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but at the thought that he should have been down there, with Ralph and the others, taking his chance like the rest of them. Perhaps his father had been right all along!
    Steadily, the grey-clad figures advanced until they were less than a hundred yards from the canal bank. Then a voice rang out, ‘ Fire! ’ and all along the trenches heads appeared, rifles were aimed and bullets tore into the massed ranks of the enemy. So rapidly were the shots repeated that the sound was continuous and the German soldiers fell like wheat before the harvester. Watching, Tom remembered that Ralph had told him that it was the pride of the infantry that they could fire fifteen aimed rounds per minute. For all his hatred of war, he found himself cheering as the German ranks wavered and then fell back. His cheer was echoed along the thin line of the trenches.
    The sun rose higher and Tom began to sweat in the confined space of the cabin but the battle continued to rage below him and the crane shuddered with the impact of the German shells on the ground below. The German infantry made two further attempts to advance, but each time they were driven back, leaving the ground beyond the canal strewn with bodies. Tom worked feverishly, filling page after page with sketches. Then, looking to the west, he saw movement. Small groups of men were retreating towards him, each in turn providing covering fire while the others withdrew through them. With a sickening lurch in his stomach Tom realized that the enemy had succeeded in crossing the canal by one of the bridges. Below him, other groups were moving, slipping back towards the slag heaps and the buildings of the mining villages. It was time to leave his vantage point. With cramped and shaking limbs, he began the long climb down to the ground.
    At ground level the cacophony of the bombardment was more deafening than before. At the whistle of an approaching shell he threw himself face down and felt the ground heave. Soil thrown up by the explosion pattered down on to his back. He scrambled up and, keeping low, scuttled in the direction of the mine buildings until he encountered a platoon of Coldstream Guards.
    â€˜I’m looking for Lieutenant Malham Brown,’ Tom said. ‘Do you know where he is?’
    â€˜Back there, sir,’ the corporal said, nodding towards a long, low building. ‘Casualty clearing station.’
    Tom’s stomach churned again. Somehow he had convinced himself that in the midst of all this desolation he would find Ralph unharmed. He turned and stumbled towards the building. It was a disused factory and Tom entered a huge, echoing room, empty except for lines of wounded men lying on the floor. There was no sign of any doctors or orderlies, and the prospect of trawling the lines in search of Ralph was too daunting, so he picked his way across to a doorway leading into a second room. This one, too, was full of wounded but there was more activity. Two doctors were at work at trestle tables on the far side and several orderlies with Red Cross armbands were bustling about with trays of dressings.
    Tom waylaid the nearest one. ‘Lieutenant Malham Brown? Is he here?’
    â€˜Over there, sir.’ The man indicated with a jerk of his chin and Tom turned to see Ralph crouched beside a prone figure.
    Ralph looked up as he approached and for a moment his eyes were blank, as if he did not recognize his friend. Then he said, ‘Ah, Tom. You’re still in one piece then,’ in a flat tone that expressed neither surprise nor relief. His face was smeared with coal dust and spent powder but beneath the filth he was chalk white.
    â€˜And you?’ Tom said breathlessly. ‘You’re not hurt?’
    â€˜Me? No, no I’m all right. Just checking on the lads, like this one.’
    He looked down at the still figure on the stretcher and Tom saw that it was a boy who looked hardly old enough to enlist. One sleeve of his tunic was ripped and a rough