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We'd have gone anywhere for Captain ffox. The whole bloody lot of us.

Anywhere except...well, I won't repeat what Barrie said once. Very crude, that boy.

I was worried at first, when I learned I was being transferred to ffox's platoon. He had a reputation as a bit of a luny, charging at the enemy waving his pistol and so on, and you don't want a luny leading you if you're keen on living through the War.

I soon learned different. Captain ffox was brave, but sane brave. He never asked his men to do something he wouldn't do himself, and he always took the lead during the offensives. I've seen him go out into No Man's Land to bring back a young lad with his stomach shot out, then hold his hand while he died.

We all knew we were lucky, that the Captain was our ticket to survival. We'd heard chaps in other outfits make off-colour remarks about him, but we reckoned they were just jealous.

That is, until the night of the big confession.

Barrie started it. He started most of the trouble in our trench, more than the Boche ever did. He was on watch, smoking and singing some smutty song he'd got from his mates in the Fourteenth:

"Don't cry for me, Mother dear

I'll be all right, don't you fear

Even though the Captain is a queer..."

I happened to be walking past with the Captain at that point. He stopped dead and swivelled his ears towards the singing, and there was a look on his face that scared me.

"Shut it, Barrie!" I said at once.

"Orright, orright, Lieutenant Bignose Beagle," he said, shambling to his feet with the sloppiest salute I've ever seen.

I was about to tear him off a strip, but the Captain put his hand on my arm.

"Leave it, Pinch," he said, and he sounded old and tired. "Call the men together, will you? I want to talk to them."

It wasn't a pleasant job rousing the men, most of whom were snatching forty winks, but I soon had them all together and waiting.

"Thank you, Pinch. At ease...stand easy."

We glanced at each other, wondering what it was about. Captain ffox seemed unsure where to start. Then Barrie blurted out:

"I didn't mean you was a queer, Sir! It was just a song!"

There were some chuckles at that. The Captain held up a paw, silencing them.

"I'm sure you didn't, Barrie. But you might as well have done. You see, your Captain is a queer. A poofter."

Nobody said anything. It was spooky, the silence - like the moment before an advance.

"None of you has any reason to feel uncomfortable with me," the Captain continued. "I promise that. I have told you this because I like and trust you all, and I wanted to be honest with you.

"Anyone who wishes," he looked at the ground, "may request a transfer. I only ask that you don't state your reason to anybody outside this platoon. It's not that I'd mind going to prison for what I am, but I like to think I'm good at this job and I would hate to leave you all here while I sit in a safe Blighty gaol."

"I'm sticking with you, Sir," I yapped out before I could properly digest what he'd said. He was a brave bugger, I'd give him that, but maybe he was a luny after all? You just didn't talk about that sort of thing - certainly not to the men.

"Bless you, Pinch," said the Captain. "But nobody has to make up their mind right away."

He turned his face to the trench wall, apparently studying the defences.

Nobody moved at first. After an age, Rogers, a shaggy spaniel type, walked nervously up to the Captain. They talked in low voices for a while, then ffox put his arms around Rogers and hugged him. I wouldn't have done it myself - that curly coat was a haven for fleas and lice.

I don't know what they said, but Rogers went straight over to his pal Jankers Jones and kissed him in front of everyone. Jankers didn't look any too pleased, but he took the spaniel's paw and they sat down together like a courting couple at the pictures.

Barrie saluted. "I don't care what you are, Sir, as long as you don't go falling for some pretty Fritz boy and give us to the Boche as a dowry. You're the squarest CO in France."

Someone laughed. Someone else clapped. Then the clapping spread, and cheers, and everyone thumping each other on the back as if we'd won the War. ffox, in the middle of it all, was dazed, grinning, shaking paws and answering questions - some of which I'd blush to share.

The only one who left was Mogg, the cook, and even he wouldn't say why when they asked him. No loss - he was a terrible cook.

I can't say I understood the Captain's ways. I still don't. How could any man want another man after living hugger-mugger in the trenches for months on end the way we did? Smelling the things I smelled day in and day out, I longed for a sniff at a nice clean bitch.

But he was the best commanding officer any of us had ever had, and if he was a little different, well, that was his business - just like all those giraffe pinups in Barrie's dugout were Barrie's business. Giraffes! Now that's pretty peculiar, if you ask me.

