There stood a war memorial. A fat obelisk made of slate. He ran his hands over the names etched on it and then stood back. Leaves had collected at the bottom, and were now billowed by the breeze. More accumulated as he watched.

He knew none of the men on the plaque. Or if he had he’d forgotten them. Weymouth’s name wouldn’t be there. He hadn’t been a Newbury boy. The leaves kept sliding. If he blurred his eyes they appeared a tubby snake, dozing in the sun. He knelt down and shuffled them away with his hands.

The three of them surrounded by jungle, scooping beans from tins. Vernon seated next to Kelly, Kelly next to Weymouth. Their maws not having been filled in a day. The spoons were quick, up and down. The men were dressed in their army greens, all of them coated heavy in mud. Their hats held together with rope.

He hated this place. The different trees, the way they snaked out of the ground. The sky always that duller shade of blue. What he hated most: this wasn’t home. The beans were cold. He hated that too.

‘This bloody place,’ he said. Same thing he’d heard repeated a thousand times by a thousand men.

Kelly, with a face full of beans, said, ‘Could be worse.’

‘You’re a hopeful sod, aren’t you?’

He knew of Kelly’s intent to attend a seminary, get his degree in theology. Had known it since high school. Seemed so long ago. Was only last year. Still didn’t understand it. He found his friend’s unrelenting cheeriness both annoying and inspiring. Like God spoke to him and nobody else. Vernon hadn’t felt inspired by it since they’d landed here. Hard to feel hope in the middle of Hell.

When Kelly said nothing, Vernon added, ‘What about you, Weymouth? You a believer?’

Weymouth swallowed his mouthful. Grinned. In the setting sun his teeth like beans themselves.

‘Hate him.’

‘Who, God?’

‘Yeah. Him.’

Vernon watched Kelly’s eyes dart. His chomping slowed. He was considering his moves. Strange, the glee Vernon felt. He wanted to get this bloke Weymouth to dent a hole in Kelly’s faith. As though in so doing he’d be vindicated in his doubt.

‘You can’t hate God,’ Kelly said.

‘Sure I can. I do.’

‘Why?’

Weymouth looked at him. ‘You want to save me, mate?’

‘Just curious.’

‘Yeah, you do,’ he said. He put his empty tin down and leaned back, his arms behind his head like he was lounging on a chair. ‘It’s alright. I admire it, really.’

In front of them the camp was in swing. Eating, napping, staring, moving about. The sun shimmering heat.

‘I reckon,’ Weymouth said, ‘I hate God because of what he did to my dad. My dad believed right up till he died. We had this place in the city and he couldn’t make a go of it. Had a string of jobs. Just kept failing. I used to come home sometimes from school and find him sitting in a chair, just staring at the walls, the cat on his lap. We only had a couple of rooms and so you couldn’t miss him. I used to just let him be. When Mum came home she’d shake him till he came to. Anyway. Came home one day, found him dead. He’d hung himself. From the wooden beams. Just hanging there. As still as he’d always been in the chair only now he was upright. And beside him was the cat strung up. Dead like him. He’d taken the time before he offed himself to do the cat. He’d used one of his neck ties. The little thing. He would have had to hold it tight, with it scratching at him. Choking it dead. Its little paws. Hated that mongrel thing, always scratching.’