Castlebellingham's forward headquarters was a GAA clubhouse with the trophies taken down.
Trucks came in from the north every few minutes and let down soldiers who had not slept in two days. Against the clubhouse wall, five men sat in a row with their rifles across their knees, too tired to talk.
Inside, the bar had become a map room. James saw Marcus at once, beside a grey-haired colonel, his new hand flat on the paper. Saoirse Doyle was at the end of the table with a stack of reports. Other officers stood round it, some with bandages.
Marcus looked up and saw Finn.
"You came out of it all right?"
"Fine. We had to leave the junction. They got behind us on the southern roads."
"I heard." Marcus nodded. "You kept the unit. That was the right call."
Saoirse came round the table to James.
"You fought Harcourt," she said. "At the bridge."
"Once. She was there again last night. She didn't come forward."
