‘There you are,’ said Private Smith, ‘an’ the poor people in this village don’t drink cognac, neither. Can’t afford it, they can’t. It’s not them you’re dealin’ with when you go up that cafe. Can’t run ’em all down, you can’t, not because of one or two.’

‘Aye,’ said Barnicoat doubtfully, ‘there’s that to it. Lab’rers is all right. They ’aven’t got nowt, ’ardly, but they’ll give you ’alf on it. That old fella up by the orchard, there, ’e filled me tin ’at with new potatoes, an’ ’e never asked for nowt in return. I gave ’im some fags. But ’e never asked for nowt.’

‘Shall we vote?’ asked Private Smith.

‘Oh, aye,’ said Private Barnicoat.

‘Vote?’ said Charlie Venable. ‘Don’t make me laugh. Ever seen one of our chaps say no to a nipper?…

‘Vote?’ he said. ‘I see them poor bloody kids when I shut my eyes at night. Legs like bloody matchsticks. Bloody great big eyes…

‘Run along,’ he said to Lance-Corporal Feather. ‘You don’t want to waste time countin’ votes. You run along an’ tell ’em.’

‘Orders for tomorrow,’ the colonel said to the R.S.M. ‘French flags to be displayed in the windows of all requisitioned cottages. Men to be inspected for shaves. Boots to be cleaned. One platoon only to parade for the ceremony. See that they’re well turned-out.’

‘What about a little spontaneous enthusiasm?’ asked Major Norman.

‘Ah,’ said the colonel, ‘that’s a point, Noel. Get a party of men out tonight chalking on the walls. And tell all the drivers to chalk messages of greeting on the sides of their wagons.’

‘Yes, sir,’ said the R.S.M. ‘In English or in French?’

‘In French of course,’ said the colonel. ‘Now let’s get organised. Noel, I want you to write out a lot of little clips of paper with slogans on them. In capitals, so that the men can copy them; and not too long. Sar’major, get a party detailed for the wall-chalking, and have the drivers parade at the quartermaster’s store to draw chalk for their wagons. Anything else we can do, Noel?’

‘The French let off fireworks on July 14th, usually,’ said Noel Norman.

‘Hmmph,’ said the colonel, ‘’fraid not. Half the artillery in Normandy will open up if we send up a few flares.’

‘They have dancing in the streets.’

‘No streets here,’ said the colonel. ‘Only the main road, and that’s jammed with traffic.’

‘A concert?’

‘The padre’s got that laid on. And a film show in the afternoon. All we want is decent weather.’

‘Sar’major,’ said Noel Norman, ‘see about the weather.’

‘Yes, sir,’ said the R.S.M. woodenly.

At eight o’clock that evening the padre stood by the door of his billet, behind a trestle table that was piled high with tins of confectionery.