On the stretchers above his head two men were lying, very flat and still. They did not answer, nor even turn their heads, when Bill Barnicoat spoke to them. There was an unpleasant, medical smell about the jeep.

Barnicoat threw an apple core over the wall of the Mairie. ‘Come on, Smithy,’ he said uneasily.

‘I’d rather get killed than crippled,’ he said suddenly, when they were a little way along the road.

Private Smith laughed. ‘You silly great big donkey,’ he said, ‘I’ve no intention of gettin’ killed or crippled. That’s not the way to talk, lad.’

‘It’s ’appened to a few, any road.’

‘It won’t happen to you, Bill, if you don’t think about it.’

‘Oh aye, mister clever, an’ what do you think of when them mortars is comin’ down? Zeez-zeez-zeez-CRACK! Zeez-zeez-zeez-CRACK! What do you think of then?’

‘Me?’ Smithy furrowed his brows. ‘I dunno. Better times after the war, I suppose. That’s what I think on most o’ the time.’

‘Better times?’ jeered Barnicoat. ‘I can see myself now, wi’ a wooden leg an’ a medal, queuein’ up for dole.’

‘I dunno about queueing up for dole,’ answered Private Smith. ’It looks as though we’ll have to queue up for cider.’

They were approaching the village’s only cafe. Its sunlit, dusty terrasse was thronged with soldiers. Others were crowding into the dark interior of the shop. Others stood in the roadway clustering in excited groups round villagers who had come to barter eggs and potatoes for chocolate, and to exchange gossip and war news in a flutter of gesticulation and pidgin-talk.

‘An I’ll tell you this much,’ said Private Smith fiercely, as they pushed their way into the cafe, ‘it’s only them without ambition as talks about the dole. I’ve had a new job offered me when I get back. Scientific farming. Learning, Bill, that’s what you want these days – learning.’

‘Learnin’!’ exclaimed Private Barnicoat. He reached through the crush towards the counter. ‘You’ll start learnin’ when you get back. You’ll learn all right.’

‘Well, Padre,’ said Colonel Pothecary, ‘what do you think of ’em?’

The padre laughed: ‘Silly question. Look at them.’

They were standing, with Major Norman, on the touchline of a football field. The final round of an inter-company tournament was being played out.

‘Look at them,’ said the padre. ‘Every time that ball soars up into the blue, their spirits soar with it. They’re boys again; fresh, eager boys. A week ago they were plunged for the first time in their lives into the most dreadful ordeal that men can devise. They saw their dearest friends killed or mutilated. They – oh, heavens, just look at them. I wish I could forget as easily as they forget.’

‘Are you so sure that they’ve forgotten, Padre?’ asked Major Norman.