Early the next morning, the battalion moved up again and took over the forward positions. The day was cold and cloudy.

The first counter-attack came in during the morning, a dozen tanks lumbering across the broad heath with infantry creeping behind; there was no artillery preparation.

The forward platoons of the Fifth Battalion opened fire but the attack came on. When the tanks were half a mile away there was a sudden rumble of aero-engines in the clouds. The men of the Fifth Battalion listened joyfully as the noise of engines swelled – they had not expected air support on a day like this.

There was a rush and roar of bombs and rockets in front of the battalion. The noise in the clouds grew as more aircraft took off from their advanced airstrips in the battle-scorched cornfields. Tanks burned under black canopies of smoke. The attack was stopped.

The enemy tried again during the day, and again, each time with fewer tanks. Each time they were stopped by British aircraft or by a leaping, murderous wall of artillery fire. During the night they tried to infiltrate towards the river but the men of the Fifth Battalion, fighting off sleep, stopped them and wiped out in the first light of dawn a few small groups that had got back to the river.

By the next morning – the fourth – the offensive, it seemed, had petered out. So had the enemy’s counter-attacks. The men were roused by a fine drizzle of rain against their faces. They lay in their pits listening to the rumble of gunfire far away to the left. It sounded as if a fresh British attack was going in on another sector, giving the enemy no time for rest.

Everything seemed delicious to the men this morning; the cold, sweet air, the drizzle against their skins, even the ache of fatigue in their limbs; everything that reminded them of their survival was delicious.

They breakfasted on tinned, fatty bacon, thickly-buttered biscuits and tea laced with rum. They stripped to the waist and washed, resting their tired arms luxuriously in the clean, cold water.

And they shaved; every man shaved by order of Colonel Pothecary; for the British soldier is no black-bearded warrior. Whenever there is a lull in the battle he shaves, and with his beard he seems to get rid of all the misery and filth and degradation of battle.

Glowing and clean-shaven, with their self-respect restored, the men of the Fifth Battalion passed the morning away, some sleeping huddled in their pits under blankets, greatcoats and gas-capes; some sitting in the dry corners of shattered barns and cottages talking, smoking, scribbling letters. The Doggy Boys emptied the cargo from a wrecked lorry and played cards in comfort under its canvas hood.

Mister Paterson eased the boots from his swollen feet and pulled his socks off. He showed the tattered, filthy socks to Sergeant Shannon, then rolled them carefully and pushed them into his pack.