A lull in the shelling, I hold Ted’s hand, stroke his whitening cheek. Ted Pepper has been more than a friend to me, more than a lover, more than a brother, more than an anthropomorphic condiment, and here he lies pumping the last of his vital juices into the stony gray soil of Flanders.

Deafened by the shelling we can only mouth our affections through mouths of broken teeth, I lean forward and place one slow long lick upon his cheek. I reach down, feel something wet and hard, and start to stroke; too late I realise I’ve groped a loop of fat intentine.

In years to come I’ll meet two US presidents, invent a revolutionary herpes cream, and even own a privative digital watch, but never will I feel more privileged than today, hands in my mates belly, bare arse skinned from the shelling, gay under a coal shed sky.