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It was the young journalist's turn to buy the round, and since it was the third round we were all three well-oiled. In return for the Musket and Shot's porter we filled Master Kipling's ears and notebooks with stories.
"Good thing this is an Army pub," Corporal Wood slurred, whilst his mongoose Teddy clambered all over him. "You go into a reg'lar tavern and they boot redcoats out."
"By the same chaps who write letters to the Times about our Thin Red Line of Heroes out in Afghanistan or Russia." I was in an identical state. "Kipling, the public says they love soldiers – as long as they're far far away getting shot at so they can drink starvation-cheap tea and coffee."
"B-But God forbid a feller in red wants to have a beer next to 'im," the crooked man concluded.
Young Kipling shook his head. "It's a disgrace."
"Yeah." I thought of Lord Wellington's term for the common English foot-soldier. "Tommy Atkins this, that and the other. Go away, Tommy. …Till the drums roll."
The young man's face lit up. "Tommy…this, and Tommy that," he said. "And 'Tommy, go away!' But it's 'Special Car for Atkins' when the march begins to play."
Wood and I stared at the young man, who would turn that into his most beloved Barrack Room Ballad.