‘Of course it made a difference,’ insisted Sergeant Farrell. His tone was forced and hearty. Howard had noticed that the nurses used the same tone when talking to the patients. It was as though a wound made a man infantile. Surely the opposite was true. ‘Two or three men might live to fight another day because of your actions. Possibly more. Reports are being collated, but these things take time.’

‘Fight another day, eh?’ So it hadn’t made any difference.

As if reading his mind, Farrell added, ‘Kiss their sweethearts.’

Yes, Howard supposed it made a difference if a man got to have a woman again.

He guessed that bringing an injured lieutenant colonel back to base had helped his case. By trying to save Aubrey’s life, he had saved his own. He was once again in a position of owing Aubrey, which was perverse.

The nurse, a middle-aged, matronly type who reminded Howard of other people’s mothers – not his own – walked past and asked the sergeant to extinguish his cigarette. At least he wasn’t chewing tobacco, which was the very devil to clean up, but she held the view that smoking was unhealthy, and besides, she didn’t like these men coming into the hospital and grilling the soldiers about their actions. She didn’t care if the boy had run or walked; he could have flown for all it mattered. Her job was to get him well, and she was better able to do that if he wasn’t being constantly bothered and asked about all the horrors.

Sergeant Farrell smiled obligingly and put out the fag. He glanced about him. Sheets the colour of pigeons, not doves; scrubbed floors. Howard wondered whether he too was appreciating the relative calm and peace of the ward. Quite a holiday from the trenches. Its neatness was what Howard prized the most; that and the morphine. There was no blood bursting here; it smelt of disinfectant and polish.

‘I’m also here to tell you that unfortunately Lieutenant Colonel Owens didn’t make it, I’m afraid.’

‘Right.’

‘He was in a bad way.’

‘Yes.’ Howard thought he should have felt Owens slip off the planet. After all they’d been through. After all.

‘You did your best.’ The sergeant searched Howard carefully. Howard didn’t know how to respond and so simply nodded stiffly. He was moved. Not grief exactly. Not guilt or relief. A vicious cocktail of all three. A thought slipped through his head, nonsensical. The drugs, surely. But how would he exist now, without Aubrey Owens? How could he be, if there wasn’t the other? The sergeant’s dark eyes sought for something in Howard’s expression, and perhaps he found what he was looking for, because he added, ‘I have something for you. Found with Sergeant Bowler. They’re addressed to you, though. I imagine he was looking after them for you.’ The comment was phrased in such a way that Howard realised that the sergeant was making a request for collusion. A credible deceit that wasn’t quite honourable, but not a scandal.