Clarke handed Howard a sheet of paper to read. They had got into the habit of him reading Clarke’s copy before it was sent to London. He wasn’t sure why Clarke valued his opinion, but he was flattered. Maybe the journalist needed to know that what he wrote was in some way real, accurate. Howard understood his uncertainty. It was increasingly difficult to understand the reality of what they saw. Howard was only managing to jot down the odd sentence each night; he’d thought he’d be prolific here where there was so much being felt and done but, in fact, he was frozen. His thoughts were tangled. He was at once disgusted and in awe. Whilst flattered to be included in Clarke’s process, he did not know what to make of his new friend’s approach to reporting. He admired Clarke’s ability to highlight decisive and potent details in amongst the colossal carnage. His copy was undoubtedly effective, raw and gripping, and yet Clarke did not rely on extreme use of adjectives; he refused to be sensationalist or alarmist. Howard read how the journalist described the previous night’s battle. Men even wrestled and died by drowning each other in the canal’s waters. He told the story of a huge Belgian who used his rifle like an axe and felled man after man until a bullet took him through the thigh and fetched him down. He made it sound gallant, almost clean. Of course he must. The people back home needed it to be so, but it wasn’t like that. Men wrestling each other to their deaths was filthy. Did Clarke see it? Howard saw nothing but.

The two men headed to the bar. They needed a drink. They, and everyone else, often did.

The first few weeks of Howard’s time on the Western Front had been dominated by the Battle of the Yser, a frantic, violent struggle in which the Belgian and French armies desperately tried to prevent the Germans advancing across the Yser Canal. There had been plenty for Clarke to report, but they were still operating without the correct paperwork, so he had to find ingenious ways to send his reports back to the Daily Mail without betraying his whereabouts to the authorities; overuse of the telegraph office would do just that. Usually he gave his stories to a French courier; sometimes he depended on a friendly soldier who was going on leave to England. Howard had noticed that people were inclined to do one another favours: they’d hand over a cigarette, stand another man a drink, pass on a message or post a letter. He was always struck how affable people could be. It seemed bizarre that such a stream of small considerations and kindnesses could be happening in the same time and place as men were ceaselessly blowing each other to bits.

The bar was heaving. This was where men came to sink into patchy conversation and slightly manic laughter. They got drunk, sang songs, lost money at cards and then noisily fought over it; anything to camouflage the fear. Howard ordered a carafe of red wine while Clarke busied himself finding a man to take the copy home. A private promised he’d deliver it; he was shipping out that evening for three days’ leave, ‘Thank Christ.’