Late that night, as he lay shivering in his tent, he wondered what he should do about it. The authorities would not be able to write and inform Mr and Mrs Tate of Hugh’s death if he had been using a false name. At least it would spare them the shame of knowing that the man they had raised as their own had died a coward’s death. Should he write and tell Cissie about Hugh’s death – would it be better to let Sunday break the news to her? Thoughts of home brought a lump to his throat and he had to blink very hard to stop the tears from falling. It seemed so very long ago since he had seen his loved ones now and he wondered if he ever would again. Was his son all right? Had Ben survived so far? The worry never left him. He had seen hundreds – maybe thousands – of young men lose their lives needlessly. The sound of the chap in the next bed coughing interrupted his thoughts. Many of the soldiers had ailments now – how could they not have, when forced to live in these atrocious conditions? But then he supposed they were the lucky ones. At least they were still alive for now – although who knew what the morning might bring?

The days wore on. It was shortly before Christmas 1915 that Tom was admitted to the field hospital. He was suffering from frostbite, and when the nurses managed to get his boot off and then soak off his sock, the smell was overwhelming.

‘Those two toes in the middle of that foot are going to have to be amputated, otherwise you could lose the whole leg,’ the doctor told him as he examined his feet. ‘Sorry, old chap, but as soon as this is done you’ll be sent home to recover on the first boat available.’

Tom grinned despite the pain. Two toes seemed a small price to pay if it meant him spending Christmas back at home.

‘Ah well, at least they’re on the lame leg,’ he said bravely as a young harassed nurse began to gently wash his feet in a bowl of warm water. It was the first time they had been out of his boots for months and the warmth seemed to be climbing up his leg. For the last two months Tom had also been helping the stretcher-bearers at the end of each day as well as tending the horses, and as he laid back against the pillows he suddenly realised how completely exhausted he was. Tom secretly thought the stretcher-bearers had the worst job of all. They would cross the field each time there was a ceasefire, collecting the dog tags from the corpses and bringing back to the hospital tent as many of the wounded as they could. For months, there had been a terrible shortage of medical supplies, and the overworked doctors and nurses were forced to do the best they could with what little they had. The worst-affected patients died, and many of the ones that were left had suffered horrific injuries.