have nightmares, says Guy Sajer in his The Forgotten Soldier. Sleep is a refuge for the wretched and the miserable, somewhere to hide. Nightmares are a luxury? I guess they are if you’re always awake in one, pressing your face into the dirt at the bottom of a trench outside Kharkov. I’ve been digging trenches this week, trying to keep the water out of my house in the sticks. But nothing to compare with Sajer’s excavations. I don’t have Old Popov shooting at me, for one thing. And the house is just about dry and I only moved a few shovelfuls of sodden, chalky gunk before strolling off to chat with the neighbours. Even a few minutes of digging was enough to remind me of Celine and his bitching about having to show enthusiasm in his army days, staying chipper. I’ve never been much good at chipper. But, driving over the ridge from the village I saw the sky clear over the two trees that flank the high, lonely road and above that the blue haze that thins out to the stars and I glanced into the rear-view and caught myself smiling like a loon.
