The succession of fatigues, parades, and inspections barely distracted their thought, so much a habit obedience had become. In one of the intervals, Martlow and Shem were sent off on some small fatigue to the stores, and as Martlow leaned his rifle against the side of the hut, he said something to Bourne, and, turning, hurried after Shem. Mr Finch was standing only a few feet away, and he glanced at the boy talking to Bourne, looked after him as he turned and ran, and then turned to Bourne himself.

‘Seems a bloody shame to send a kid like that into a show, doesn’t it?’ he said, in a kindly undertone.

‘He was with us on the Somme in July and August, sir,’ was all Bourne’s reply, though that he, too, thought it a bloody shame was sufficiently obvious.

‘Was he?’ exclaimed Mr Finch appreciatively. ‘Stout fellow. It’s a bloody shame, all the same.’

He struck at a clod of mud with his stick.

‘Bloody awful weather to go over in, isn’t it?’ he said, almost as though he were only thinking aloud. ‘However, we can only do our best.’

Some other men coming up, he moved off a few paces, and the drumming of the distant guns came to them. Bourne thought now that it did not sound so heavy as some of the bombardments on the Somme. Sergeant Tozer came on the scene, and when he went into the empty hut, Bourne followed him.

‘What do you make of it, Sergeant?’ he asked.

‘I don’ know what to make of it. What the bloody hell do you make of it, yourself? After all, that’s what matters. I suppose we’ll come through all right; we’ve done it before, so we can do it again. Anyway, it can’t be more of a bloody balls-up than some o’ the other shows ’ave been. Give us over that entrenching tool handle, that bloody snob drove a nail through my boot.’

He had unrolled one of his puttees, taken a boot off, and sat on the ground while he felt for the offending nail with his fingers, a look of exasperated patience on his face; having found it he tried to flatten, bend, or break the point off with the metal-bound end of the handle.

‘Fuck the bloody thing!’ he said fiercely under his breath.

Ultimately he succeeded in his object, and after feeling where the point had been, critically, with his fingers, he drew on his boot again.

‘You don’t want to get the fuckin’ wind up, you know,’ he said kindly.

‘Who’s getting wind up?’ replied Bourne, resentfully. ‘Don’t you worry about me, Sergeant. I can stick it all right. If I do get it in the neck, I’ll be out of this bloody misery, anyway.’

‘That’s all right, ol’ son,’ said the sergeant. ‘You needn’t take me up the wrong way, you know. I’m not worryin’ about you. I’m a bit windy myself. It’ll be all right when we get started. We’ll pull it off somehow or other.’