Scrambles to his feet, hurry, messy, beats dust off his bum, his elbows, his knees, stands up straight. Yes Sir. Drop-dead silence in the lines behind.

Right Away, Sir.

He runs, leaning to the right on a limp, into the Acco. Kicks off his boots, stands in the shower for a minute. Drops the torn vest, sweat, blood blotches, grit on the floor. Pulls another vest on.

Hesitates a moment. Picks up the mangled remains and stuffs them, awkwardly, in the back of his cupboard. Trophy of his trying.