The First Casualty by Ben Elton

in London remains in London. Do you understand? People are put in prison with hard labour for doing what you are suggesting we did. If even a rumour of it is heard in the wrong circles a man may expect to be ruined.’
    ‘I would never say anything, I swear…’
    ‘Your bloody face is an open book, man! Every inch of you screams pansy and you look at me as if you were in love.’
    ‘I am in love!’
    ‘Don’t be absurd. You met me three days ago.’
    ‘I loved you before I met you.’
    ‘Listen to me, Stamford.’ Abercrombie’s tone softened, but not by much. ‘Out here, you are a very junior subaltern and I am an experienced captain and something of a lion. It is not possible for us to be friends in anything other than a comradely fashion which is above all appropriate to our ranks.’
    ‘But…I love you, Alan. And what’s more, I’m scared. I need help, I’m not brave like you…’
    ‘I am not brave! I have told you that!’
    ‘But your poetry!’
    ‘I’ve told you I don’t write poetry. Not any more.’ Abercrombie turned away. ‘Please remember what I’ve said, Lieutenant. Good night.’
    Abercrombie began to walk back towards the village, leaving Stamford to weep alone.
    In consideration of his rank and aristocratic status the viscount had been given a room of his own in what had once been the house of the village priest, a house that had miraculously remained standing whilst the adjoining church had been reduced to rubble. Abercrombie lit the oil lamp which his new servant had thoughtfully procured for him and, taking out paper, pen and ink from a small leather music case, he began to write a letter. A letter to the mother of a fallen comrade, with whom he had been in correspondence ever since the death of her son. In his letters Abercrombie told her how cheerful and how wise her boy had been, how brave he was and what an inspiration to his men. A golden boy in fact, and that was how he must always be remembered, as a golden boy who shone as brightly as the sun and shed a happy light on all who knew him and on Abercrombie most of all. In reply the boy’s mother would tell Abercrombie about the equally sunlit childhood her son had spent, the happiness he had brought to his parents and to all who knew him. What promise he had shown and how big and bold had been his dreams. She told him also how often the boy had mentioned Abercrombie in his letters to her, and how much comfort she and her husband took from the knowledge that the two friends had been together when their son had died.
    Abercrombie unscrewed the lid on his ink jar and filled his fountain pen. A beautiful pen on which were inscribed the words ‘Love always’.
    Dear Mrs Merivale , he wrote.
    But try as he might, Abercrombie could write no more and it was tears instead of ink that marked the page that lay before him. What more could he say? He had told this grieving mother everything he could about her boy and told it many times. Except for one thing. The only thing that mattered and the one thing he could never say. That he had loved her son as dearly as she had loved him and that his love had been returned in equal measure. That never before in all the long history of love had two people loved each other as he and her son had loved. That he and her son had sworn to be together until death did them part and that when death did part them, when Abercrombie cradled her son’s body in his arms for the final time, Abercrombie had died also. Died inside. Never, he believed, to love or even to feel again.
    Finally Abercrombie gave up his efforts to write to the mother of the man whom he had adored. He screwed the tear-stained sheet of paper into a ball and threw it to the floor. Then, having taken a moment to collect himself, he took a fresh sheet of paper from his little leather case and began a second, very different letter.

EIGHT
    Cold shoulders and a cold supper
    The supper that Kingsley endured on his first evening in prison was in