“It’s a marvel I’m here! That shell burst all round me. Killed six of my pals. I’ve got through with a blighty wound. No bones broken⁠ ⁠… God! What luck!”

The death of other men did not grieve them. They could not waste this sense of luck in pity. The escape of their own individuality, this possession of life, was a glorious thought. They were alive! What luck! What luck!