Some remnant living in muscle memory br is pressed, dressed and polished each time br he marches, slowly now and with tired bones, br to the Legion for his Friday bingo. br His numbers, in all the years, haven't shown br as ex-corporal caller turns the wheel br and the same bally jokes revolve and drop, br snipered, on the half-deaf, half-dead, half-full br hall of pensioners with fat pens br and luckless grins whose week's entertainment br spins and tumbles. Someone checks. They groan. br He removes his specs sauntering barwards br for his first pint, shouts an old joke, br 'Hey, you barsteward' br takes the barkeeps wince for a smile. br He re-enlists each Friday, soldiering on, br wishing he might 'fall-out'. br Surrender.