How could he explain it anyhow? The fear, the fellowship, the slaughter, the sacrifice. She hadn’t even been to school. She had no sense of companionship or of the reliance that bordered on enslavement. She could not be expected to understand that his men were his family now. How could he tell her that whilst he knew this war was a bad business, of course, he found he was rather good at it?

It was extraordinary. He was constantly surrounded. It was a lot like school, all the officers said so. Since he was a boy of eight years old he’d bunked with peers, eaten with them, learnt, played and (in the very early days) cried with them too. They had tasted the same food: overcooked vegetables, stodgy puddings and custard. They’d smelt the same smells: dusty books, dinner halls and pre-pubescent boys sweating in the gym. Unified experience, the backbone of England. What was done, seen, heard and said as a boy made the man. They were taught to conform and fall in. It was the same in the trenches. Generally good sorts, staying sharp, doing their best. Of course there was the occasional feral character, it was to be expected. There were always those who would try to swizz. Medals handed out like gold stars, punishments dished out too, some men taking a beating in silence. Even the bullets whistling past one’s ear put him in mind of the heavy wooden chalkboard rubbers that had done the same back in cramped classrooms. The relief when it hit another boy’s head. Same with the bullets. No more or less. They drank beer now rather than milk. The parquet floors used to stretch out in front of him endlessly, corridors that led to halls and classrooms; the trenches were a similar warren. Mud, not parquet, but they went on and on in a comparable fashion. It was very familiar.

It was a grimy little secret, so messy it was never vocalised, even between those who were in on it. There were some things that were quite spectacular and singular to war, no doubt the things that had made men continue to involve themselves with carnage for thousands of years. Power, the raw and formidable displays of physical excellence, and the companionship. Of course, in no way was war a good thing, but in some respects it was better than school. No public schoolboy forgot what it was like when term ended. Parents came to pick them up for the holidays, but one or two were inevitably left behind: high commissioners’ sons, that sort of thing. It was always a beast to be the one left. Maybe that was why they tried so damn hard never to do it in battle.

He was scared. No point lying about it. Didn’t believe the blaggard who pretended otherwise. They all had little tricks to try to stop them feeling quite so afraid. Some might play an instrument; others read. It was a good idea to keep letters and reread them whilst smoking a pipe or drinking Bovril. They shared air, latrines, cigarettes. They sat thigh to thigh. There was little to say. Nothing original. Vivian sometimes sent him something: a pack of cards, a small book, recently a box of Turkish delight. He’d passed it on to his men. They fell on it like pigs trying to upturn a trough. It made him laugh! Made them laugh too. He wrote and told her they were a success. Welcome. She promised she’d look out for similar treats. Walnut toffee perhaps. Which she did. That was nice of her.