‘You’re not taking care of yourself, son,’ added Clarke. He didn’t usually refer to Howard in that way. There was an age gap, but both of them had been careful not to refer to it. Clarke didn’t want to feel old, Howard didn’t want to feel young. ‘To tell the truth, I’m a bit worried about you.’

Howard had found that it had become more difficult to enjoy food of late. Here in Dunkirk it was still possible to sit in a restaurant with a tablecloth and shining cutlery, to be served a juicy pork chop with green beans, even a butter sauce, but the food had lost its taste. It was a chore to chew; each mouthful was bitter with guilt. He didn’t sleep well because he observed and listened to the battles. Purple sacks had bloomed under his previously much-commented-upon clear blue eyes; eyes that were now hooded with heavy, tired lids. Perhaps he wasn’t paying as much attention to personal grooming as he used to. He hadn’t shaved for a week or so; he didn’t have time to bathe but made do with quick wash-downs with a sponge. He saw it as a waste of time, preferring to be out on the streets giving wounded men cups of water.

The men at the Front weren’t eating well or sleeping on beds. If they wanted to bathe, they had to fill a tub with cold water and then heat bricks in a fire. The hot bricks were dropped into the tub until the water became at least tepid, then they queued for a turn. Naked and exposed but delighted at the opportunity to douse their lice-ridden bodies for ten minutes or so. Howard’s heart stretched between pathos and admiration. He wasn’t deliberately neglecting himself; it was just the basics had become unseemly luxuries in his mind.

‘How old are you, Howard?’

‘I’m twenty-one.’

‘You’ve seen a lot for one so young.’

He shrugged. ‘There are men out there dying who are younger than I am.’

‘That’s my point. This can’t be easy. You know, the peculiar thing is, when I met you in London, I pegged you at twenty-five or six.’ He’d been assured in London. Popular and following a career that amounted to a calling, his certainty had made him carefree; he’d had the confidence of an older man. Now, nothing was certain. He was stripped and out of his depth. He looked like a boy.

‘I feel older than ever.’ Older than anyone who had ever lived.

‘Yes, we all do.’ Clarke didn’t mean it as a challenge, far from it. He wanted to see the boy far away and safe, but Howard felt spiked.

‘I’m staying,’ he declared defiantly. ‘I don’t want to hear about the boat.’

Clarke nodded, lifted his glass and made a toast. ‘A bold decision.’

Another bold decision finally turned the Battle of the Yser in favour of the Allies. The Belgians daringly decided to open the canal locks at Nieuwpoort and flood the German trenches. Large areas of Belgian countryside were deluged, fields of precious corn, standing proud against the blue-black outline of a church, sunk under a blanket of water. The German soldiers slipped and sloshed in the mud. They had no choice: they would either drown or they must launch an all-out assault on the Belgian trenches, trenches that were on higher ground.