Things were different after the Captain's speech, all right. Sharing the secret made us friendlier with each other. Officers and men had something in common. Young Corporal Bing announced one day that he was in love with his mother's housemaid, and when he got home he was going to marry her and scandal be hanged. Rogers and Jones skipped about together looking goofy and kissing in corners.

Captain ffox didn't have anyone to kiss, but he didn't seem to mind. He was happier than I'd ever seen him, as if something that was haunting him had left.

Good things don't last in the Army. We'd just about got used to the new way of things when the Major came along and spoiled it all.

Major Erskine, his name was. 'Always Erskine questions', Barrie said, and he was - prying and prodding and poking away all the time, and firing off snapshots with that little camera of his.

He was from Intelligence, a sharp-nosed marten fellow. Looking for German spies, he said, but we soon worked out what he was really looking for from the way he treated the Captain.

First came the business with Watkin.

That shaver couldn't have been a day over sixteen, and he looked twelve, all buck teeth and big eyes. God knows what brute of a recruiting officer thought signing him up was a good idea, but here he was.

The Captain kept him out of things as best he could, and when it couldn't be avoided he always made sure Watkin stuck near him so he could keep an eye.

Right from the beginning, Major Erskine made a point of separating them. We all knew he was doing it, we all knew why, and we were disgusted by the way his mind worked. But there wasn't a damn thing we could do. Poor Watkin was very cut up about it; perhaps he did have some sort of schoolboy crush on the Captain, though ffox would never have taken advantage.

Then there was the foot inspection. The Captain was very careful about feet; you'd think any self-respecting animal would know to keep himself clean and dry, but the enlisted men were a dirty bunch of sods. So every evening it was boots and puttees off and paws on parade to look for signs of trench foot.

"I know there's nothing to worry about with you, Pinch, but we need to set an example," the Captain murmured as he spread my toes. Blow me if my tail didn't start wagging like a fool at the us-and-them of it. That was how it was with the Captain - you wanted to be on his side.

I looked over his shoulder as he straightened up, and there was Major Erskine, staring at us with a sort of sneer on his muzz like we were something nasty he'd stepped in.

He had a long word with the Captain the next evening, with the Captain protesting angrily and shaking his fist. When we lined up for the inspection, ffox said:

"Lieutenant Pinch will be examining your feet from now on. Go ahead, Pinch."

I jumped up automatically, shocked. So the Captain wasn't allowed to touch us now, in case he had mucky thoughts about it - or maybe in case he infected us with what he had. No wonder he looked so miserable!

"And if you give him any trouble I'll have your tails for medal-ribbons!" the Captain added, with a flash of his old spirit.

Since the Major, we'd gone from the happiest trench on the Front to the saddest. You never felt safe to relax and have a chat, or smoke a fag - that weaselly marten mug was always peering at you from some corner with his camera at the ready. We knew there was an offensive on the cards, too, and we were all jumpy.

Erskine would draw us aside one at a time and ask us questions. My turn came early, which was just as well - I could brief the men afterwards on what not to say. But I was still afraid that one of them would make a slip out of malice or stupidity.

"What do you think of Captain ffox?" Erskine asked me that day, all friendly.

"He's a good CO, Sir," I told him.

"What about personally? As a friend?"

None of your business was what I wanted to say.

"Well, he keeps himself to himself," I started, then realised that sounded bad. "But every now and then he likes to mix with the men and have a laugh," I continued.

Even worse! I could have kicked myself.

"He's a good friend, Sir."

"How good? Does he confide in you?"

"I'm not sure what you mean, Sir."

"Does he ever talk about a girl at home, or out here in one of the villages - or maybe in Paris?"

I thought about making something up, inventing a nice cuddly vixen for the Captain, but it was too dangerous.

"No, Sir."

"Does he have any particular friends in the platoon? Who does he spend time with? Who's his best pal?"

That was a difficult one. ffox was cordial with everybody, but he always kept a little of himself back. He didn't talk a great deal with officers from other platoons, either. I thought about it for a long time before replying.

"Me, Sir. I'm his best friend."

"Are you really, Lieutenant Pinch. Are you really."

That was the end of my interview.

Things went on this way for a couple of weeks. The Major poked and we wriggled. Gradually I started to relax. I'd realised, you see, that without evidence, anything Erskine weaselled out of the platoon was just hearsay.

