The purpose of drill, 1 July

Huh? Everett blinked and straightened his back, reacting instinctively to hearing his name. The inspection had been dragging on so long that he'd dozed off.

Evertt's instinctive jerk awake didn't escape Thompson. "Aft'noon. Am I keepin' you awake?" he asked.

Yes. Only he couldn't say that. Instead, Everett settled for a flat "Corporal."

Well, he was polite enough - or sensible enough not to be rude about it, which was probably a lot closer to the mark. At least his kit was decent enough, Thompson supposed and moved on to Gunn.

Gunn straightened a little. He looked not particularly interested in the proceedings, but neither did he look bored. It was just... he was there because he had to be, he was just as happy being there as anywhere else. If Thompson wanted them there, it was fine with James. It was just that time of the day.

He waited patiently now. The number of men who had been inspected had risen, which meant that this would not last too long.

Gunn was another one who was going to be like Vining, Thompson could see it now.

"Pull your jacket straight," he said mildly, hoping that would help improve appearances.

Silently, though with a very slight roll of his eyes, Gunn tugged on his jacket first with his left arm and then with his right. It brought the jacket in just a barely better position. He straightened , glanced down, repeated it again, the tugs stronger then he tugged at the back to even it out, handling the musket while he did it too.

He glanced at Thompson as if to ask whether this was acceptable or whether more tug and pull was needed.

Thompson nodded. It was only a minor improvement, really. "Need to blackball your stock better next time," was the next comment he had to make on Gunn's turnout. "An' you could try foldin' your trousers up when you put 'em away, 'stead of just shovin' 'em in your sea-chest all any-old-how. Get it sorted - I'm goin' to be lookin' at yourn same time I inspect Vinin's, got it?"

James blinked at Thompson. It took him a while to gather up what the corporal meant. Something about his trousers and them being old? Certainly however something about getting the same look-at like Vinning. If Thompson meant to see them both at the same time he'd have to be turning his head a good deal! But whatever floated that man's boat. A damn bother, that all!

"...Yes corporal." He had finally said, realising that ith ad been a question. He didn't have it, but he understood what was required of him. Sort the shirts with shirts, and trousers with...not too much sorting then!

The blank expression on Gunn's face was a bit more than the usual wooden countenance Thompson was used to Marines assuming when NCOs and officers were around. Bloody Irish - couldn't Gunn understand a simple instruction?

He tried again. "I mean, tidy your sea-chest up an' I'll inspect it when I inspect Vinin's."

Great. Fine, he'd try a few nicer folds on top. That should do it. Nobody ever lifted those to see what lay under it. Mostly. "Yes, corporal." He grunted. Atleast this time it was clear enough and made him right about his earlier speculations, somewhat.

Right. Thompson still wasn't convinced that that would sort Gunn's kit out, either, but it was time to move on to Ware... who had a slightly pained expression on his face.

"Summat botherin' you, Ware?"

Any number of unpleasant words rattled around Ware's head, but he willed himself to stand still and straight.

"No, Corporal."

'No, Corporal'... Ware had been a Marine for too long to answer 'yes', of course. Although Thompson was pretty sure he'd been trying to scratch himself a moment ago.

He let it slide... There was something going on here, but he was damned if he could work out precisely what.

"You might want to give your bay'net belt another pipeclayin' later," he said instead. It wasn't bad, but it was only just passable, by Sergeant Quinn's standards.

"Yes Corporal." Devil take his bayonet-belt. It was the least of his worries right then.

'Yes, Corporal.' 'No, Corporal.' 'Three bloody bags bloody full, Corporal.' Thompson hoped his existence hadn't just boiled down to that and no more. Because if it had, damn the bloody stripes.

"All right, then," he said, and moved round to stand in front of the squad again. "Shoulder... arms!"

Finally. McIntyre slapped his musket up into his shoulder and tried not to sigh with relief. He hadn't been with this ship very long but already it seemed like he'd found himself in a travelling circus.

Terence pulled his musket up into his shoulder, came a few inches short with the but of it, had a quick jerky readjustment of the hold and then finally the musket was resting in its designated position. His other hand was at his side, moving quick and in one single motion.

Reacting smartly for perhaps the first time all morning, Springfield swept his musket up, settling the familiar weight into his shoulder. This, at least, was proper drill; something he could see a point too. And if they got to shoot holes in something, so much the better.

"Front rank, one pace backwards... march." There was no room to do anything more than an inspection in open order - and no call for anything more than that from any drill Thompson had ever done himself.

He knew who could execute their drill smartly, and had a fair idea of those who couldn't. He had some of the new Marines in this squad, and had no idea what standard they were at. The young one in the rear seemed to have a little trouble with his musket. It might be just a one-time thing, or it might be that the lad needed some more training. Thompson would have to keep an eye on him.

One step backward. Easily done. McIntyre settled himself into what had become for him a natural position while at attention. A very slight bend in the knees and a wider-than-usual spread of the feet, in which stance he could remain for hours in general comfort.

Though, of course, this was not sentry-go, but supposedly musket drill. It remained to be seen how well that would go. He was hopeful it would be done by the book. Or at least he hoped for the chance to load with ball and see how bad his aim had gotten.

Thompson had to adjust his hold on his musket; he was used to keeping it in the shoulder for long periods but having it at the advance for a length of time was going to take some getting used to.

"Right, you should all know the drill by now." He was going to go through it quickly, as if they were new recruits, just to make sure everyone in the squad was doing it the same, and then get them to do some firing, which last he had already cleared with Sergeant Quinn.

They should, but privately McIntyre wondered how many of this lot did, or cared. He twitched his shoulders in a shrug and stared almost boredly out at the light ruffle of waves.