‘Them bloody chaps ’ave a cushy job,’ said little Martlow with resentful envy. ‘Just fly over the line, take a peek at ol’ Fritz, and as soon as a bit o’ shrapnel comes their way, fuck off ’ome jildy, toot sweet.’

He was sprawling beside Shem and Bourne, to whom he had attached himself for the moment. Having no particular chum, he was everybody’s friend; and being full of pluck, cheekiness, and gaiety, he made his way very cheerfully in a somewhat hazardous world. Shem was talking to him; but Bourne was occupied with other matters, and seemed to be interested in the movements of regimental-sergeant-major Hope, who was at the other end of the camp.

He was interested for many reasons. At roll-call it was found that there were thirty-three men left in the company, but probably many of those absent were not severely wounded. Bourne only knew a few of the men outside his own section by name; and the only two men belonging to it whom he had actually seen wounded were Caswell and Orgee, during the last stage of the attack near the station, when they had been brought down by a machine-gun. They had crawled into shelter, and eventually a stretcher-bearer had helped them. Caswell had been hit in the upper part of the chest; and Orgee in the cheek, the bullet knocking out some teeth and breaking part of the lower jaw. Some men by him had been hurt by splinters before they went over the top. One of them, Bridgenorth, had only been slightly hurt, and had subsequently gone over the top with them, but later in the day, having been hit again, went back with some walking wounded.

It was a long business. They had gauged the extent of the losses suffered by the company as soon as they went on parade. Name after name was called, and in many cases no particulars were available. Then for a moment the general sense of loss would become focused on one individual name, while some meagre details would be given by witnesses of the man’s fate; and after that he, too, faded into the past. Behind Bourne was a big stevedore from Liverpool, though he was of Cockney origin; a man called Pike, a rough, hard-bitten character, with a good heart.

‘Redmain’ was the name called out; and as at first there was no reply, it was repeated. ‘Has anyone seen anything of Redmain?’

‘Yes, sir,’ cried Pike, with sullen anger in his voice. ‘The poor bastard’s dead, sir.’

‘Are you sure of that, Pike?’ Captain Malet asked him quietly, ignoring everything but the question of fact. ‘I mean are you sure the man you saw was Redmain?’

‘I saw ’im, sir; ’e were just blown to buggery,’ said Pike, with a feeling that was almost brutal in its directness, ‘’e were a chum o’ mine, sir, an’ I seen ’im blown into fuckin’ bits. ’e got it just before we got to their first line, sir.’