Bourne himself had become rather melancholy and unsociable. Chance threw him fairly often in the way of Morgan, the bombing sergeant, and they would go out together from time to time, to a house in Bus where they could get rum and coffee, and talk in quiet. Morgan drank very little, and was seldom seen in an estaminet. He was a keen, dapper, confident little man. Sometimes a tall man with a gipsy face, one of the bombers, would join them. Bourne had first seen him at Reclinghem, when they had been billeted together; and, as he never seemed to get any letters or parcels, Bourne had asked him to share in his occasionally. They had become more or less friendly, and one day Bourne asked him what he had done in civil life.

‘I was at school,’ he said, after a moment’s hesitation.

Bourne looked at him in amazement, as he was at least thirty years old, and Whitfield explained quite simply, that he had been serving a sentence in gaol. Apparently he was a burglar, but he made no attempt to justify his choice of a profession which was both hazardous and ill-paid; and Bourne, recovering from a momentary bewilderment, accepted his statement as confidential, and kept the matter to himself. He liked Whitfield, who after all, as a bomber, was labouring his vocation; but though he kept the man’s secret, he once turned to Sergeant Morgan and asked him what Whitfield had done before the war.

‘’e kept a bicycle-repair shop,’ said Morgan. ‘’e’s a bloody good man, you know; one of the best men I’ve got. I’ve recommended ’im for a stripe once or twice, but they don’t seem to take no notice. ’e doesn’t mind, but I’ll keep on recommending ’im. You ought to come out with me some night, when we’re up in the tronshay. A lot o’ the men don’t see it, but it’s a good game really. You’re free to do very much as you please. O’ course you get your orders, an’ they make up some kind of a plan; but that’s all eye-wash. You’ve got to forget all that as soon as you start, an’ make your own arrangements as you go on. I’ve taken out quite a lot o’ officers now, an’ they’re all the same, pretty decent chaps as a rule. They draw up a plan, an’ then they just come to me an’ ask me to take a glance at it, an’ see if it’s all right. It’s all right, sir, I always say to ’em; you just bung it in at th’ orderly-room, an’ we’ll do what’s possible. On’y one officer ever gave me any trouble, a chap attached to us, no names no pack-drill; but ’e were a bastard, ’e were. Military Cross, an’ bar; reg’lar pot-’unter; an’ we lost one o’ the best corporals we’ve ever ’ad through that bloody man. Wouldn’t be told, ’e wouldn’t.’

Bourne knew something of the story, but he was not paying much attention. Very slowly, and less as a possibility than as a kind of dream, there woke in him a desire to see and explore a little of the Hun trenches again. The desire grew, fascinating him; and then faded again, as a dream might, for he knew the reality too well. They finished their rum and coffee, and walked back together to the huts.