“God bless Mater and all who sail in her.”

Wilkinson yawned widely.

“Heavens,” said Francis. “Where have our manners gone? Your veneer of civilization is wearing frightfully thin, old thing.”

The expletive with which Wilkinson replied was censored by the boom of the guns behind.

“I can’t hear myself think,” mouthed Will.

“Go in for much of that sort of thing, do you?”

Second Lieutenant Rose came into the bay with his hands over his ears. “Is this a cozy family reunion?” he shouted. There were shadows under his eyes, Harry saw. He didn’t look like he’d had any sleep either.

“We had a parcel,” said Will in between the guns.

“She sent me film. Two boxes.” Francis smiled.

“Splendid,” said the lieutenant. “Not achingly picturesque here, though, is it? Not quite the scenic bosky glade?”

“If we put in a complaint do we get our money back?”

The woods through which the trenches ran were considerably smashed. With, seemingly, the majority of the Allied artillery positioned just behind, there was much coming in and falling short. Guns of every caliber bellowed over their heads. The woods were all mud and broken branches. There was a terrible eloquence to the crude blackened trunks that surrounded them, Harry thought. The trench was cut through tree roots, several inches deep in earthy-smelling water, and something about the torn roots struck Harry as a particularly horrible act of violence.

“The sea view is criminally exaggerated,” critiqued Will, “and the catering leaves much to be desired.”

“I shan’t be leaving a tip,” put in Wilkinson.

“I think we already have,” said Harry. He watched the surface of his tea pulse with the rumble of the artillery. It tasted more of petrol than of tea, but it at least thawed his fingers. If only he could soak his feet in a vat of it.

Francis took off his waterproof cape. Shaken-off water glittered. “I’m not sure whether this thing is keeping the damp off or in.”

“Watch out,” said Wilkinson, protesting with the newspaper.

“On the catering front, I’d pace myself, if I were you chaps.” Rose waved a stick at the remains of the cake. “Might find that the hospitality arrangements are a little disrupted for the foreseeable.”

“Is the buffet off?”

“Exceedingly. Here.” Rose produced a tin can from his pocket, looked at the label, and threw it toward them.

Francis caught the can. “Pilchards in tomato sauce? Much obliged, sir.”

“More of a tinned-salmon man myself, but my sister seems to have invested in a whole shoal of ruddy sardines. Well-meaning, you know, but still—”

“What is the foreseeable?” asked Will. “Do we know how long we’re going to be here?”