He lit a cigarette and held it between his lips.

‘What happened to the boy?’ Dulcie asked.

‘He was court martialled. Sentenced to death, just like all the other deserters.’ Sam blew a steady stream of smoke up into the air. ‘Death by firing squad.’

‘And you were the one who had to shoot him?’

‘Me and a couple of others. Early in the morning, they dragged him out. His knees were knocking so much he could hardly stand up, poor kid. He was sobbing the whole time, crying for his mother. That was the last thing I saw as I raised my rifle, the tears running down his face.’ He drew hard on his cigarette. ‘I wish to God they’d never caught the poor little sod,’ he said in a low, angry voice.

Christopher, run for your life. Run, boy …

‘You were only following orders,’ Dulcie said.

‘And that makes it all right, does it?’

‘No, but—’

‘No,’ he cut her off bluntly. ‘No, it doesn’t.’ He puffed angrily on his cigarette. ‘I kept thinking about his mother and how she would feel when she got the letter saying her son was dead. Dead because of me.’ He ground out his cigarette in the ashtray, forcing it down until the stub was nothing. ‘You say it was only orders, but I was the one who pulled the trigger. I was the one who saw his face …’

Dulcie thought about his medal. For bravery in the field.

‘Is that why you saved all those men from No Man’s Land?’ she asked. ‘Because you wanted to make up for what you’d done?’

His mouth twisted. ‘You really do fancy yourself as a psychiatrist, don’t you?’ He shook his head. ‘Sorry to disappoint you, but there was nothing noble about what I did that day. The reason I kept going back, again and again, wasn’t because I wanted to save lives. It was because I wanted to die. That was why I stood in that field and let all those shells explode around me. I wanted one to hit me, to end it all. Typical, isn’t it?’ he said. ‘All those poor devils wanting to live but getting blown to pieces, and then there’s me …’ He looked disgusted.

‘You didn’t deserve to die.’

‘Neither did that boy.’

For a moment their gazes met and held. Then Sister emerged from behind the screens around bed seven, breaking the spell, and Dulcie shot automatically to her feet.

‘I’d better get on,’ she murmured.

‘You do that.’ He wasn’t looking at her anymore.

As Dulcie turned to go, she remembered something.

‘Was his name Christopher?’ she asked.

He frowned. ‘Why do you ask?’

‘That was the name you shouted in your sleep. You were telling him to run.’

Sam was silent for a while. Then he said, ‘His name was Gerrard. Private Malcolm Gerrard.’

‘Then who—’

He looked at her, his green eyes dark with anguish. ‘Christopher is my son’s name,’ he said quietly.