He stirred in his seat, then looked Redfyre in the eye. “I know what you’re fishing for. You need to know which of us has been cutting a swathe through your peaceful town and why. We’re all trained killers, but you need to know which of us was capable of murder. What you’re interested in is the mental makeup of the men in my small unit, including myself.” He smiled. “At that time, a subject of intense interest to me as well! Life and death were riding on the quality of the men I had been handed to lead. So if you’re thinking chocolate consumption is any indicator of character—intriguing idea!—I’ll declare: out of the six of us, four were normal guzzlers. Empty tins in packs by the time we started out. Ratty Merriman and Ernest Jessup had eaten theirs by the end of day one. Abel Hardy and I rationed ours a little better. It was the two privates who showed restraint. Herbert? No idea why. It could have been as simple as a concern not to open a Christmas present before Christmas Day. He came from a clean-living Methodist family, and apart from continually breaking the Sixth Commandment, he followed a stringent moral code. Sydney? Hard to say. He made a big stir about keeping his tin intact to take it home and present it to his mother. You got a lot of respect for expressing that sort of piety in the army at that time. We all supported him. Sydney’s mum’s tin was sacrosanct. Being less gullible—very well, being cynical—it was my thought that he was doing what some ghastly kids do—hanging on to his share until everyone had eaten theirs and then he’d produce it, eat it slowly and gloat. I still think I had it right. Still, we all were very grateful for Herbert’s gesture. In a strange way, it bonded the company. For a while.

“Was it good? The chocolate.” Redfyre asked. He knew the query would cause no offence. Tastes and smells—the pleasant ones—were precious to the fighting man, and sometimes these were the memories he carried with him the longest. And were the easiest to talk about. His own most personal letters to his aunt Hetty during the last war had been triggered by such moments—the scent of rabbit roasting over a campfire, the unexpected sight of a flower—a single snowdrop standing proudly in the middle of a sea of mud.