Clarke pointed to a soldier sitting on the floor outside the doors of the clearing station. There were almost a hundred men awaiting treatment, their wounds distinct and obvious. Heads were bandaged; they lay on stretchers or wore slings. ‘Look at that man. What’s wrong with him?’ Clarke enquired. Howard tended to know more about anything medical because he spent as much of his time as he could helping the nurses and stretcher-bearers. The man in question was shaking, a quivering wreck. Every inch of his body trembled, including his eyes, which seemed to dash around his skull as though they were trying to escape. His mouth hung open.

‘They are calling it shell shock.’

‘But the generals are saying there’s no such thing.’

‘Of course they are. They think this war is a good idea,’ spat Howard.

‘I see your point. He’s certainly not sensible.’

‘No.’

‘Completely out of his wits.’

‘It looks that way, and who can blame him.’

‘It seems genuine enough to me. Should we go and talk to him?’

‘It won’t help. He can’t speak.’

‘I can’t see any facial injury.’

‘He has a tongue; it’s his nerves that have been blown to smithereens. He can’t make sense. I talked to the men who brought him in.’

‘And?’

‘He lay in a caved-in shell hole for six days, trapped, with nothing to eat. The hole was filled with water, and in that water lay the decaying body of his best friend. He had to drink the water to stay alive. Pleasant, isn’t it?’

‘Good God.’

There was something more important that Howard needed Clarke to know. ‘But that’s not the story.’

‘It isn’t?’

‘The generals are calling for these lads to be court-martialled and shot for faking injury. Fucking animals.’

‘Steady there, son. Steady.’ Clarke glanced around.

Howard glowered. He didn’t understand Clarke’s calm; they’d seen the same things. The older man placed his hand on Howard’s arm, a conciliatory gesture. Human contact was rare and therefore disproportionately appreciated. Howard tried to breathe in and out, remain calm. He had begun to hate the generals, who to his mind at least were indistinguishable and interchangeable, physically and mentally. They were all in their fifties; they had heavy square jaws and ruddy faces, small, stern, searching eyes and closely cropped white hair. They all had neat moustaches that made him think of toothbrushes; they oozed self-belief and stupidity.

‘What’s your view?’ Clarke probed gently.

‘They are calling them cowards, saying it affects the smaller, nervous types the most. Making the sufferers feel emasculated and ashamed on top of everything else. After all this.’ He threw his arms in the air and gestured around. ‘After all they’ve been through. But look at him. He’s an ox. Illness doesn’t segregate, and shell shock is an illness. Last week I saw a case where a man clawed at his own mouth so severely he made himself bleed. His eyes were livid with horror. No one could fake that. I’ve worked with professional actors. These men are not cowards; they are wrecks. They’ve seen too much and something in them has snapped. No doctor will ever be able to mend such a man. You should write about it.’