A distant grating sound from above—instinctively the Captain flung himself to one side. A row of sandbags was here. He dropped gratefully into the trench.

A British major with a shocking wound was directing the crew of an 18-pounder. “Welcome to Boesinghe, old man,” he said, helping the Captain to his feet.

“I was in the garden …” the Captain objected. A shell screamed past.

“Keep your head down,” Percy warned. “You like things that are mine, don’t you, Captain? Then you’re sure to like this. A Mark I, 84 millimeters. Give you a hot shower now and then, eh?” He gestured, and the men dragged the captain across the barrel.

“Everyone should kiss the gunner’s daughter at least once,” Percy said cheerfully. The captain whimpered as Percy slit open the back of his coat. “Five lashes to start,” he called.

With the first blow, his head jerked up. He saw winter roses and a snowy lawn. He was in the pit the gardener had dug to get at a frozen pipe, below Percy’s room. A tile from the roof lay close by.