They waited for the signal that the infantry advance was to begin. Howard’s teeth jangled; his heart banged so fiercely he thought it was going to explode inside him. It was torture. They were animals: baited bears, fighting cocks, savage dogs. Then, at last – because yes, by now he wanted it – the watch hands pointed to the second that had been agreed.

‘Time!’ The company officer blew his whistle. An abrupt close-range racket broke out as trench spades were slung to rifle barrels and men equipped with hand grenades made their rush forward. They scurried out of the trench, carelessly standing on the fingers and shoulders of pals as they scrambled up and over. When he could at last lift his head above the shattered parapets and claw his way out of the trench, Howard witnessed what he’d known he would – carnage. He’d seen too many dead bodies to recoil. It was his lack of response that was most repulsive now. However, the wounded still affected him. Their wailing was sickening, because each man’s pain was fresh to that man, even if the generals had become used.

He clambered to his feet and opened his mouth to let out a ferocious, blood-curdling yell, an ancient primitive battle cry. His instincts and training dominated and he began to run through the mud and the rain. Fast, fast, fast. Arm extended, gun in hand, finger on trigger. Bang, bang. Through them – the dead, the dying, the killers, those he would kill – firing blindly forward as ordered.

The thing he had come to understand about battle was that when you were in the thick of it, it was impossible to know what was going on. The smoke from shell and gunfire was often impregnable, a dense black widow’s veil. Sometimes, like today, weather obscured vision too, but besides that, the truth was that no man could see beyond his immediate neighbourhood because no man was omnipresent or omnipotent. Each soldier’s war took place within a radius of a few yards.

Confusion ensued. The ground was churned up by shells and it was easy to slip, trip, fall, which was disastrous. Run, run, run. Howard pushed forward, losing track of time; minutes charging through gunfire and explosions had no relevance to time that might be spent doing ordinary things. His stride stretched, his muscles reached, his lungs overextended. Forward. Run. He sensed he was passing some men, that he was behind others. He knew he ought to stay in formation, but black smoke swirled all about. The uniforms were the same colour as the mud; it was hard to distinguish anything as much as ten yards about. Howard wondered how it was possible that anyone might be left alive in this quagmire, but he knew they would be. His experience had shown that people hung on and on, long past any expected level of endurance; stamina exceeded dignity, morality and credibility.

Up ahead there was a rattle of machine guns, flashes of light that might kill him. He wasn’t sure exactly where they came from – holes and hillocks, he supposed. He had sometimes wondered whether his death would come via an anonymous shot, a swift shell, or would it be drawn out, a gangrenous infection? He didn’t care at this moment. He could not indulge in speculation; he had to stay in the minute. Men to his left and right started to drop to the ground. This had happened to him in other battles; he’d learnt not to waste unnecessary time. A glance one way confirmed one dead, couldn’t say who. A glance the other saw Blake injured beyond help, his intestines spilling out on to the ground. Once, Howard had come across a man in battle with just the same injuries and had helped him the only way he knew how, by putting a bullet in his head. It would be a mercy to do the same again; no one would know in this confusion. However, Blake didn’t ask for it; he was screaming for his mammy, so Howard passed on. There wasn’t a right answer.