Colonel Pothecary cursed. ‘Bloody fools,’ he grumbled. ‘Who the hell do they think they are, blocking the road while they scuttle across like mice? This is a fine time to be afraid of getting hurt.’

A tall, black-moustached officer in a British warm strode across the bridge from the other side. He lifted a megaphone to his lips. ‘Come on, you officers,’ he shouted, ‘up on your feet and get your men moving.’

He stood on the bridge unflinching while the mortar bombs exploded on the banks and in the water downstream.

‘Come on,’ he roared through the megaphone. ‘Who’s in command there? Get them moving. Get them moving.’

The unit in front began to clatter across the bridge in a continuous stream.

‘Thank God for that,’ grunted Colonel Pothecary as the road ahead of them cleared. ‘Let’s go.’

The battalion crossed the stream under fire and marched under fire for another mile into the bridgehead. For the third time they deployed off the roads and dug in. The men were punch-drunk with fatigue by now, pausing to rest after each shovelful of earth, toppling in sleep into half dug trenches.

As they lay in their shallow holes there was a fresh outburst of artillery fire. A mile ahead of them the Germans were counterattacking, their tanks milling in the midst of the forward British infantry. The ground shook as the artillery on both sides exchanged furious cannonades. Earth sifted and pattered down from the sides of the slit trenches on to the faces of the men of the Fifth Battalion, but they were utterly weary and they did not even stir.

They crouched in their holes all night while the sky flickered with action and the German rockets soared and burst in a gaily-coloured firework display. Sometimes bullets came squealing out of the darkness as German patrols crept through on the flanks, and the Brens would hammer their darting lines of tracer into the darkness in reply.

Major Maddison was inspecting his company’s positions. He made his way cautiously along a gully in which a section of his riflemen were entrenched.

‘What’s this?’ he asked as he stumbled over something soft and bulky. He bent forward and felt with his hands; it was a corpse, with a blanket flung over it.

‘One of ours?’ he asked.

‘Not one of our own,’ answered the corporal. ‘He must be from the Third Battalion.’

‘Get the bloody thing out of here,’ said Maddison curtly, ‘before it stinks.’

‘Yes, sir,’ said the corporal, not moving. The darkness shielded Maddison from the hatred in the men’s eyes.

Maddison clambered up out of the trench. ‘Don’t forget,’ he said again, ‘get the stiff out of the way before it’s daylight.’ He walked away.

‘Whoreson,’ said the corporal. He knelt by the corpse and gently replaced the blanket over the waxen face.

‘Some poor mother’ll be weeping for this lad,’ he said tenderly.