He had slept placidly through every interval of duty. Towards evening it became quieter, and they were relieved, marching back to Bus. The village, with its chinks of light in the windows, seemed indifferent and unsympathetic. It had a hard, cold reality, and was as squalid and comfortless as truth. Bourne was ordered to remain with A Company for the present; and he went across to the signallers’ hut to get his pack and bedding. He saw Corporal Hamley, and faced the inevitable questions. He heard that Glazier had been killed in their own front line, and Madeley wounded, apparently by the same shell. Weeper, dumping the ridiculous flapper, had taken over Madeley’s job: he was the only man close to the corporal’s corner, and he listened without joining in the conversation. Then Bourne told them about Martlow. He spoke in level, almost indifferent, tones; there was not a trace of emotion in his voice; and yet he seemed to see the boy objectively in front of him. Corporal Hamley showed much more feeling; and when Bourne began to tell him about Shem, he rose abruptly, and got Martlow’s kit, which Bourne had tried not to see. There was one thing that Bourne did not want to do, and yet he knew he would have to do it, however strongly he might resist it. Corporal Hamley’s fingers were holding a letter, and Bourne could see the address, and below it, to the left, the firm, rather business-like handwriting, flowing across the page: My darling Boy. He looked across the hut with an indifferent air, and the address seemed to be scrawled upon the darkness.

‘Poor old Shem,’ he said softly. ‘I’m glad he got away with it.’

‘Some buggers ’ave all the bloody luck,’ said the corporal enviously.

And Bourne wondered why the dead should be a reproach to the living: they seemed so still, and so indifferent, the dead.

Corporal Hamley went out of the hut without speaking again, taking the boy’s kit with him; the Company-office was only next door. Bourne collected his own things to go, and, as he was passing, Weeper Smart put out his hand.

‘A’m real grieved,’ was all he said.

‘Thanks. Good night, Smart,’ said Bourne, a little shakily, as their hands dropped again.

When he got back to A Company’s hut, he found Sergeant-Major Tozer with a crown on his sleeve.

‘Are you going out tonight, ol’ son?’

‘I’m too tired, Sergeant-Major,’ he said, reluctantly. ‘I think I’ll get down to it early tonight.’

‘That’s all right,’ said the sergeant-major, approvingly. ‘But there’s some buckshee rum in the Company-office; an’ you’ll sleep better wi’ a bit of a skinful. You come along with me.’

They found the regimental in A Company’s office, talking to the quarter-bloke. The sorrow of men is often angry and recalcitrant.

‘It was bloody hard luck,’ he was saying in a low, uneven voice. ‘I can tell you I’ll go a long way before I find another man like Barton.’