“Beg pardon, sir,” said the soldier, saluting at the doorway to the officer’s bathroom. “Duty officer’s compliments and can you come straight away?”

Colonel Horyse sighed, put down his razor, and used the flannel to wipe off the remains of the shaving soap. He had been interrupted shaving that morning, and had tried several times during the day to finish the job. Perhaps it was a sign he should grow a moustache.

“What’s happening?” he asked, resignedly.

Whatever was happening, it was unlikely to be good.

“An aircraft, sir,” replied the private, stolidly.

“From Army HQ? Dropping a message cylinder?”

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