He became attentive again. Mister Hodge was speaking to him about poultry. Tom’s mother kept hens. Mister Hodge knew all about hens, and gave Tom regular advice about them, which was faithfully passed on to Mrs Smith in a series of long letters.

‘Send your mother this, Tom,’ said Mister Hodge, putting a pamphlet on the table. ‘If she hasn’t got it already it’ll be of interest to her.’

‘I’ll copy it out, Mister Hodge,’ said Tom sturdily, ‘and keep this one for myself to learn from.’

He was light-footed with joy as he walked back to camp, later, in the cool dusk. A job with Mister Hodge. Science. Knowledge. It was a proud thing, knowledge.

He swung into camp.

‘Good night, mate,’ said the sentry.

‘Night.’

Tom Smith was Oh-Three-Seven Smith once more.

It was close to midnight and in the stuffy hut with its end windows blacked-out, most of the men were asleep. Only round two beds, on each of which a man crouched writing, was there a flicker of candle-light.

Corporal Shuttleworth crumpled a sheet of paper and threw it savagely away. He paused for a moment and cocked his head, listening. Far off, in the night, he heard the distant mutter of aero-engines. Another raid. They came over every night, now, to bomb the port a few miles away. There was little danger here in the camp; but every night there was the noise of the bombs and the guns to remind the Fifth Battalion of another reality beyond the summer’s heat.

He began to write again: My Dearest Sal — . He stopped. His lips shaped the words. ‘My dearest Sal — .’ What would she say when she read that? Would she laugh? Or cry? Or tear it up? Or show it to the other chap? That was the worst thought of all, the thought of Sal showing it to the other chap. He had been trying to write for weeks, as the prospect of going away drew nearer. Sometimes he prayed, in an anguish of impatience, for the day to come and with it the end of this misery; then, thinking of the day, and of going away without even seeing her again, the pain would come back, more heartbreaking than ever, almost more than he could bear. Love – love on the pictures was one thing; but Corporal Shuttleworth’s love was a rat gnawing at his heart, a physical burden that drained him of bodily strength and left him ill and absent-minded, unable to eat for days, sleepless, dazed, always close to retching. There was only drink to help him sometimes, and then only for a little while, to forget the wife who had left him, the strapping, blonde girl who had scarred him with her contempt.

The roar of engines was loud overhead now, and higher by an octave than before. The first guns began to slam and the bursting shells coughed in the sky.