He rounded on me. 'Who said I was going to a farm?' he snarled.
'You did,' I reminded him.
He crossed over to me, dragging his left foot. 'Understand this,' he said, 'I never told you I was going to a farm. I never told you anything. You never met me. You never came to see me. You don't know me. Understand?'
I nodded.
He searched my face. Finally he seemed satisfied and went back to the other side of the fire. 'We'll go on tomorrow,' he said. Then he wrapped himself up in his raincoat and curled up close to the smouldering heap of timber. His eyes closed for a second. But I noticed that he slept with his right hand in his jacket pocket. His face, with the eyes closed, looked old and drawn. There was no trace of the boy in him that I'd seen earlier.
I was dead tired, but though I lay down with my raincoat round me, I could not get to sleep. Through long hours I lay huddled close to the fire, thinking over the events of the day and listening to my companion's regular breathing. Outside the rain streamed down, the monotonous sound of it being relieved only when a gust of wind lashed at the mouth of the cave. Strange shadows flickered across the broken rock of wall and roof and occasionally a piece of timber moved in the fire sending up a shower of sparks. God, I kept on thinking, what a mess I've got myself into! How much easier would it have been if I had kept right on at Cassino, and got myself killed like the rest of the platoon. Or would I have still lived on, crippled and disfigured, a relic of human idiocy in some home for wrecks that they dare not show to the public? At least I was alive and intact.
I suppose I must have dozed off, for a little later it seemed I opened my eyes to find the fire nearly out and a wan light creeping furtively through the entrance-way. It was very cold. I got up and went out. The rain was still sheeting down out of a leaden sky. All about me was a scene of bleak confusion. The walls of the mine buildings had collapsed and mingled with the dumps of rock to form desolate mounts of sharp-edged stone. I got furze and more timber and built up the fire again. Dave's eyes were open and he lay watching me. His face was very white so that his eyes looked like two black sloes. His right hand was still in the pocket of his jacket.
As I moved about the cave I was uncomfortably aware of his watchfulness. The damp of the morning had chilled me to the marrow. It made me nervous and every time my back was turned towards him I felt an almost uncontrollable urge to glance quickly back over my shoulder. At last he got to his feet. His hand was still in his pocket and he was watching me. I tried to understand the expression in his eyes. But I couldn't. They were the eyes of a monkey — mischievous, cruel and without reason. At last I could stand it no longer.
'Why do you stare at me like that?' I asked.
He gave a little shrug and his lips stretched to a thin smile. He lit a cigarette. I watched the deliberate movements of his hands. They had long, slender fingers and small wrists — the hands of an artist or a man who lives on his nerves and drink. 'I was just trying to decide whether I could trust you,' he said at last. Again the smile. 'You see, I don't know very much about you, do I? We drank together at the Pappagallo, that's all.'