The chaplain had barely mentioned God. There was no “nobility,” no “rightness” or “justice” or “sacrifice.” He talked about having trained with them, about Morecambe and Masham and Salisbury Plain. He talked about the space that they would leave. His voice faltered through the psalm. “‘I will lift up mine eyes unto the hills,’” he spoke. “‘From whence cometh my help?’”

They had been sewn into their own blankets. Harry had cursed at, and been amazed by, his brother’s deadweight. Will’s name was pronounced and a mute, crude shape that was, and was not, him slumped into the earth. They had all taken up handfuls of soil and thrown them in, only Francis hadn’t seemed able to release his. He gripped the dirt as the chaplain spoke the words of the committal. Harry stared at his brother’s tensed hand. “Lord, give him peace,” the chaplain spoke. Francis stared at the earth in his fist.

They had taken up their spades and filled it over. Fragments of brick and chalk weighed down the soil. When it was done the burial party scraped the blades of their spades until they gleamed bright again. There was care in that act.

Harry wondered if it was wrong of him to have minded that the symmetry of the crosses was not quite true. Were his priorities misplaced that he even noticed? They leaned on their spades. It didn’t seem quite real that he had just buried William. He didn’t quite feel as if he were in his own body. It was like looking at the actions of a different man.

He looked across at Francis. “One of us needs to write home. One of us needs to tell her.” Rose had given Francis a bottle of whiskey and he was progressing through it rapidly.

“You’re better with words than me.”

“In the circumstances, I can’t say that I’m grateful to you for that.”

“Write what you want. However nicely you phrase it, it’s the same. He’s dead. She’s lost a son. How can words make that any better?”

“We shouldn’t have to write it,” said Harry. “It’s not something that should be put in a letter.” With the prospect of fathoming a way to put it down on paper, imagining his mother opening that letter, he wished that Francis would pass the whiskey bottle.

“They’ll send a telegram anyway.”

“It’s not how she ought to find out. Can you imagine it?”

Francis shrugged. “If it had been me, would you write to Edie?”

“Of course.”

“Darling Edie. Guess what?” Francis laughed sourly. “How inconvenient. How disappointing for you that it’s not the case.”

“By which you mean?”

“You’d be in there before I was cold.”