'But we had eight recruiting sergeants out!

'It's no good telling me, Sharpe, I'm just a dogsbody. Nairn sniffed. 'And even if we make you into a provisional Battalion you'll go on losing men. You need a draft of replacements! It was true. If the South Essex was joined to another Battalion they would still take casualties, until the joint Battalion was shrunken and diluted again. Instead of being broken up, the South Essex would simply wither and die, its Colours forgotten, its morale wasted.

'No! Sharpe almost howled the word in agonised protest. 'They can't do it!

'Let us hope not, Nairn smiled. 'The Peer is not happy. He is damned crusty about it, Sharpe. Nairn spoke of Wellington. 'He has this strange idea that the South Essex could be useful to him in France. The compliment was truthful. A veteran Battalion like the South Essex, even if its ranks were half-filled with raw replacements, had a morale and knowledge that doubled its fighting value. The South Essex had become a killing machine that could be guaranteed to face anything the French threw against it, while a fresh Battalion, however well trained in England, could take months to reach the same efficiency. Nairn splashed more brandy into the two glasses. 'The Peer, Sharpe, does not trust those bastards in London. War Office! Horse Guards! Foreign Office! Ordnance Department! We've got more damned offices running this damned war than we've got Battalions! They've made a mess of it, they've lost their paperwork, they've got their breeches round their ankles and they can't find mother to pull them up. Who's in charge at Chelmsford?

Sharpe had to think. His brain was in a turmoil of anger and astonishment that his Battalion could be broken up! 'In Chelmsford, sir? Man called Girdwood. Lieutenant Colonel Girdwood.