“Not much, sarn’t, I’m afraid.”
“Well, mek’s nae matter. Ah’ll keep thee reet. Noo them – ’oo many fellers is there in’t British Army?”
“Gosh, I dunno. Five million?”
“An’ ’oo many o’ them’s in Boorma?”
“Half a million, maybe?”
“An’ ’oo many o’ them’s in this battalion?”
“About a thousand.”
“An’ ’oo many o’ them’s in Nine Section?”
“Ten, sarn’t.”
“So if ye’re in’t Army, w’at’s the odds against bein’ in Nine Section? Tek time, noo.”
“I haven’t the least idea.”
“Iggerant booger. Ah’ll tell thee. It’s ’alf a million to one.”
“If you say so. I’m fascinated.”
“Ye will be. Ye’re the section scout, aren’t ye?”
“I am, and I think I begin to see where your elaborate calculation is leading, sarn’t –”
“Shurroop an’ charge yer magazine. Noo, 17th Div’s ahead o’ Fourteenth Army, an’ this battalion’s leadin’ 17th Div, an’ Nine Section’s oot in froont, foorther sooth than any oother boogers in Sooth-east Asia Command – are ye follerin’ this, Jock?”
“With interest. Sarn’t Hutton, do you know what a sadist is?”
“By, Jock, yer a loocky yoong feller! The odds against bein’ the leadin’ man in the whole fookin’ war effort against Japan is five million to one –”
“And I’m the one. Thank you very bloody much.”
“So git thasel oot on point, keep yer eyes oppen, an’ think on – me an’ Choorchill’s watchin’ ye!”
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