‘… you may be interested to know,’ and this was slightly stressed, as though to overbear a doubt, ‘that it is estimated we shall have one big gun – I suppose that means hows. and heavies – for every hundred square yards of ground we are attacking.’

An attack delivered on a front of twenty miles, if completely successful, would mean penetrating to a depth of from six to seven miles, and the men seemed to be impressed by the weight of metal with which it was intended to support them. Then the officer came to the concluding paragraph of the instructional letter.

‘It is not expected that the enemy will offer any very serious resistance at this point. …’

There came a whisper scarcely louder than a sigh.

‘What fuckin’ ’opes we’ve got!’

The still small voice was that of Weeper Smart, clearly audible to the rest of the section, and its effect was immediate. The nervous tension, which had gripped every man, was suddenly snapped, and the swift relief brought with it an almost hysterical desire to laugh, which it was difficult to suppress. Whether Captain Thompson also heard the voice of the Weeper, and what construction he may have placed on the sudden access of emotion in the ranks, it was impossible to say. Abruptly, he called them to attention, and after a few seconds, during which he stared at them impersonally, but with great severity, the men were dismissed. As they moved off, Captain Thompson called Corporal Hamley to him.

‘Where will some of us poor buggers be come next Thursday?’ demanded Weeper of the crowded tent, as he collapsed into his place; and looking at that caricature of grief, their laughter, high-pitched and sardonic, which had been stifled on parade, found vent.

‘Laugh, you silly fuckers!’ he cried in vehement rage. ‘Yes, you laugh now! You’ll be laughing the other side o’ your bloody mouths when you ’ear all Krupp’s fuckin’ iron-foundry comin’ over! Laugh! One big gun to every bloody ’undred yards, an’ don’t expect any serious resistance from the enemy! Take us for a lot o’ bloody kids, they do! ’aven’t we been up the line and…’

‘You shut your blasted mouth, see!’ said the exasperated Corporal Hamley, stooping as he entered the tent, the lift of his head, with chin thrust forward as he stooped, giving him a more desperately aggressive appearance. ‘An’ you let me ’ear you talkin’ on parade again with an officer present and you’ll be on the bloody mat, quick. See? You miserable bugger, you! A bloody cunt like you’s sufficient to demoralize a whole fuckin’ Army Corps. Got it? Get those buzzers out, and do some bloody work, for a change.’

Exhausted by this unaccustomed eloquence, Corporal Hamley, white-lipped, glared round the tent, on innocent and guilty alike. Weeper gave him one glance of deprecatory grief, and relapsed into a prudent silence. The rest of the squad, all learners, settled themselves with a more deliberate obedience: there was no sense in encouraging Corporal Hamley to throw his weight about, just because he had wind up. They took up their pencils and paper, and looked at him a little coolly. Weeper was one of themselves. With the corporal sending on the buzzer, the class laboriously spelt out his messages. Then he tried two men with two instruments, one sending, and the other answering and repeating, while the rest of the squad recorded.