‘Don’t mind him,’ she said. He opened his eyes. ‘And his so-called bedside manner.’ She leaned over, adjusted his pillows. ‘Get some rest. The ambulance will be here in due course.’

‘Where are they taking me?’

‘To the American army hospital in Munich,’ she said. ‘Then one of our field hospitals.’ Adding with a soft, low voice, ‘I’ve seen this before. Push for a rehabilitation hospital, like the one at Mill Hill. And a job back at base. Aw, pet. You’re awfully young. And what’s going on here…’ She tilted her head towards the door and the courtroom beyond it. ‘That’s too much for a lad. Too much for anyone.’

He pushed himself up on his elbow, fell back, yelping with pain.

§

Effort syndrome. That’s what the doctor diagnosed. Soldier’s Heart. War Neurosis. The Mill Hill Emergency Hospital had closed, so it had to be the Maudsley. It was his old CO, Major Buchanan, who stepped in.

‘Just had a chat with your father,’ he said. ‘Brigadier Harris, DCO.’ As if John needed to be reminded who his father was. He could imagine the conversation. Can’t let the boy have that stigma. Mental instability. Dog him all his life.

‘And the War Office,’ the major added. He pulled a chair close to John’s and leaned towards him.

‘You could spend the rest of your time in the army weaving baskets in the Maudsley,’ he said. ‘Or twiddling your thumbs in Düsseldorf. Either way, it’s a waste of your talents.’ He pulled out a packet of Senior Service and offered them to John.

‘Thank you, sir,’ John said, leaning forward to take the cigarette, wincing as his bruised flesh stretched. He took a deep breath, savouring the nicotine inside his lungs, filtering into his blood, coursing around his body. It was the first cigarette of the day, made him light-headed. He exhaled.

Major Buchanan twisted his nostril to one side. ‘Bally good interpreter, that’s what I said. Damned clever at translation and what have you.’

‘Thank you, sir,’ John said, again.

‘So I’ve asked for you,’ he said.

John reached over for an ashtray, suppressing a yelp. ‘Asked for me?’

‘My man isn’t a patch on you,’ he said. ‘I’ve put in a request for your transfer. Base duties, I’m afraid, but I don’t suppose you’d mind that, eh?’

John smiled, though he was unsure what the major was suggesting.

‘Translating.’ He smiled, went on. ‘You won’t be counting the dead again, or staring at lampshades made from human skin.’

John coughed, the ash from the cigarette settling on his trousers. He brushed it away. ‘You’ve lost me, sir,’ he said. ‘Translating what?’