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‘Is it from His Majesty, sir?’ someone else asked, sounding awed, giving a low whistle.

A tin was thrust into Tom’s hands and suddenly their home and everything familiar had arrived into the trench. It was not a gift from the royals; it was a gift from their families – in his case, from his mother. And it had been produced in York. The tin felt smooth against his exposed fingertips that poked out above his mother’s knitted gloves, except for the tin’s rim. He ran the pad of one of those fingers now around the beading that raised itself around the edge as a border to encapsulate the King’s image. King George stared at him from the lid with that proudly royal pose, square-jawed, attired in full ceremonial dress.

Tom only became aware of the welling tears when one splashed on the King’s face, shocking him. He palmed it away but more of its treacherous companions were following and now salted drops slipped down his cheeks to smudge a path through the grey dust and mud that clung to his face. He stole an embarrassed glance around the quietened trench and noted, with relief, he was not the only soldier suffering a wave of helpless emotion. Anything from home prompted a visceral response but to know the King was personally acknowledging their sacrifice, showing his gratitude, felt overwhelming.

Tom continued to examine the image of his King. Eyes like turquoise glass looked back at him with an expression of wide-eyed hope, full of light and humour, Tom decided. The bright point of colour matched the ceremonial uniform he wore, heavily decorated with five medals, gold braid and thick epaulets. Tom, forced to be clean-shaven but not fully owning up to being unable to grow dense whiskers, felt envious of the perfectly sculpted beard of his King in the V shape of his title over which flew the luxuriant winged moustache. He could be a twin to his first cousin Tsar Nicholas of Russia. Tom thought of the King’s other first cousin, German Emperor Wilhelm II, now Britain’s vicious enemy. My enemy, Tom admitted privately, and sneered at the thought of the ridiculous W-shaped moustache of the arrogant emperor trying to outdo his cousins in every way. Tom touched the lid again, still reluctant to open the tin until he had finished admiring the return of colour into his immediate world. The vivid red and blue on the Union Jack caught his attention, standing out among five other flags that radiated from behind the King’s image.

He held the sealed metal to his face and inhaled, noting the pretty floral pattern that decorated its side. The unmistakable aroma of York nearly undid him. The smell of chocolate, seductive and comforting, scented the space he sat in. How long had it been since he’d eaten a piece of chocolate? Nearly a year? He wasn’t sure. Tom looked up and some of the men had already begun chewing on their treat.

‘Get into it, sir,’ Corporal Ferguson encouraged from opposite. He looked as impressed as Tom felt by their unexpected gift.

‘Hey, Sergeant, you don’t want anyone else to get your chocolate now, do you?’ his neighbour said, digging him affectionately in the rib.

Tom grinned, shaking his head.

‘You could be shot dead tonight, sir,’ one wit yelled, ‘and you’ll have missed your chance.’ The fellow laughed, his teeth happily coated by the gooey chocolate he was tucking into. ‘Seems our families collected cocoa coupons to send us these.’

‘I gather. But unlike you greedy blokes, I want to make this feeling last,’ Tom said, aware that he sounded daft but it was as though emotion had come back into his life. Suddenly here was vibrant colour and the smell of sweetness, the realisation that his mouth was moist, salivating in anticipation of the treat, his hands had warmed the tin, smooth and full of promise. He turned it over and ran his thumb down the side, where a small grid existed that he presumed was for striking matches. His spirits danced; they’d clearly designed this for the boys at the Front with a lot of care. And at the sound of the soft click of the lid as he opened it, Tom grinned like a child on Christmas morning, staring at presents that had miraculously found their way beneath the tree.

An intoxicating perfume embedded in memory caused an avalanche of pleasure for Tom that was loaded with anticipation. Curiously, because this felt like Christmas morning, he could taste alcohol from his mother’s pantry . . . the brandy Rose kept for the pudding so it would ignite properly. Yes, syrupy brandy and raisins came to mind as the rich chocolate fragrance lingered around him.

A corrugated sheet of thick paper, the colour of raw wool, crackled beneath a much thinner printed sheet which fluttered from the shelf that Tom had disturbed. He retrieved it carefully, glad it had not fallen into the damp mud, and read it, savouring each word.

Tom sighed with a pang of fresh pleasure. He noted the royal warrant at top left informing that Rowntree & Co was by appointment to the Crown. However, although the note urged him to turn it over to read more about a product Rowntree teased as ‘something new’, he was for this moment trapped in the pure novelty of holding this crisp little page of advertising that had been slipped into the tin. It gave the bright impression that all was normal in the world. He sent his thoughts winging to the chocolate factory in Britain’s north. York . . . the home he loved. Save a few executives and managers, the factory would be run by the city’s women these days, he reckoned.

Tom shut the lid to keep the chocolate fragrance cocooned while he closed his eyes and pictured the girls busy at their work packing these tins for the men in the trenches.

He focused his thoughts on one imaginary girl. She’d be wearing a starched apron, he decided, and she’d have dark hair pinned into place . . . perhaps wearing a cap because she was handling food. Tom smiled at the thought that a single strand would always escape. He could envisage her now in motion, placing the bar of chocolate into the tin before reaching for one of the Rowntree notes to slip inside. He could see her show a twist of vexation on her lips when one of the notes stuck to its companion. She was having to work fast in his daydream, for there were thousands of these tins to prepare for the boys at the Front. She places the company’s note on the covered bar of chocolate, which he imagined is in foil, but he’d check that later. Tom could almost hear the gentle click of the tin as she closes the lid and blows it a kiss farewell. Oh, yes, this girl in his mind blows each tin she seals a farewell kiss as though sending one to each brave soul fighting for her freedom.

Tom leaned his head back against the trench, smiling inwardly at his private images. No explosions or gas could hurt his girl in the chocolate factory. He loved her. This girl was his ideal. He was here to keep her safe and he would give his life to see her turn and smile for him. He reached in his mind towards the dark-haired beauty.

‘Time, sir,’ the Corporal murmured and disrupted his vision. Tom roused himself to his feet, although remaining slightly crouched for protection.

Was he the only bloke who hadn’t nibbled on his treat?

‘Right, lads, to your posts,’ he said in a crisp, no-nonsense way that belied his mood.

Tom slipped his tin of chocolate into the pocket of his uniform that sat over his heart, assured it would not melt due to the cold of night closing in.

‘Corporal?’

‘Sir?’

‘You oversee the work duties tonight.’

The man frowned. ‘And you, sir?’

‘There’s a new armour-piercing round that the Germans apparently have. Division’s keen to get its hands on some of those rounds. I thought I might slip out with the patrol tonight.’

‘Alone, sir?’

‘Hardly alone, Corporal Ferguson. I’ll tag along with the patrols but those men have their jobs to do and I know what I’m looking for.’

His deputy nodded. ‘Righto, sir, if you’re sure.’

‘I am. When he visited recently I rashly promised Major General Davies I would find him some of those rounds and I’d like to keep that promise.’

‘If they exist, sir,’ Ferguson cautioned.