PROLOGUE

December 1916

Michael was shaking. If he held his hand, then it was his leg; if he stilled that, then his back wobbled, like a string waved about from one end only. He sat at the back of the trench and felt his body quiver in the freezing air. The whole place was quiet save for the movements of the men, the scrabbling of the rats over the discarded bits of food. Only he was making sounds: his knees knocking together, his teeth chattering. What a joke that normally was – knees knocking. He had laughed at actors playing fake fear on stage, hands popped over mouths, legs quavering. And now here he was, a caricature, and none of it was funny because he just: couldn’t stop. A tin can fell to the floor and he jumped in horror. The scream was out of his mouth before he knew it. The men turned around. He looked down and a large rat had knocked over Orchard’s billy mug. The men turned back to their positions. That was the most shaming thing of all. Now they hardly noticed him, took it for granted.

It was even worse when there were no bombs. When there was shelling, all the men were shaking, even Orchard. In the silence, it was just him.

Orchard manoeuvred himself beside him. ‘It’s coming up to time, sir,’ he said, tapping his watch. ‘No orders to the contrary so far?’ He was a squat, cheerful man, worked for the fire brigade in Wapping. Michael knew he was beyond fortunate with his second in command. ‘Don’t you worry, sir,’ Orchard said when Michael was holding his gun upside down or had sent the men the wrong way. ‘You’ll pick it up in half a tick.’ Michael made himself do things he hated, so as not to let down Orchard and his beaming face.

‘No, Orchard. No orders to the contrary.’

‘Right, chaps! Attention. Corporal Witt wishes to issue a command.’ The trench was silent. From a distance, you could just hear the French shouting on parade and the boom of the miners making another trench. Michael thought – just for a moment – that he heard a woman singing. Perhaps one of the cooks, although it sounded too delicate for a domestic. He strained for the notes, but there was a gust of wind and they were lost.

Orchard looked at his watch. Michael tried to still his shaking hands. ‘Over!’ a voice shouted. ‘Over the top, men!’ It was his. It wasn’t loud enough.

‘Don’t worry, sir,’ said Sergeant Orchard. ‘The wind ate up your voice that time. I will give it a proper shout so the chaps know what’s what.’

‘Thank you,’ Michael tried to say. But his voice was shaking too and it could not get out.

Orchard stood up. ‘All right, men,’ he shouted. ‘We’re going over. As the captain said, we’ll have fire cover from the top and the barbed wire will be cut. You’ll be as safe as houses.’ He put up his arms. ‘One, two, three, GO!’

Michael held his gun, willed himself to go forward.