‘Not me, Corp,’ said Charlie. ‘Not me it doesn’t. People ’ave been prayin’ for a million years an’ it didn’t do ’em no good. It didn’t stop the last war an’ it didn’t stop this one. It didn’t stop the bombs comin’ down in Bow, neither. No offence to you, Corp. Put your trust in God; an’ I don’t think! Put your trust in Charlie Venable; that’s my motto.’

Men stirred and raised themselves on their elbows under the blankets, listening. They had these discussions every night after lights out, talking softly for hours in the luxurious warmth of the stove about love and God and aircraft and electricity and Communism and Eddie Phillips and the Arsenal.

‘I’ll tell you when it does you good,’ said one of the other men. ‘When you’re away. I’m not one for religion, but when we were in Africa I used to lay there and think about the wife and kids, and think, well if there is a God then let him look after them. If you think there is someone who can look after them, well, it’s a comfort. And I tell you when else. Sometimes you’re laying there in a battle and you think you’ll never get out of it, and I don’t care who you are then, you’ll pray to God to get you out alive.’

‘Kiddin’ yourself,’ said Charlie Venable, ‘lowerin’ yourself. When I’m in a corner I won’t say, “Please God get me out of ’ere.” I’ll say, “Now then, Charlie boy, it’s up to you to get yourself out of ’ere, an’ no one else.” God ’elps those ’oo ’elps themselves.’

‘In the last war,’ said another voice, ‘there was a bloke with a Bible in his pocket, and this Bible stopped a bullet one day. It was right over his heart.’

‘Jus’ shows yer,’ said Charlie Venable, ‘Battle order, eh? Small pack, two grenades, fifty rounds an’ Bible at the alert.’

‘Well,’ said someone, ‘it’s just as well to play safe. You never know.’

‘Gaw,’ said Charlie disgustedly, ‘that’s low. That’s bloody low.’

He turned over on to his other elbow and spoke to Lance-Corporal Feather, ‘Lot o’ bleedin’ sinners, ain’t we, Corp? Given up hope for us?’

‘No, Charlie,’ said the lance-corporal sleepily. ‘You’re a Christian, Charlie, even though you don’t know it.’ He stretched himself cosily in his bed and felt the warmth of the stove toasting the left side of his blanket. He was happy here. There was warmth and trust and tenderness and loving-kindness in this hut. ‘Good night, lads,’ he muttered.

Charlie Venable slipped out of bed and padded across the hut to where Bailey was lying. He went back to the stove and poured the last of the tea into his mug.