The padre stared. He was an honest and devoted chaplain, well loved by the men for his courage under fire, and for his zeal in providing comforts for them; he was young, however, and his experience had not been such as to endow him greatly with understanding.

Colonel Pothecary chuckled. ‘Wonderful what a couple of days out of the line’ll do, isn’t it? Good as new again. Oh, good man!’ – one of the footballers was racing down the wing; the whole game was surging down the field with him; and the battalion was roaring encouragement from the touchline – ‘Oh, come on, Charlton. Try it from there!’

The ball sped between the drunken goalposts. A whistle shrilled.

The spectators swarmed noisily across the field.

Colonel Pothecary watched them contentedly. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘we’ve quite a battalion now, quite a battalion.’

Mister Paterson listened to the referee’s whistle and the clamour of cheering. Boots thudded on the grass and the shadows of the men running past him flitted across the pages of his book. He returned to his reading.

‘What’s the book, sir?’

He looked up, annoyed at the interruption. Shannon, his platoon sergeant, was standing over him.

He held up the book. Shannon took it and read the title aloud.

‘Pickwick Papers. Oh aye,’ he said. He seated himself on the grass beside his officer, ‘I’ve ’ad some rare good times wi’ that book.’

Mister Paterson answered delightedly, ‘Oh, I think it’s wonderful. I never get tired of it. Whenever I’m cheesed off I just open it and start reading – it doesn’t matter where – and the world begins to seem sane again.’

‘Good thing to have by you,’ said Sergeant Shannon, ‘in times like these. P’r’aps I could borrow it from you now an’ then?’

‘Of course.’ Mister Paterson was mildly surprised. He was not a snob; nor did he keep himself apart from his men. Yet he had never really come to understand them. They were mostly of his own age, or little older, yet he always felt so adolescent beside them.

‘You like books, do you?’

‘Oh aye. I always were a great reader. Specially when I were out o’ work. Used to spend ’alf my time at Corporation Library, I did. Four books a week was nothin’ to me in those days. Only I never see a book now. I’ve got no one to send ’em to me.’

‘I have,’ said Mister Paterson. ‘You’re always welcome to anything I get.’

‘Thanks. You know,’ said Sergeant Shannon, ‘it’s queer, sir, isn’t it? – but them old writers is still the best to read. Myself, I like Dickens best. He’s so rich, like, an’ ripe. I reckon David Copperfield is the most beautiful book I’ve ever read in my life.’