1918. A dugout in the trenches near Saint-Quentin, northern France. Six soldiers from a British Army infantry company have four short days left before they climb over the top and charge, hopelessly, helplessly, into the waiting, heavily armed, enemy lines. It’s obvious suicide. The men know it. They feel it in their bones. And they spend their last four days on Earth shifting between quiet contemplation, drunken rage, recrimination and eventual resignation — always undercut and underpinned by profound, and profoundly moving, brotherly love.