And there wasn't any evidence, I was sure of it. I shared a dugout with the Captain, was beside him almost twenty-four hours out of twenty-four, and he didn't have a lover. I'd have known; I'd have smelled it. Nor did he write letters, or pin pictures on the wall. Some of his gramophone records were a bit soft, but that's not a crime.

It all blew up the day Watkin went West.

He'd been out with a wiring party, cutting gaps in the Boche defences so we wouldn't snag ourselves up in the attack. A sniper got him, straight between the ears.

It was a good clean kill, pretty much the best death you could ask for, but the Captain took it very hard indeed. His muzz went pale and he looked as if he was going to faint. He just sat and looked at the poor little bunny body, and when they took it away on a stretcher he stayed staring at the place where it had lain.

"Come on, Captain," I told him. "Let's go and have a drink. Then you can write to his people - you write such nice letters, I know it must be a comfort to the families..."

He wasn't listening. I don't think he was even hearing. I patted his back.

"Captain? Bentley?"

I'd never used his first name before. One black ear twitched a little.

Lord knows what made me do it. No, I do know - he needed it, needed to be touched. Anyway, the French do it all the time and nobody thinks they're...

I crouched down in the mud, put my arm round his shoulders, and kissed his cheek.

There was a flash and I thought we were being shelled. But when I looked round, it was Erskine there with his infernal camera and a great big smirk on his chops. He had his evidence now, all right.

I wanted to shoot myself, but I wanted to wring that marten's neck even more.

The Captain buried his head in his paws. He was in agony, but it wasn't for himself he was worried - it was for me.

"Oh, Pinch. Oh, God, Pinch, dear old Pinch, what have I let you in for? I'm so very sorry, old man."

He gripped my paw briefly. It didn't seem to matter any more.

"I'll get you out of this, Sir, don't you worry," I muttered out of the side of my mouth.

The Major opened his mouth to speak, but whatever he was going to say remained unsaid.

An explosion rocked the trench, and all of us fell to our knees as the air filled with smoke.

"We're under attack!" came a yell I recognised as Barrie's. Then figures in grey started pouring over the rim of the trench, and it was all noise and running and fighting.

The Boche were trying to take our trench! They'd sneaked through the wire we cut so carefully for ourselves, chucked over a couple of grenades to soften us up, and jumped in. But we weren't going to give up that easily.

It was all paw-to-paw stuff, right up close, and I'll spare you the details. A bayonet is a nasty weapon. I saw claws and teeeth used, too, on both sides.

The Captain and I had our pistols out. It wasn't easy to get a clear shot because everyone was so mixed up, but we did our best. I remember a big lad suddenly loomed up in front of me, a wolf I think he was, and the Captain swinging round and whacking him behind the ear with the butt of his gun.

"Thank you, Sir," I said, and turned to fire at a couple of squirrels who were scrambling down the side of the trench. They popped right out again and I didn't see them subsequently.

Things were thinning out a bit. There were bodies on the ground, ours and theirs, and other chaps still at it hammer and tongs. We outnumbered the invaders now, though, and we were pushing them back.

ffox and I caught sight of the Major at the same time. He'd backed into a dugout sharpish when the action started, but now it looked like we were winning he'd come back out and was waving his revolver around.

"Pinch!" the Captain said sharply, and I lowered my pistol. I'd thought a quick shot in all the confusion was the perfect solution to our problems, but the Captain wasn't having any of it, blast him.

Another perfect solution came along the next minute, when a bear in field grey leaped for the Major with his bayonet out. But the Captain was too quick for him (and for me when I tried to stop him). He jumped on Erskine, pushing him aside. They both fell in the mud, but ffox sprang back up and chopped the bear across the windpipe with the side of his paw.

The German dropped like a felled tree and the few of his comrades who were left fled across No Man's Land. We took a couple of half-hearted shots after them, but they had been punished enough. So had we.

Rogers and Jones were dead, fallen back to back. Barrie got a Blighty one in the thigh and was over the moon about it. There were dead Boche all over the shop. Hell of a clean-up job.

The Major left the next day, hating ffox the way you can only hate someone you disliked already, and then they go and save your life. We waved him off.

"Pity his camera got broken when you jumped on him, Captain," I said. "That last plate will be ruined."

"Damn shame," the Captain agreed, and he'd never looked more foxlike.

"I'll be glad when things go back to normal. What passes for normal around here, anyway."

"Thank you, Pinch. I won't kiss you."

"Thank you, Sir."