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the man's upper arm to the ground, leaving a hand free to unsheath his bayonet. The German tried to bite Atkins' hand, desperate to stop him. Out the corner of his eyes Atkins made out the other members of his Black Hand Gang engaged in similar private struggles. It was desperate fighting, no rules. This was war at its most raw, most visceral, most base. The only sound was the slap of mud or splash of water as boots sought for purchase on soft tissue; grunts of exertion as the struggle turned first one way then the next, each opponent knowing it was killed or be killed.
    Gritted teeth. Little explosions of breath, spittle flecks bubbling up at the corners of the mouth, face red with effort, neck taut with strain as Atkins leant forward trying to use his bodyweight to press his bayonet home. The Hun kicked, trying to dislodge him. The point of his bayonet against the Hun's ribs. His eyes creasing, pleading, hands slick with mud losing their grip, the bayonet pushing into the thick serge of his uniform but not puncturing. It was all now dependant on who could last out the longest, but Atkins had gravity on his side.
    The blade sank suddenly, plunging Atkins' face unexpectedly towards his enemy's, whose eyes widened in shock. He tried to focus on Atkins as his hand clawed weakly at his face. Atkins turned away and raised himself to avoid the filthy, clammy hand. Then, hardly able to see for the stinging tears welling up in his eyes he muttered, "sorry," and used his bodyweight to push the bayonet further in. Blood bubbled and frothed at the corners of the Hun's mouth. Atkins could feel the warm exhalation of breath on his face waning. The man's eyes lost focus and beneath him Atkins felt his chest fall for the last time. He collapsed with effort and relief onto the body feeling his heart beating fit to burst, a pulse suddenly pounding painfully at the base of his skull behind his right ear. He rolled over onto his back, his chest heaving with sobs he tried to stifle. To his left he saw Porgy sitting with his head in his hands. Hobson was wiping his bayonet on a German's tunic. Three Huns lay about the shell hole in unnatural positions. A fourth lay face down in the water. Gutsy grabbed Atkins and pulled him into a sitting position, holding his head between his knees as he dry-retched.
    "Get it up, son, you'll feel better," Gutsy whispered. Atkins tried to make himself heave. It didn't take much before he vomited, spitting out the stringy mucus and half-digested bits that remained in his mouth. Gutsy pulled his bayonet from the dead Hun and handed it back to him. "You did well."
    They made their way back to their line but when they came to their wire, they couldn't find the gap. Following Hobson, they inched their way along the wire, careful not to touch any of the makeshift alarms of tin cans containing pebbles that hung from them before finding one. They edged through and towards their lines until they could see the sandbag parapets of their own trenches. From the dark ahead of them came an aggressive hiss.
    "Password."
    "Hampstead" Hobson hissed back and began crawling forwards, beckoning the others to follow. There was sudden rapid fire, and the whole world went to hell. Porgy screamed. A flare went up from the trench. Hobson shouted: "You're shooting your own bloody men, hold your fire!" There were far away shouts from the German line, a German flare and then the whine of bullets splashing into the mud around them.
    Shot at from behind, shot at from in front, Atkins scrambled for the sandbags and the trench. Hands reached up, grabbed him and pulled him over the parapet to safety. Hobson was already over and laying into the Jock sentry with a torrent of sergeantly abuse. Gutsy was sat on the firestep checking himself all over for wounds but there was no sign of Porgy. Atkins stood on the firestep and, against all his better instincts, he peered over the top. He saw something that could be Porgy some five or six yards away.