“I want you to do the runes. Tell my fortune,” said Weir. Stephen smiled at him. “You’re a hopeless devil, aren’t you? He wants me to tell him he’s going to survive,” he said to Ellis, who was watching from the bunk.

“Go on,” said Weir. “Don’t pretend you don’t believe in it. It was you who introduced me to it.”

Stephen stood up and walked to the gas curtain that hung over the entrance to the dugout. “Riley,” he shouted. “Get me a rat.” While they waited, Stephen took a pack of cards from the wooden shelf by the door, some stubs of candle, and some sand. He made the shape of a pentangle on the table, placing several cards face down and linking them with trails of sand. He lit the candles and placed them at five equidistant points. He could feel Ellis’s eyes boring into him from behind.

“This is voodoo I invented to pass the long hours. Weir likes it. It makes him feel that somebody cares about him. It’s better to have a malign providence than an indifferent one.”

Ellis said nothing. He could not understand the relationship between the two men. The captain from the tunnel appeared to be always on the point of collapse while his own senior officer, Wraysford, seemed so calm that he was capable of being cruel to Weir, of saying anything without the other man protesting. Weir came shaking to the dugout for whisky and reassurance; he apparently depended on Wraysford’s coldness. Yet on occasions, late at night, Ellis had had the impression that there was another aspect to the men’s surly friendship. He looked down and saw Wraysford’s sunken eyes, black in the candlelight, and they seemed to be fastened on to Weir’s nervous conversation; they were locked on to Weir as though he depended on him for some quality he lacked. It was almost, Ellis once thought, as if he really cared for him.

Riley came in carrying a rat by its tail. “Coker got him, sir. The cheese on the bayonet trick.”

Ellis looked at Riley with distaste. He was a very smart little man, always perfectly turned out. Ellis admired this in him, but found him obsequious and inclined to break the rules.

“Have a drink, Riley,” said Stephen. “Have some of this chocolate.” Riley hesitated under Ellis’s gaze but accepted.

“Ellis?” said Stephen. “You going to risk a drink tonight? We wouldn’t have to carry you to bed. You could just lie there.”

Ellis shook his head. The shellfire was starting up outside. He could not yet distinguish between the howitzers and the guns, between the different sizes of the enemy artillery. He had studied the effects of shell blast in training, however. He had seen the destructive powers demonstrated on maps and on prepared ranges; he had drawn diagrams of the conical delivery of shrapnel and compacted blast of mortar. What he had not seen until the week before was the explosive effect on soft tissue, on the pink skin of two privates in his platoon who had been gathered up into a single sandbag by one of the others: he had watched the small joints of meat being dropped into the bag. When he heard the sounds of shellfire again he began to worry. The start he felt when the explosion went off was bearable; it was like a wave breaking, noisy but brief. Worse than that was the undertow of fear as the sound retreated. It seemed to suck and draw at him, leaving him a little weaker every time.

“They know what they’re aiming at tonight all right,” said Riley. “They’ve had planes over all week apparently.”

Stephen did not look up from the table. “Turn the lantern off now,” he said.

“He likes this bit,” he said to Ellis. “It makes him feel afraid.” He placed a small wooden figure he had carved in the middle of the pattern on the table. Its rough shape was caught by the flickering light of the candle flame. From his pocket he took a knife with a single, carefully sharpened blade. He sank it into the rat’s chest, between the forefeet, and dragged it down. He held the rat in his other hand and shook out the guts on to the table.

Weir, despite everything he had seen, was fascinated. The pile of spleen and liver lay greenish-red and warm in the sandy grain of the wood. Stephen stuck the knife into the cavity again and scraped out what remained. Weir leaned over the table and examined it.

“What does it mean?” he said.

Stephen laughed. “How should I know? It’s just a dead rat. Is that the bowel there? Yes, I think so. It’s been eating… What’s that? Is it flesh?”

“What was the name of those two men in your platoon?” said Weir.

“For Christ’s sake,” said Ellis. “This is disgusting. I’m going out. You should be ashamed of yourselves. This is what the bloody ignorant men do. You should be setting an example.”

“Who to?” said Stephen. “You?”

Ellis got off his bunk and stood up. Stephen pushed him back. “Sit down and watch.” Ellis perched reluctantly on the edge of the bed.

Stephen poked his knife into the guts. “The reasing is doubtful,” he said. “It suggests a sound future provided you have nothing to do with women or with priests. If you do, then you could encounter problems.”

“What card is a priest?”

“A ten,” said Stephen. “Ten for the ten commandments. Queen is a woman.”

“And what should I hope for?”

Stephen pushed the knife into the mess on the table. “Peace. Even numbers. And your own number–four. You were born in April, weren’t you?”

“Yes.”

“I’m going to turn the cards over now,” said Stephen. He inserted the tip of the knife under the card nearest him and flipped it over. It was an eight. “Good,” he said. The next was the four of hearts. Weir looked delighted. Stephen levered the next card slowly up. It was the two of clubs. “I think the Man Upstairs is on your side, Weir,” he said. The fourth card was the ace of hearts. “Peace,” said Stephen.

