‘Go whitewash the last post,’ the corporal said.
But young Bobby was expecting it; they always messed with the new recruits. They thought he’d set off on a frantic search of the barracks, trying to find the last post.
Instead, he signed ten chits for ten gallons of whitewash and set to work.
‘What!?’ he heard the corporate bark from back of him.
Bobby stopped painting, stood and turned. ‘The war is lost,’ he said. ‘This is the last post.’