‘Aye,’ said Madeley, bitterly; ‘an’ what good will all your prayin’ do you? If there were any truth in religion, would there be a war, would God let it go on?’

‘Some on us blame God for our own faults,’ said Pacey, coolly, ‘an’ it were men what made the war. It’s no manner o’ use us sittin’ ’ere pityin’ ourselves, an’ blamin’ God for our own fault. I’ve got nowt to say again Mr Rhys. ’e talks about liberty, an’ fightin’ for your country, an’ posterity, an’ so on; but what I want to know is what all us ’ns are fightin’ for…’

‘We’re fightin’ for all we’ve bloody got,’ said Madeley, bluntly.

‘An’ that’s sweet fuck all,’ said Weeper Smart. ‘A tell thee, that all a want to do is to save me own bloody skin. An’ the first thing a do, when a go into t’ line, is to find out where t’ bloody dressing-stations are; an’ if a can get a nice blighty, chaps, when once me face is turned towards home, I’m laughing. You won’t see me bloody arse for dust. A’m not proud. A tell thee straight. Them as thinks different can ’ave all the bloody war they want, and me own share of it, too.’

‘Well, what the ’ell did you come out for?’ asked Madeley.

Weeper lifted up a large, spade-like hand with the solemnity of one making an affirmation.

‘That’s where th’ast got me beat, lad,’ he admitted. ‘When a saw all them as didn’ know any better’n we did joinin’ up, an’ a went walkin’ out wi’ me girl on Sundays, as usual, a just felt ashamed. An’ a put it away, an’ a put it away, until in th’ end it got me down. A knew what it’d be, but it got the better o’ me, an’ then, like a bloody fool, a went an’ joined up too. A were ashamed to be seen walkin’ in the streets, a were. But a tell thee, now, that if a were once out o’ these togs an’ in civvies again, a wouldn’t mind all the shame in the world; no, not if I ’ad to slink through all the back streets, an’ didn’ dare put me nose in t’Old Vaults again. A’ve no pride left in me now, chaps, an’ that’s the plain truth a’m tellin’. Let them as made the war come an’ fight it, that’s what a say.’

‘That’s what I say, too,’ said Glazier, a man of about Madeley’s age, with an air of challenge. Short, stocky, and ruddy like Madeley, he was of coarser grain, with an air of brutality that the other lacked: the kind of man who, when he comes to grips, kills, and grunts with pleasure in killing. ‘Why should us’ns fight an’ be killed for all them bloody slackers at ’ome? It ain’t right. No matter what they say, it ain’t right. We’re doin’ our duty, an’ they ain’t, an’ they’re coinin’ money while we get ten bloody frong a week. They don’t care a fuck about us. Once we’re in the army, they’ve got us by the balls. Talk about discipline! They don’t try disciplinin’ any o’ them fuckin’ civvies, do they? We want to put some o’ them bloody politicians in the front line, an’ see ’em shelled to shit. That’d buck their ideas up.’