The sergeant knocked on the makeshift door, waited for the command to enter and then pushed back the gas curtain, trailing Howard behind like the spoils from a day’s hunting. The officers certainly fared better than the men, but it wasn’t a luxurious billet. The place smelt of paraffin and pipe smoke, with the constant undertone of damp earth. There were two bunks, a table and three or four chairs, all wooden. The gin bottle, tin cups, candlesticks and scattering of books did little to make the place look anything other than crude. There were two tin bowls on the floor, placed to catch leaks. Officers or not, rainwater still got in. Vermin too, by the look of the food bags that were hanging on ropes from the ceiling like bodies.

Major Owens was standing by the table, his back ramrod; he didn’t offer a greeting or make any small talk.

‘I have a letter here, Private, your letter. It’s addressed to my wife. Sergeant Bowler brought it to my attention.’ He pointed to the table. The letter had been opened. The thin paper shivered slightly; a draught was coming in despite the gas curtain.

Howard had known it would be read. Everyone had to be censored, most of all a troublesome conchie. That had been one of the many constraints he’d felt when writing it. However, he hadn’t written anything that was against military law. Strictly speaking, his post ought to have been sent unhindered. However, his relationship with Vivian was inhibited. He met Aubrey’s eyes.

‘Yes, sir.’

‘I’ve read it and I understand it is farm business. You worked on my farm for some months this summer, didn’t you, Private.’ An assertion, not a question. Perhaps for the sergeant’s benefit. Owens’ eyes were black and fierce. Howard might have shrugged off the threat they held, but there was the slightest quiver in his moustache; not even a tremble, just a fraction of something. It was almost possible to imagine it wasn’t there.

Vulnerability.

Howard didn’t know how to answer. What was the honourable thing to do? He wanted to say boldly that she was his; he was writing to Vivian because she was his now. His eyes shifted to the sergeant. He was staring ahead, trying not to seem interested in the matter, yet everything in his stance, from the way he threw back his shoulders to the way he jutted out his chin, suggested he patently was. So the men didn’t like the sergeant and he didn’t like his men; this exchange suggested he didn’t like his senior officer either. He was a skinny, miserable sort of man who seemed to have only one pleasure in life: causing trouble for others. Howard sighed. How was it possible that such petty dislike and small-mindedness managed to thrive even out here?

Howard’s head continued to operate, although he was doing his level best to close down his heart. He was beginning to reluctantly form an opinion of the sergeant, reluctant because he didn’t want to get involved. He didn’t want to be one of the men who pronounced Bowler unpopular. Falling in with other men’s opinions had never been his strong suit, but besides that, connections caused pain. He’d buried three men this morning, or at least most of them; bits of bodies, bones, uniform, cobbled-together men. You’d think the bastard sergeant might have more to think about than this letter.