John smiled. ‘Thank you, sergeant,’ he said. His cigarette had burned to the end, had singed his fingertips. He threw it onto the ground. ‘Have they finished?’ He didn’t turn round.

Arthur walked away and John waited for his return.

‘Won’t be long, sir,’ Arthur said. ‘They’re having to—’

John held up his hand. ‘I know,’ he said. Collect the body parts.

‘I’ve given them my groundsheet,’ Arthur said. ‘You know, to wrap him up.’

‘That’s kind,’ John said. ‘We’ll have to be sure we get a good billet tonight then.’ He smiled. ‘No sleeping under the stars.’

‘I fancy something soft and fragrant,’ Arthur said. ‘Clean sheets. Warm bath.’

John felt the tears well from nowhere, his legs tremble. A homesickness so sudden, so acute, so all-consuming.

‘Anyway,’ Arthur went on, ‘two days later I was only promoted to sergeant, wasn’t I? Needn’t have nicked the chairs at all.’

John swallowed, smiled, and Arthur nodded.

‘It’s not my job,’ he said. ‘But when we bed down tonight, in whatever billet we’re in, I’ll get you cleaned up a bit.’

‘That’s the kindest offer I’ve ever had,’ John said. He put his hand on Arthur’s shoulder, squeezed it. ‘But I’ll clean my uniform myself.’

He turned and walked back to the truck. Private Nash’s body lay by the road, wrapped in a tarpaulin shroud. His comrades had found two fence posts and had tied them together in a rough cross which they’d laid on top of the corpse. It felt wrong to leave him. But their orders were to advance.

‘Come to think of it,’ Arthur was saying, ‘you get VD from them if you’re not careful.’

‘From whom?’ John said. The tarpaulin had fallen open at the top and John could see the top of Private Nash’s bloodied, severed head.

‘Camels,’ he said, moving close to John so John had to peer over his shoulder to see the body. ‘Well, at least, that’s what you tell the wife.’

John looked away. The dog from the square was there, running towards them. Private Nash would be happy. Bits.

‘Sir,’ Arthur said. John heard the engine start up. ‘We have to go.’

The rest of his men were already in the truck. He nodded, clambered aboard. There was blood on the bench and a line of holes where the machine gun bullets had penetrated. He stood with his back to the cab and held onto the roof bar as the truck lurched away. The dog slunk towards the body, began to sniff it, the open end with the private’s head.

‘Stop!’ John yelled. He signalled to one of the soldiers.

‘Tell the driver to stop. Now.’ The soldier banged onto the glass window of the cab and the truck drew to a sharp halt, tipping John so he stumbled for a moment.