Wars are remembered for their victories and defeats.

Far less often do we remember the men who survived them.

The morning mist still clung to the lower fields as Archie reached the crest of the hill. Overnight rain had left the highway heavy beneath his boots, the deep cart ruts filled with muddy water that reflected the pale light filtering through a blanket of low cloud. To his left, sheep grazed quietly amongst the dew-soaked pasture, scarcely lifting their heads as he passed, while beyond them neat hedgerows divided the countryside into fields of barley and oats bending gently beneath the morning breeze.

He stopped for a moment.

Seven years had passed since he had last looked upon the Yorkshire countryside.

Fresh earth.

Wet grass.

Wood smoke drifting from cottage chimneys.

Ahead, nestled beside a narrow beck, stood a village much like hundreds of others scattered across the county. Timber-framed cottages leaned comfortably beneath roofs darkened by the night's rain, while above them rose the square tower of the parish church.

It looked like every village he remembered.

Perhaps that was why Archie smiled.

He shifted the worn satchel resting upon his shoulder. Rain had stained the leather almost black, and the damp strap bit into his shoulder with every mile he walked. Inside lay all that remained of seven years' service: a clean shirt wrapped carefully in oiled cloth, a whetstone, a wooden spoon and the few pennies he had guarded since the regiment was finally disbanded.

Seven years.

Seven years marching beneath the Queen's colours.

Seven years of rain.

Seven years of burying men far from home.

Surely England still had need of an honest man willing to work.

He adjusted the satchel and continued towards the village.

The road curved past a small pasture where half a dozen dairy cows grazed beneath the shade of an old ash tree. Beyond them an elderly farmer was repairing a broken section of fence, driving fresh hazel stakes into the ground with the steady rhythm of a man who had performed the same task countless times before.

Archie slowed.

Removing his cap, he approached the fence.

"Morning."

The farmer looked up.

"And to you."

"I hope I'm not disturbing your work."

"Not at all."

Archie glanced across the pasture.

"I've lately returned from Ireland."

The farmer's eyes settled upon the faded military coat.

"You served?"

"Aye."

"Long?"

"Seven years."

The old man rested both hands upon the maul.

"My eldest did much the same."

Archie nodded.

"Then you'll know it's not always easy finding your feet again."

"I do."

For a moment neither man spoke.

"I was wondering whether you had need of another pair of hands. I can plough, mend fences, tend stock, cut timber... whatever's needed."

The farmer looked slowly across his fields before answering.

"I don't doubt you can."

"I'd work hard."

"I've no doubt of that either."

Archie hesitated.

"And... if there's no work..." He glanced towards the farmhouse. "Perhaps a little bread before I move on."

The old man remained silent for a moment.

"I wish I could help you, lad."

He sighed quietly.

"My own boys are home from the wars. Between them we've scarcely enough work to see us through the harvest."

Archie nodded.

"I understand."

The farmer looked towards the cottage.

"My wife baked this morning."

Without another word he disappeared through the gate.

Archie waited beside the fence, listening to hens scratching beneath the hedge and the quiet lowing of cattle across the pasture.

A few moments later the farmer returned carrying half a coarse loaf wrapped in a clean linen cloth.

"It's not much."

Archie accepted it with both hands.

"It's more than I had."

"And I'm sorry I've nothing else to offer."

"So am I."

The farmer smiled faintly.

"Were times different, I'd have given you a chance."

"I believe you."

Archie wrapped the loaf carefully and placed it inside his satchel before pulling the red cap back onto his head.

"God keep you."

"And you."

The steady sound of the maul striking the hazel stake resumed as Archie walked back towards the lane.

The loaf would keep him going for another day.

Work...

he would have to find somewhere else.

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                                                              - XXII -