‘You must be weak in the head,’ said the sergeant, ‘coming back at a time like this. Any day now the shooting’s gonner start.’

‘Yes,’ said Charlie. ‘An’ I wanner be there when it starts. Crackers, ain’ I?’ He felt the need to justify himself. ‘D’you think I done a bunk to get out of it? When all me mates was going? Besides,’ he added defiantly, ‘I’m no onion. Deserting off draft when your battalion’s goin’ overseas, that’s a serious thing. You don’t catch Charlie Venable chancin’ it like that.’

‘Well,’ said the sergeant, ‘you’d better come down the stores with me and collect your kit and blankets.’

‘Comin’, my lord,’ said Charlie, ‘an’ don’t forget that supper. Prisoner’s entitled to his rations.’

Within a half-hour Charlie was comfortably installed in the guard-room, his supper on the table in front of him. The news of his arrival had spread rapidly and the peace of the guard-room was shattered by the stream of visitors that came to greet him.

Charlie sat in the sergeant’s chair eating industriously, and holding court like some returned monarch acknowledging a series of welcoming delegations from among his loyal subjects. Baldy sat at his right hand, speechless and radiant.

‘Hallo, Fred. Wotcher, Bert, you an’arf looking brown. Bin sunbathin’?’

‘Cor, strike a light, Dickie Crawford, ain’t you in the moosh yet? I met an ol’ china of yours down Clapton last week – Albie Holloway. ’E got ’is ticket with fits last year. Cost ’im twenty nicker, ’e told me.’

‘’Ave a drop o’ char.’ Charlie waved his hand royally at the bucket of tea – the property of the guard – standing in the corner. ‘There’s some mugs on the shelf. ’Ere…’ he pushed the guard’s evening rations across the table, ‘cut yourself some bread an’ cheese.’

The guard commander scooped up the rations.

‘Here,’ he said indignantly, ‘what do you think I am? The bleeding butler?’

Charlie took a cigarette from Baldy and leaned luxuriously back in his chair. ‘Not yet, my good man,’ he said loftily, ‘but I’ll give you a week’s trial if you insist.’

He’ll be glad, thought the R.S.M. as he walked crisply up the cinder path towards the colonel’s hut, he’ll be glad when he knows. He always had a soft spot for Venable. He likes the cheeky type.

He knocked at the door, entered and saluted.

The colonel was sitting at his table, facing the door. He had his hands in his lap; he was looking down at the table. He raised his eyes when the R.S.M. came in, without moving his head. The R.S.M.’s voice came spinning towards him through echoing tunnels of darkness.