“At the trial in Pretoria. Where we suffered the faked accusation of looting and the hiding of stolen goods in my locker and those of all the other five who’d been in that reconnaissance unit. A scurrilous affair from start to finish. I know who finished it—their sententious, pious judging faces, mostly dead by now, are always with me. But who started it? Which ill-wisher, which Judas, planted the stolen goods on the six of us and the information with the top brass? We all had our own theory. And the time to think about it. The whole lot of us went down for four years. But you know this. You’ve checked my records?”

Redfyre nodded. “Your old regiment were very helpful. And concerned. Like family, you may try to escape them, feel embarrassed for them, but they don’t forget you. You may remember a General Whitcliffe? He remembers you, Dunne. With, I’d say, respect and affection.”

Dunne fell silent for a moment and decided not to comment. The Book of Commendation was closed to him, apparently forever. “We were sent to different prison squads—quite deliberately, I’d guess, to prevent recrimination and revenge killings breaking out, and we didn’t see one another again during our time in South Africa. It was rumoured that Syd had gotten himself let off in some sort of deal by threatening to go to the press with his story. I can’t say I blame him. The newshounds would have leapt on it. There were packs of them still on the spot, digging up any filth they could: Youngster risking his life on Her Majesty’s service, led astray at worst, innocently involved at best by his older comrades . . . it certainly had Daily Herald appeal. I suppose someone saw sense in the end, because Syd hopped off back to Blighty to help out his father in the shop. His two older brothers who should have inherited had died, and the now-experienced soldier and man of the world was recalled to be the sole stay and support of his old pa. So, word is that Syd slipped on his apron and spent the rest of his days slicing bacon and being polite to housewives. It’s still there, the corner shop. I went to visit one day and got slung out by a smart young lass for scrounging. I just hope Syd managed to keep his sticky little fingers off the chocolate. History hasn’t recorded what his old ma thought of her empty tin.