Hartley felt the rush of wind in his face and then he was submerged in darkness as a filthy smelling tarpaulin was thrown over his head.

He had just offered O'Brien a cigarette when the incident occurred.

Meandering back to billets after a good, if unexciting, meal and several bottles of wine, the two officers had been laughing and joking in the manner of men who knew the luxury of leisure time might be very fleeting indeed in a war which gobbled up the officer class at an ogre like rate.

The silver cigarette case clattered onto the ground and the officers went sprawling with it. Hartley felt a blow strike his head and then heard the shout: "Enough."

The sound of running feet disappeared.

O'Brien staggered to his feet to see Hartley on his hands and knees, frantically searching the uneven surface of the muddy street.

"Bloody hooligans!" roared O'Brien. He tried to dust off his jacket. He only smeared more mud onto the tunic.

Hartley made an animal sound.

O'Brien fell back against a wall, his head buzzed with the drink.

"Bloody bad show Harters ... you alright young fella?" he mumbled.

Hartley whined. It was a most unpleasant sound. Not .. gentlemanly to O'Brien's ears. In years to come some officer who had served a little while on the Western Front would invent a character called Gollum. He would cry for his 'precious'. That was the kind of feline meowl which Hartley made as he scrambled in the dirt.