The yard outside Boyle stank of diesel. Twenty-odd vehicles idled in two lines while soldiers went up and down between them with ammunition boxes, medical crates and a pallet of new boots still in their cardboard. Somebody was shouting for a forklift that wasn't coming.
The transport sergeant stood at the head of the first line with a clipboard and a pen on a string.
"Cassidy."
"Here, Sarge."
"Truck four. Hegarty."
"Here. I'm not on four, Sarge, I'm on six now. They moved me last night."
The sergeant turned a page, and turned it back.
"So you are. Six. Go on." He made a mark. "Ganner."
"Here."
"Hale."
"Here."
The sergeant looked up, about as impressed as he'd have been by the boots.
"Truck nine. Challenger replacements and eastern command staff. Your kit goes in the back with you."
"Are there seats in nine," said Finn, "or are we sitting on the ammunition?"
"You're sitting on whatever's there when you get in it. McNulty."
"Here, Sarge."
Finn grinned.
