‘Get a basinful o’ this,’ he said appreciatively, thumping his chest with both fists as he noisily inhaled the cool, salt-laden air. ‘It don’t arf smell good. Why don’t yer go out an’ get some exercise, you lazy rotten sods. Up the village an’ back free times. Do you more good than playin’ brag it will.’

‘Exercise,’ jeered Sergeant Bender. ‘You’d take a bleedin’ taxi from King’s Cross to Saint Pancras. — off, you, before I do somethin’ I’ll be sorry for.’

‘Wish me luck,’ said Dickie, walking away down the cinder path.

‘Luck!’ Sergeant Bender shouted after him, ‘I seen you at the dogs. You got the luck of the Nine Blind Bastards. You don’t need no more.’

Dickie Crawford whistled as he walked across the camp, well pleased with himself. The breeze from the sea was keen and exciting against his face; sky and sea and countryside, extending immeasurably about him, made a pattern of pale blue and vernal green. There were white, fast-moving wisps of cloud that challenged him to quicken his pace and, somewhere, a hint of sunshine, a faint, melting warmth against the skin.

Dickie Crawford was a son of the London markets. Shop windows were more beautiful to him than a seascape, sodden black warehouse walls more exciting than a wide horizon, mounds of decaying vegetables in a gutter more sweet than a breeze laden with the scent of wild violets. But this morning the breeze aroused him, the skyline beckoned. He felt strong and exultant – and imprisoned.

The spring was in his blood; Easter was near; and there was no leave. A battle lay somewhere ahead; and there was no leave. Below him in the valley railway lines gleamed. Eighty miles away at the end of those lines was London; the little house leaning forward across a pavement in Camden Town; the markets thronged on Saturday afternoon; the people hurrying to the dogs, tense and absorbed; the girls, gay and challenging in the brassy, brightly-lit saloon bars; and there was no leave.

He stopped whistling; he stiffened his shoulders back and began to swing his arms self-consciously. He was in the administrative section of the camp now, where officers prowled and sergeant-majors lurked.

He came to a hut with the sign ORDERLY SERGEANT over the door. He knocked.

‘Come in,’ a voice rumbled.

Dickie opened the door and poked his head in. ‘Ord’ly Sarnt?’ he said. ‘Take us up to Nancy Norman, will yer?’

‘What for?’ mumbled the orderly sergeant, his mouth full of bread and cheese. ‘Sarnt-major’s job. Go to the office.’

‘Nah,’ said Dickie, ‘t’ain’t Orders. Pers’nal interview. Private talk. Me an’ old Nancy. I booked it yesterday.’

‘What you after?’ asked the orderly sergeant, buckling on his belt and coming to the door. ‘Leave?’

‘Compassionate,’ said Dickie mournfully. ‘I’m in trouble. Dead in trouble. ’E’ll ’ave ter let me go.’