He was silent for a moment. ‘All that first part of it, where the little boy lives with his young mother. The games they play, an’ all that. Till Mr Murdstone comes along like a big black raven. He writes it so tender, like. My own mum died, y’know, when I were a nipper. Aye, he were a great man, were Charles Dickens.

‘Aye,’ he went on, ‘the old writers is the best. Take Thack’ray, now. Right sarcastic he is, sometimes. An’ Jane Austen. Have you read any of her stories?’

‘My mother loves Jane Austen,’ said Mister Paterson.

‘Did you know,’ asked Sergeant Shannon eagerly, ‘she were only the daughter of a country parson? She used to sit in’t parlour pourin’ out tea for visitors, an’ bein’ polite to neighbours an’ family, like. An’ all the time she was writin’ these books, an’ hidin’ it under the blotter if anyone came near.’

He sighed. ‘It’s a wonderful thing to have that gift, to write stories people will love for a hundred years an’ more.’

He fell silent. Mister Paterson searched for words. He knew that another five seconds of silence would break this rare moment of communion, that the sergeant would retire again inside his armour of reserve. He opened his mouth to speak; he was too late.

‘It’s quiet this evening,’ said the sergeant. ‘Too quiet. I reckon we’ll be movin’ up again soon. Don’t you?’

‘We’re sure to,’ said Mister Paterson. ‘This is too good to last.’

Shannon brushed grass from his trousers. He was the tough and uncommunicative sergeant again.

‘We’ll inspect the Brens in’t morning,’ he said. ‘Good night, sir.’ The battalion was marching back towards the line. As the grumbling of the guns grew louder, the jesting and singing in the ranks died away and the men felt the sickness of fear deep within them; for they had not forgotten.

But the padre, standing at the road junction as they trudged dustily by, saw only the firm brown faces, the cigarettes perked up at the corners of their mouths, the tousled hair under their steel helmets; and he marvelled that men could be so strong.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

We’ve had a loverly day today

IN THE MISTY DAWN, with the rain battering upon them and the ground trembling beneath the artillery, the men of the Fifth Battalion slithered up the muddy, sodden banks behind which they had been crouching and lurched forward, heads down against the rain, into the attack.