In Lieutenant Paterson’s mind there was no place for fear; but for the first time he discovered the strange terror that afflicts the soldier’s body regardless of his will, a twitching in his calves, a fluttering of the muscles in his cheeks, the breath like a block of expanding ice in his lungs, his stomach contracting, the sickness rising in his throat.

Far below him the sea was shrouded in the last darkness before the sunrise. He began to plod down the slopes towards the sea, to drive the weakness from his legs, to rout the palsy from his body. From the horde of memories which assailed him he seized on one, of himself as a small boy at the seaside, in a little family hotel, lying all night in the darkness of his room consumed with impatience for the morning; and in the morning, dressing, and kissing Mummy, and scrambling down the steps and down the street towards the sea, and on to the promenade, to make sure that the sea was still there; and every morning it was still there, whispering and serene.

And he was suddenly a little boy again, running down to the sea through the long grass, heedless of the brambles and of the dew that soaked his trousers, vaulting over fences and squirming through barbed-wire barriers in his haste, with the warmth of movement bringing eagerness and confidence flowing back into his body. Through the dark woods now that barred his line of vision; and here he was, leaning against the rail at the sea’s edge, with the salt breeze playing in his hair.

The sea lay before him in the chill dawn light, grey and smooth and silent, the orderly rows of ships at anchor as peacefully as if they were waiting for the start of a regatta.

The longing for his mother melted into pride and exultation. The little boy was going to show his mother how brave he was; there was a fine, new game for him to play.

Lieutenant Paterson turned from the sea and ran joyously up the hill towards the camp. He wanted to laugh aloud, to shout up at the pale sky. He was ready for the fine, new game.

He checked himself as he came into the camp; the guard commander was standing by the fence, looking at him curiously.

‘Good morning, Sergeant,’ he said self-consciously. ‘Grand morning, isn’t it?’

‘Mornin’, sir. Goin’ to be a lovely day.’

Sergeant Ferrissey looked at his watch and stretched his body. Ten minutes to reveille. He turned out his off-duty men to awaken the battalion.

He stood watching as they went from tent to tent, stumbling over the guy-lines, drumming with their fists at the taut canvas, shouting, ‘Wakey, wakey.’