“Will you cut it out with Dragoons?”
“How about a Brigade kind of thing?”
“I don’t really see this in terms of Brigade.”
“You don’t?”
“I find Brigade a little on the sheep’s-lung-and-shortbread side of things. Don’t you?”
“Possibly you’re thinking musical. The one with all the kilts.”
“Precisely my point. The last thing we need around here is more tartan.”
“Okay. I’ve got it now . . .”
“So do I. Damned nuisance. Must have been that aide-de-camp.”
“Battalion.”
“Is it true what they say about your pecker falling off?”
“Reserve Battalion.”
“Come again?”
“Reserve Battalion. Second Troop.”
“Special?”
“Could do.”
“Special Reserve Battalion. Not bad. Not bad at all. I like it. Oak casks?”
“Wormwood. Special Ops.”
“Yes. It has a certain je ne honi soit. Do they get colours with that?”
“And a swagger stick. Plus a regimental dog.”
“Excellent. That’ll please the brass.”
“The what?”
“The brass. For the ceremonial march. You know. Next to the woodwinds.”
“Roger that.”
“Once or twice. In my younger days. Schoolboy snogging. Nothing more.”
“So. Is this Artillery then?”
“Is what Artillery?”
“The quite-a-few tanks we’ve got to give a name to.”
“Whatever happened to the anonymous donation, I wonder.”
“The tanks. Men in bloody tanks.”
“Steady on.”
“Are they Artillery?”
“How should I know? Do tanks have guns?”
“I think so. Isn’t that the point?”
“Special Reserve Artillery Battalion. Second Troop. How’s that?”
“Bengal Lancers would be out of the question, I suppose.”
“I’m afraid so. But we could throw in a Queen’s Own.”
“Nice touch.”
“Thanks.”
“So you were saying. Quite a few of them, apparently.”