“The ace represents power and stability. This is the best horoscope you could have.” He reached out his knife for the final card and flipped it over with a flourish. It was the four of diamonds.

“You fixed it,” said Weir in a voice that hoped for a denial. Stephen shook his head.

“You knew what cards were on the table and you just made it up that that was what I needed.”

“Did you see me fix the pack?”

“No, but it’s obvious you did.”

“I don’t know why you make me go through this absurd performance if you’re not going to believe the results. Does Coker want his rat back, Riley?”

“I doubt it, sir.”

“You’d better get back. I’ll clear this up. Light the lantern on the way out, will you?”

There was a long silence after Riley left. Ellis took up his book and lit another cigarette. Weir stared at the tracks of the sand on the table as though mesmerized.

“Why are you so anxious to survive?” said Stephen.

“God knows,” said Weir. “It’s all I have, my life. In these conditions you just want to hold on to it. Perhaps I will do something with it later, perhaps it will all come clear.”

Stephen scrubbed the top of the table with a brush and a bucket the previous occupants had left behind. He felt vaguely ashamed.

Ellis looked down from his bed. “Most people in this war want to survive so that we can win it. We are fighting for our country.”

Weir looked up wide-eyed in the light of the relit lantern. Somehow he had managed to smear rat’s blood on his cheek. His mouth hung open incredulously. Stephen smiled.

“Well?” said Ellis. “Don’t you agree? That’s what we are fighting for, isn’t it? That’s why we tolerate it when we see those brave men suffer and die. We know they’ve done it for a good cause.”

Stephen said, “I went out on patrol the other day with a boy in your platoon, Ellis, and he was smoking some cigarettes called ‘Golden Future.’ Where did he get those from? They smelt like the stables in summer.”

“They come up with the rations,” said Ellis. “They have some very inventive names. ‘Glory Boys,’

‘Rough Riders.’ But you haven’t answered my question.”

Stephen poured more whisky. He seldom drank more than two glasses, unless it was to keep Weir company. This night he had already drunk half a bottle. Perhaps it was merely to irritate Ellis. He could feel his tongue lying heavy in his mouth; his jaw had gone soft, so the words were difficult to frame.

“Weir, you love the place, don’t you?”

“I thought it stank when I went on leave,” said Weir. “Those fat pigs lave got no idea what lives are led for them. I wish a great bombardment would smash down along Piccadilly into Whitehall and kill the whole lot them.”

“Even your family?”

“Particularly my family. Particularly them. I tried to explain to them what it was like and do you know, my father was bored. He was actually bored with the whole thing. I would especially like a five-day bombardment on their street. And on the people who went on strike for more money in the factories when we were dying on a shilling a day.” Weir’s voice was shaking. “I would like to see them all walk into the enemy guns long thin lines. For one shilling.” Saliva ran down his chin. “What about you?” said Ellis to Stephen. “Are you as embittered as this man?” Stephen had a false eloquence lent by drink; it could have led him to adopt any opinion with fluency. He said, “I can’t remember the country. Should we fight for fields and hedges and trees? Perhaps we should. Perhaps if they’re filled with the affections that people have brought to them, then they are worth dying for. And the mill towns where I used to visit factories, those sloping streets, and London with its docks and buildings–perhaps those bits of stone and mortar are worth more than the enemy’s bits of brick, in Hamburg or Munich. Perhaps if the fields and hills have been loved by enough people we should lie down and be killed for them, “We should just let the bullets and the shells dismember us so that the green hills are undisturbed.”

“Are you saying the land itself is worth more than the people and our way of life?” said Ellis.

“No.”

“Then what are you fighting for?”

Stephen said, “If I am fighting on behalf of anyone, I think it is for those who have died. Not for the living at home. For the dead, over here. Wilkinson, Reeves, and his brother, who disappeared. Disappeared into nothing. Byrne, caught on the wire. I am fighting for him.” His voice thickened and he clenched his fists. “And all those others. I knew them. Studd and what-was-his-name, the fair-haired man with him, they were always together. Christ, I can’t even remember his name.” Weir said, “Don’t worry about it. As long as you know who the men are now.”

“Yes, I do, of course I do. That platoon still exists in some way. Petrossian and… Brennan, of course. And the new men. There’s one called Goddard. There’s Barlow and Coker. And lots of others. They’re all right. What was Brennan’s friend called? He bled so much. Douglas. You don’t lose so many underground.”

“We’ve lost our fair share. Tyson at Beaumont-Hamel as well as the people in the tunnels. But I’m not going to die.”

Weir’s eyes took on a blue gleam as the night progressed, ignited by hope and intoxication. What remained of his hair stuck out above his ears in thin, fair wisps. His voice rose higher in his excitement.

“And don’t look so skeptical. Don’t tell me you never believed in any sort of magic power,” he said.

