"Right you lot, you're back in the line tomorrow evening so get your kit cleaned up and grab some shut-eye," ordered Colour Nulty. He appraised the reduced ranks of the platoon.

The men were filthy, unshaven and lice ridden. Bloody Ypres they called it. Muddy. bloody, stinking Ypres, thought the NCO. Think of an adjective for misery and just put the name of this f..king town at the end of it.

"Fall out," he ordered.

The men dispersed to their billets, which consisted of the remains of a Belgian farm and associated outhouses. In a short time, fires were lit, water was boiling and a kettle of tea was on the boil.

"Thank God we're out of that for a while," said Shay, peeling off his sopping boots.

"Amen to that," agreed Dai Macallister, ferociously towelling his prune wrinkled feet. "That's not soldiering boyo, that's just a bloody mess up there. "

There were soft murmurs of agreement in the barn as the men of no. 14 platoon settled down for the night. In the distance, they heard the rumble of the guns. Above their heads, on the corrugated iron roof, they heard the rain pattering.

Willie McCallion crossed his arms behind his head and lay back on his pack.

Since he'd learned of the manner of his brother's death, his mind had formulated dozens of scenarios for revenge.

To his own surprise, Willie found his anger was cold and deep.

Killing Hartley would be easy in the heat of battle. In fact, given the way things were going for the Mudshires, Hartley stood a better than even chance of stopping a bullet without any help from him at all.

But Willie wanted to bring Hartley down to the level of a common criminal, to see him stripped of his rank and led to the gallows.

He might not be able to do it this week, or the next .. but he was going to try.