of imminent departure, but there is a sudden collective murmur from the crowd which quickly turns to a roar, like a dry river bed suddenly brought into flood. Almost as one the crowd surges forward, the guards stationed on the perimeters of the wharf are brushed aside and helpless to prevent the general stampede onto the wharf.
Hawk and Victoria are carried along with the crowd. To resist would be downright dangerous. So, when the time comes for the tugs to finally pull the giant liner away from its berth, they have a clear view of Ben waving his red scarf more or less from the prearranged position. Hawk waves back with his scarf and it is evident that Ben has seen them, though the noise from the crowd makes it impossible to communicate with him. The liner is pulled away from the dock while a lone tug holds her stern steady and in a surprisingly short time the giant ship is moving to the combined cheering of the huge crowd and the soldiers on board.
Ben is at too great a distance to see that his sister, though waving both arms frantically, is howling her heart out. His last view is of Hawk’s snowy hair and the dark dot that represents his face. Hawk is standing head and shoulders above the crowd, still waving the red bandanna. He tries to make out Victoria’s white straw hat but she is lost in the sea of bobbing heads and waving hands. Ben, who does not think of himself as either religious or sentimental, whispers quietly to himself, ‘I love you both, God bless and keep you safe until I return.’
Ben’s prediction is right, his platoon is bunked down in the deepest recesses of steerage with five men in a cabin that would have seemed cramped to three fare-paying passengers. Their kit takes up most of the room and only two of them can occupy the cabin at one time. When it comes to going to bed, three must wait outside in the corridor while two undress and slip into their bunks to allow the next two to do the same. There is no porthole and the ship’s laundry is located twenty feet further down from their nearest cabin. They are informed that it will be at work twenty-four hours a day, sending a blast of steamy heat down the corridors every few minutes, so that the sides of the tiny cabins are always damp from the humidity.
Ben quickly realises that the stifling conditions will make rest impossible and loses no time locating a place on deck where his platoon can sleep. He finds an area aft between several large wooden packing cases that is ideal for the purpose as it catches the breeze and will comfortably take twenty-four members of his platoon. Six men will need to remain, one to each cabin to protect their kit, which means every member of the platoon will do cabin duty once every five nights. He sketches out the area and writes down the precise location and pins it on the board in the sergeants’ mess, claiming the area at night for No. 2 Platoon, B Company.
Later that afternoon a sergeant named Black Jack Treloar from D Company in the 5th Battalion who is in charge of a platoon of sappers approaches Ben as he is walking down the corridors on D deck. Treloar is a big raw-boned man who affects a dark stubble even when closely shaved. He is known as a bully and has earned his three stripes in the permanent forces where it is said he was once the cruiserweight boxing champion of the Australian army. Drawing up to Ben, he blocks the narrow corridor by leaning against one side and stretching his arm out to bring the flat of his palm against the other. A large semicircle of sweat can be seen under his outstretched arm.
‘G’day, Black Jack,’ Ben says cordially, ‘I hope your blokes scored better cabins than mine, we’re in a real shit-hole, hot as blazes, can you believe it, twenty feet from the bloody laundry.’
‘Nah, same,’ Treloar says, not moving his arm. ‘Matter of fact, that’s what I want to see you about, Sergeant.’
‘What, a sergeants’ deputation? Can’t see them making any changes, we’re foot soldiers, mate, this is the army, besides I’m told the ship’s chocka.’
‘Yeah, but I hear you’ve found a nice little space on the deck for your lads to kip down?’
‘Yeah, that’s right,’ Ben jerks his head, indicating the corridor and the cabins behind him. ‘Them cabins are not fit for man or beast, put five blokes in ‘em and they’re jammed closer together than a tin o’ sardines.’
‘Yeah, right,’ Treloar says dismissively. ‘Well, I reckon you should share that space on deck, let my platoon in.’
‘Love to, Jack, but I can’t even fit all my own lads in, six o’ them will have to kip down in the cabins, take turns like.’
Black Jack scratches his nose. ‘That right, eh?’ He looks at Ben. ‘That’s not good, mate.’
‘I daresay there are other places on board, shouldn’t be too hard to find a spot.’
‘Nah, all took. But I saw your place first, just didn’t bother ter make a fancy pitcher and stick it up in the mess, reserve it like?’
‘Well, that’s tough, Black Jack, but you know the rules, mate. If you got there before me, you should have told us, or posted a confirmation on the sergeants’ noticeboard, like I did.’
‘You teachin’ me to suck eggs or something, Teekleman?’ Treloar growls. ‘Watch yerself, son, I’m permanent army, not like you lot of toy sergeants from the militia.’
‘Sergeant Teekleman or Ben, take your pick, Sergeant Treloar, but not “son” or “Teekleman”.’
Treloar chooses to ignore Ben’s rebuke. ‘You a Tasmanian, ain’t yer? Touch o’ the tar too, I hear. That’s two counts against you in my book, son.’
‘I told you, don’t call me “son”, Black Jack.’
Treloar places his head on the biceps of his outstretched arm and grins dangerously. ‘That so? You’re asking for it, ain’tcha?’
‘Asking for what?’
‘A hiding.’
‘What? From you!’
‘Yeah, none other?’
‘What for, Black Jack? The space on deck?’
Black Jack taps Ben’s chest with a forefinger then returns his hand to the wall. ‘I’ve ‘eard about you bastards. What’s it they calls yah? Yeah, that’s right, Tiddly-winks young man!’ The big sergeant laughs. ‘How many pretend Huns have your mob wiped out, or is it killed with an axe? I hear you’re pretty ‘andy with an axe. You a woodchopper then? Plenty o’ them in Tasmania, mostly idjits I hear, droolers.’ He smiles unpleasantly. ‘If you want my personal opinion your platoon are a bunch o’ fuckin’ boy scouts.’
‘When I want your opinion, Sergeant, I’ll pull the chain. Now I’d like to pass if you please?’ Several infantrymen have come up the corridor intending to pass and are held up by Black Jack and Ben blocking the way. They hold back, waiting. ‘There’s men want to pass, Sergeant, we can continue this later in the mess, if you want?’
Black Jack looks up at the half dozen men, but his arm remains firmly jammed across the narrow corridor. ‘G’arn, piss off you lot or you’re on a charge. G’arn, scarper!’
‘Take the port-side stairs, lads,’ Ben calls after the retreating soldiers.