Stephen was drunk enough to be confessional. His temporary fluency had gone, but was replaced by honesty. “I used to when I was a boy. We used to try to raise dead spirits. I tried to find fortune-tellers at fairs. I wanted to believe that I had some important destiny. I wanted to have a make-believe world because I couldn’t bear to live in the real one.”

The dugout shook with the impact of a nearby shell.

Weir looked surprised. “Even then?”

“Gray told me one day when I was in hospital that this was quite common among children who had… what was his phrase? ‘Had the normal magic of their childhood taken from them’… something like that.”

“What the hell does Gray know about it?”

“One of his Austrian doctors told him.”

Ellis, who was still listening from his bed, said, “What happened when you were wounded?”

“I began to believe in something.”

“In what?”

Stephen rested his chin on his hands. His speech was slurred, with long silences as he struggled to shape his thoughts. In the spaces between the words there was a screaming of shells. “I heard a voice. There was something beyond me. All my life I had lived on the presumption that there was no existence beyond… flesh, the moment of being alive… then nothing. I had searched in superstition… ” He waved his hand. “Rats. But there was nothing. Then I heard the sound of my own life leaving me. It was so… tender. I regretted that I had paid it no attention. Then I believed in the wisdom of what other men had found before me… I saw that those simple things might be true… I never wanted to believe in them because it was better to fight my own battle.” With a burst of fluency, he said, “You can believe in something without compromising the burden of your own existence.” Weir looked at him uncomprehendingly. Ellis coughed. “So what do you believe in?”

“A room, a place, some self-grounded place.” Stephen’s head was close to the table and his voice was almost inaudible. “Just a room. Where it is understood.” Ellis said, “I think you have a long way to go before you can call yourself a proper Christian.”

Stephen raised his head from the table. His eyes slowly filled, then brimmed with rage, the uncontrolled temper of a farm boy. He stood up and went unsteadily to the bunk. He took Ellis by the shirt and hauled him down.

“Look here, I’m sorry, I meant no offence.” Ellis was alarmed by Stephen’s expression. “You’re drunk, leave me alone.”

Stephen breathed in deeply. He let his hands fall to his sides. “Go and look after your men,” he said softly. “It’s three o’clock. Go and talk to the sentries. You know how frightened they’ll be.”

Ellis pulled on his coat and backed out of the dugout. Stephen watched him go, then turned back to Weir. “That’s right, isn’t it, Weir? He should go and see that they’re all right?”

“Who? Ellis? You should have kicked him. Let me sleep in his bunk till he gets back. I’m on my own since Adamson was wounded.”

Jack Firebrace and Arthur Shaw lay curled together in their dugout. There were ten men in a space twenty-five feet wide and five feet high. Once they had inserted themselves there was no chance of movement. Jack had grown used to sleeping all night on one side; with Arthur Shaw’s bulk in position, he could not turn over. He was lulled by the sound of Shaw’s deep, raucous breathing; he had become accustomed to the contours of his body. He slept as well with him as he had ever slept in London with Margaret, shutting his ears to the sound of the trains rattling past the back window.

In the morning he wrote a letter home:

Dear Margaret,

Thank you very much for the parcel which arrived safely, it was most acceptable. We can always do with a few more Oxo cubes and the cake was much appreciated by all. We have been in much better billets recently and I am in very good health. We have proper dugouts–not just for the officers! It really is the lap of luxury, I can tell you, and we have all done a good bit of sleeping. We are doing some digging too. I think the infantry accepts us more now and what we are doing is very important for the next big attack. Yes, there is to be another one.

It is dangerous of course and there have been some gas alarms, but we all feel better now we have had a new lot of canaries. I think there are enemy mines but we haven’t met them yet. I tell you all this, but you are not to worry about me. If you worried then I should regret having written it.

The infantry always want us to do some of their fatigues but we do enough underground. We’re not building anybody’s trench for them, I can tell you. We did give a hand burying some telephone cables, but that’s all. Now some of them are sent on fatigues to help us. That’s more like it!

They marched us five miles back for a bath and we had had one the day before. There was a good bit of groaning, I can tell you. What’s the point of getting clean if you can’t change your clothes, which are full of “visitors.” But it was a good bath with plenty of warm water and a warm shower-bath. Then the men were all very happy because we had some rest and there was a place with beer. We got a good strafing from the sergeant when we got back but it was worth it. You say you’ve got no news and I must be bored with what you send but this is not so. We long for word from home. That’s all we think of: home, home, home. I think of the boy a good bit too. I must say I am finding it difficult to keep bright. We have divine service on Sunday and the sermon is always interesting. Last week the padre told the story of the Prodigal Son, how a rich man had two sons and one of them went to the bad, but when he came home his father killed the fatted calf for him. I would have wanted to do the best for John, but it is not to be. I am doing my best to be merry, and you must not worry about me. Please thank Miss Hubbard for her good wishes. Write to me soon.

Your affectionate, Jack.