“Two killed, three wounded, sir.”

“Very well⁠ ⁠… You can go.”

A salute in the doorway of the dugout, a groan from the adjutant lighting another cigarette, leaning with his elbow on the deal table, staring at the guttering of the candle by his side, at the pile of forms in front of him, at the glint of light on the steel helmet hanging by its strap on a nail near the shelf where he kept his safety-razor, flash-lamp, love-letters (in an old cigar-box), soap, whisky-bottle (almost empty now), and an unread novel.

“Hell!⁠ ⁠… What a life!”

But there was always work to do, and odd incidents, and frights, and responsibilities.