Francis was on the other side of Pembridge. He was struggling forward with the rest of them, his feet moving, his eyes on the rise ahead. The aircraft seemed to come in from nowhere. It swooped low overhead, spraying bullets along the line. Harry toppled forward, his cheek in the cold mud. A shell hit just ahead of him, hurling it all up and leaving behind a smoking crater. He felt the earth jolt and got to his feet. He saw that Summerfield hadn’t. His hand was outstretched and the glass of his wristwatch was smashed. Francis was standing perfectly still, just watching the sky.

It all came in as they crested the rise. It slammed in. Machine gun fire was coming from the front and behind the railway lines over to the right. Harry was on the ground again, Pembridge flattening himself at his side.

“Jesus wept,” said the older man. “Are we meant to go on into that? How are we meant to go into that?”

When Harry looked across at him his lips were trembling. Beyond Pembridge he could see that Francis was still standing. He wanted to leap over Pembridge and grab Francis, but then Corporal Allan was dragging them both to their feet. “On, not back,” he said unsteadily. To the left Harry could see Captain Rose on all fours, teeth and blood spilling out of his mouth.

They ran forward at a crouch, but suddenly Pembridge was pitching back. Harry looked over his shoulder and saw his empty, broken face.

Lieutenant O’Kane was shouting to the right. “Our right flank is completely up in the air,” he protested, but then he was falling, holding red hands to his chest.

Harry stumbled into a shell hole and let his legs slide down. Rifle fire was coming from the left now as well. It seemed to be all around them—and so few of them suddenly seemed to be moving on. Water splashed behind and he turned to see Francis. He staggered forward and lay down at Harry’s side. Above the noise of the artillery and the machine gun fire he could hear Francis panting. For a moment he remembered them having races by the reservoir and then Francis there next to him on the grass, chest heaving and grinning. Francis’s grin seemed like a long time ago. He touched his brother’s shoulder and he turned his head toward Harry. There was mud on his face. He pulled back his lips and showed his teeth, but it was more of a grimace than a grin. His lips were cracked and trembling. His eyelids fluttered. His breath was hot and sour and whistled through his lips.