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the grass and around the footpath.
    Chapter Two
    "I don't know," Sam said wearily, pushing his hair back and unintentionally smearing mud over his brow. "It's such a bloody mess it's impossible to tell for sure. Looks like one of the props came loose and some of the wall collapsed. But what made it happen could be any of a dozen things. How much of his hand has he lost?"
    They were in Sam's dugout, off the support trench. It was three steps down from the trench itself, a deep hole in the ground, duckboards on the floor, a sacking curtain over the door. Inside, it was typical of many officers' quarters: a narrow cot, a wooden chair and two tables, both made out of boxes. There were several books on a makeshift shelf beside the bed, a little poetry, some Greek legend, a couple of novels. There was a gramophone on one of the boxes, and inside the box about twenty records, mostly classical piano music Liszt and Chopin, a little Beethoven and some opera. Joseph knew them all by heart. There was also a photograph of Sam's brother, younger, his face pinched with ill health.
    "Two middle fingers, I think," Joseph replied. "If it doesn't get infected he might keep the rest."
    Sam had brewed tea in his dixie can, which was carefully propped over a lighted candle. He had a packet of chocolate biscuits, which had come out of a parcel from home. He poured the tea, half for Joseph, and divided the biscuits.
    "Thanks," Joseph took the cup and bit into one of the biscuits. It was crisp and sweet. It almost made up for the taste of the tea, made with brackish water and cooked in an all-purpose can. At least it was hot.
    "There was a new war correspondent there," he went on. "Arrogant man. Scrubbed and ironed. Hasn't the faintest idea what it's like in a sap." He had been in one only once himself, but he would never forget how he had felt. It had been all he could do to control himself from crying out, as the walls seemed to close in on him, and he heard the sounds of dripping and the scurry of rodent feet. Every shell fired could be the one that caved in the entrance and buried him and his colleagues under the earth to suffocate to death. He was used to the tap-tap sounds of Germans doing the same. One could hear them in dugouts, even like this. In some ways the silence was worse: it could mean they were priming their fuses. The mines could blow any moment.
    Sam was watching him, his eyes questioning.
    There was no avoiding the truth. "He thought it might have been self-inflicted," Joseph admitted. "Somebody's been telling him stories, and he was full of it."
    Sam did not answer. His curious, ironic face reflected the thoughts he refused to speak: pity for men pushed beyond their limits, and the knowledge that this could have been exactly such a thing; fear of punishment for the man, and that he would not be able to protect him; and weariness of the dirt, the exhaustion and the pain of it all. He smiled very slightly, a surprisingly sweet expression. "Thanks for trying."
    Joseph took a second chocolate biscuit and finished his tea. "It's not enough," he said, standing up. "Watkins wasn't going to charge him, but I'll make absolutely sure. Corliss looked a bit shaky to me. I'll go back to the field hospital and make sure he's all right."
    Sam nodded, gratitude in his eyes.
    Joseph smiled. "Maybe I'll get a decent cup of tea," he said lightly. "I've nothing better to do."
    He walked as far as the first-aid post, passing Bert Dazely with the mail delivery for the men in the front trenches. He had a whole sheaf of letters in his hand and was grinning broadly, showing the gap in his front teeth.
    "Afternoon, Chaplain," he said cheerfully. "Seen Charlie Gee up there? Oi got two for 'im. Oi reckon as that girl of 'is must wroite 'im every day."
    "I think she does," Joseph agreed with a momentary twinge of envy. Eleanor had died in childbirth two years ago, and in one terrible night he had lost his wife and his son. He forced it out of his mind in an