He knew whose voice it was before he looked up. He felt as if someone had thumped him on the chest, breathless and a little sick.

‘Hallo, you old rogue,’ said Corporal Meadows at last. ‘Where’ve you been these last two days? In some bloody farmhouse wenching I suppose?’

Corporal Warne clambered down into the trench and grinned at his friend. ‘Too true,’ he replied. ‘Anyway, I see you’ve succeeded in keeping out of trouble. I bet you haven’t poked your nose out of this hole since I’ve been away.’

‘You’re damn right I haven’t,’ said Meadows, throwing a cigarette across to him. For a few seconds they smoked in silence; then Meadows spoke again, ‘What happened?’

‘Nothing much. There was a lot of movement down there. We had to lie up for a while. It was a bit dodgy at times.’

‘Lose anyone?’

‘Grant. On the way back. Got mortared.’ Warne tapped the ash from his cigarette. ‘Any mail in?’

‘Nothing for you. But I kept a newspaper for you.’

‘You kept it? For me?’

Meadows grinned. ‘Well, you can always look at the pictures.’

Warne settled down with the newspaper. Meadows lit another cigarette. They sat propped against the ends of the trench, facing each other, knee-to-knee. The birds still shrilled; the leaves in the hedgerow still stirred in the evening breeze. Somewhere in the rear the twenty-five pounders were firing, making a noise like the slamming of doors. Warne read. Meadows smoked. Neither talked.

As far as both of them were concerned, the incident was closed.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Always…

MISTER CHALLIS was speaking to his platoon:

‘Tomorrow is July 14th, the French national holiday. It means a lot to the people here this year, as you can understand; it’s the first time in five years they’ve been able to celebrate it in freedom.’

‘Now, what the padre is proposing amounts to this. They haven’t had a real holiday in five years. Their kids haven’t had anything worth speaking of to eat in that time – some of the younger ones have never tasted sweets since they were born. We get a bloody big ration of sweets and chocolates in our compo rations every day. More than we can eat; you all know that. Well, there you are. The padre wants you to put two and two together – he wants the whole battalion to club together and give one day’s sweets and chocolate ration to the children of this village. He wants us to give these kids the holiday of their lives. The colonel says it’s up to you. You talk about it. You vote on it. And whatever the majority of platoons says, goes. Right, my lads. It’s all yours. Who wants to speak first?’

There was a mutter of conversation for a few moments. Then one of the men put his hand up.