The R.S.M. was silent again, and waiting for a reply. The colonel still stared at the table in front of him. He spoke at last, in a flat, remote voice.

‘Leave me now, Sergeant-Major. I’ll see you in the morning.’

The sergeant-major saw the slip of paper on the table in front of the colonel, and began to understand. ‘Yes sir,’ he said, a little embarrassed. He turned to leave.

‘Oh, Sergeant-Major,’ the colonel spoke again, with an effort.

‘Sir?’

‘We shall have to try and keep Venable out of trouble. He’s a good chap. We can keep him under escort till we sail. I’ll smooth things out with Brigade in the morning.’

‘Yes, sir.’ The R.S.M. saluted once more. He looked again at the colonel’s bowed head, and hesitated for a moment.

‘Sir…?’

‘Sergeant-Major?’

‘You’ll not mind my asking. Is there any…?’ the sergeant-major looked at the piece of paper on the table ‘…Have you had bad news, sir?’

‘Yes.’ The colonel tapped the piece of paper with his forefinger. ‘The boy – he’s missing. At sea.’

‘Oh. I’m sorry, sir.’

‘That’s all right, Sergeant-Major.’

‘There’s hope, sir, if he’s missing. Have they sent you any details?’

‘Oh, heavens, yes,’ the colonel was forcing himself to speak brightly, ‘there’s hope all right. They say there are still several boats unaccounted for. He’ll turn up all right, will my lad. He always does. He’s been in many a scrape before now, but he can look after himself.’ He thought of a boat bobbing, black and tiny, in the troughs of the great, grey Atlantic waves.

‘They’ll find him, sir,’ said the R.S.M. ‘The Navy’ll be lookin’, an’ aeroplanes. They’ll find him.’ He turned to the door, this time to go, ‘You’ll please tell your good lady I’m wishin’ for the best.’

‘You’ve met her, haven’t you?’ said the colonel. ‘Yes, I’ll tell her. Thank you, Sergeant-Major.’

The door closed behind the R.S.M. The colonel put his hands in the pockets of his tunic and rose stiffly to his feet.

‘They have supplies in these lifeboats, haven’t they, Noel?’

Major Norman was sitting on his bed, in the shadows, smoking.

‘Good Lord, yes. They have food and water. Enough to keep them alive for weeks. And brandy. And flares.’

‘I know, Noel. Sometimes they pick them up alive after weeks, and they get them well again in no time. Oh,’ he said desperately, ‘there’s no call to worry yet, I know that.’

He fumbled in his pockets for cigarettes.