He bent to his letter again. My Dearest Sal — . How to write this time? He had begun a hundred letters and posted none. How to write? – to appeal to her pity? – to recall the happiness of their first months of marriage? – to play on her desire for security? – to try and turn her against the other man? – to let her know that he would soon be going into battle? (But she might be glad, he thought with terror, she might be glad, she might wish me dead.) More than once he had written to hurt her, to rouse her anger, had filled pages with foul words and bitter accusations. He had torn these letters up like the rest. My Dearest Sal — .

The hut shook and the doors rattled with the banging of the guns. In the night sky the din of engines was deafening as the German bombers-turned overhead to make their run in towards the port.

My Dearest Sal — . Corporal Shuttleworth stuffed the writing pad under his pillow, blew the candle out and crawled underneath his blankets. The pain was like a cord tightening round his throat. ‘Soon, soon, soon,’ he prayed under the blanket, ‘dear God, put an end to this soon.’

The other candle-light burned on. Private Oh-Three-Seven Smith was writing to his mother. He peered at the pamphlet by his side and copied a phase painstakingly; then turned back to the pamphlet.

Cod liver oil as a two per cent addition to any mash is worthwhile. It helps health, growth and fertility. Calcium in some form, as oyster or cockle shell, limestone grit or dust, or even as crushed chalk, is necessary for bone and shell.

There was the dull, spreading broo-oom of bombs exploding, and the hut quaked. Private Smith hardly noticed it.

Although animal protein in the mash is required, experiments have shown that ten per cent is the maximum, and this may be reduced to five per cent by using fishmeal with five per cent of soya-bean meal.

Every battery in the area was firing now. The anti-aircraft barrage was a wall of sound through which the noise of the bombers’ engines penetrated fitfully. Private Smith finished his letter and licked the envelope thoughtfully as shrapnel clattered on the corrugated iron roof of the hut.

He blew out his candle. ‘Good night, Corporal,’ he whispered across to Shuttleworth’s bed. There was no reply. He pulled his blanket up over him. Outside, the raid was at its height. Private Oh-Three-Seven Smith rolled over, grunted, pushed his face against the straw-filled bolster, and fell fast asleep.

CHAPTER TEN

Days of waiting