‘What will we have?’ Lieutenant Colonel Owens asked his brigadier general.

‘Very few tanks can be provided for the attack.’ The brigadier general threw out a glance that assumed acceptance; he had no time or patience for debate. ‘So artillery will have to be relied upon to prepare the way, you understand.’

‘Yes, sir.’ In fact Lieutenant Colonel Aubrey Owens didn’t understand much nowadays. It wasn’t that he was questioning the decisions of his seniors – no, not at all; that way anarchy lay – it was more that he was wondering what the decisions were based upon. He’d had a little time to reflect since his spell in the hospital. He’d been shot right through the leg in 1917 – damned lucky, clean wound, didn’t catch an infection. Yes, damned lucky. You had to believe so. Whilst he lay in the narrow bed surrounded by men who hadn’t been so lucky and pretty nurses who really should never have had to see the things they saw every day, he found that his mind had started to cloud. One would expect clarity once one was away from the constant bombardment, the heat of the battle, but he’d been surprised to find the opposite. Confusion set in.

He’d started to wonder why he’d been so keen to join up – he couldn’t quite recall – and he couldn’t help but deliberate on when it might all end. For him and for everyone. Would that be the same time? Might he survive? He rather thought he would. He’d been lucky so far, but he didn’t understand why. Why was the man next to him taken but not him? Time after time. Everyone had their own beliefs out here. Aubrey had been saved. He was sure he was being saved for something. He just didn’t know what.

‘In the interests of surprise, we will not be able to provide a preliminary bombardment. Instead, one thousand four hundred and eighty-eight guns will fire a concentration of shots at the operation’s zero hour and then support the infantry with a creeping barrage. Three hundred machine guns will also be made available. Our objective consists of a tightly fortified zone, roughly three miles deep and twenty miles long. It’s supported by secondary trenches and various strong points.’ The brigadier general slapped a wooden ruler on the map that lay unfurled on the desk, indicating the trenches and strongholds; the ruler left an indent in the paper. Aubrey gave a sharp nod. He accepted the plan for what it was. He’d been in the field now for years, and one foot in front of the other was the only answer.

He saluted. ‘Understood, sir.’

The night before a battle was interminable. The divisions lined up in the trenches that had been dug by sappers, silent except for the hard breathing of men, the shuffle of heavy boots and the occasional clink of bayonets. Every man and boy was shoving down the dread and panic in his head and soul, trying to get a grip on horrendously strained nerves. Howard had trained himself not to think about the big things the night before a battle. He did not write letters to Vivian or his mother; he did not take communion or question God or the generals, as many of the men did. He couldn’t find the energy the night before he was expected to kill or be killed; he didn’t see the point. Instead, he focused on the moment he was in. He wallowed in the miserable reality of his physicality.