‘As a kid, first posting, just clerking… Jolly news for you, Captain. They’ve put you on a crash Serbo-Croat course, means you’re booked for Bosnia. Mrs Christie’ll be well excited, eh? I mean, she’ll have to look after the dog.’

‘Bloody hell.’

‘It’s on your desk.’

They reached the mess block outer door. He forgot himself. He opened the heavy door for her to go through first.

She stayed put. He flushed. Bloody officer and bloody noncommissioned junior rank. He went through and she followed. Coats dumped on a chair in the corridor. They hit the noise.

Perry Johnson boomed, ‘Thanks, Ben. They’re dying of thirst and restless – Corporal, the order is three Glenlivets, ice and lemonade for our guests, seven gin tonics, two orange juice, one with ice, five beers. You’ll need a tray.’

A wry smile on her face, at the edge of impertinence. ‘Whose tab, Major? On yours?’

She was gone. Ben watched her. He thought she kicked Captain Wilson’s shin. Definite, she elbowed Captain Dawson. He saw her reach past Major Donoghue’s back and rap his right shoulder and when he turned right she’d wriggled past his left hip. She was at the front, arms on the bar and stretching.

She caught the steward’s arm, held it. Ben could have clapped her. No mucking, she was brilliant. He blinked. An officer and a corporal, a married officer and a single corporal, it would ruin him and ruin her… Yugoslavia. The guys who went there said it was seriously awful, said Belfast was a cake-run compared to a year in Sarajevo, Vitez, Tuzia… Shit. He’d ring Trish that night

Shit… She was tiny behind the bulk of the tray. He thought that if he tried to help her he’d just get in the way… There’d be all the usual tears with Trish… Must have been her shoe, but Major Donoghue was backing off, and the shoe again because Captain Wilson was giving her space… and Irish would be screaming when he started up about her having to look after the bloody dog… She headed for Perry.