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along that his father loved his sons as much as she did.
He just doesn’t know how to show it to you boys
, she’d said on several occasions.
    Jamie heard the sound of the shell arriving but barely had a couple of seconds to register that Spud and the others couldn’t. In that heartbeat of realisation, death arrived laughing at them. The explosion rocked the land around them like the jellies his mother used to unmould on his summertime birthday in February, arriving quivering to the table in a rainbow of colours that were now echoed in his dazed vision. His sight cleared into the stunned silence that followed the explosion before sound too gradually filtered back and so did his wits.
    He was buried to his shoulders and most of this end of the trench, where they’d been joshing just seconds earlier, had entirely collapsed. He could taste the sand from the bags, spitting and coughing, and as he blinked away the initial stupor he realised he was staring straight at the sightless eyes of Swampy. He could see his mother’s apricot jam still clinging to the side of Swampy’s slack mouth, except his body was no longer attached at the shoulders. Meanwhile the slumped form of Dickie Jones, still holding his periscope, was in the near distance.
    Spud was nowhere to be seen.
________
    Jamie half ran, half staggered. The other two were dead and there was no time to mourn them because Spud was alive but badly injured; he needed to get his friend down to the beach and onto that hospital ship.
    â€˜Spud?’
    â€˜Yeah,’ he croaked from where he was slumped across Jamie’s back.
    â€˜How are you?’
    â€˜How d’ya reckon, ya mug? I’m just bonzer! Let’s go dancing later.’
    Beneath the weight of Spud and his private escalating fear, Jamie still laughed. ‘Well, you feel like a whole sack of potatoes right now.’
    It was Spud’s turn to chuckle but it sounded dry and sad. ‘Oh, mate, this is bad. I can’t feel anything. Did my legs get blown off?’ he groaned.
    â€˜You’re all there, Spud. Just hold on.’
    Sniper fire began to crack nearby as they became the new sport for the Turkish trenches.
    â€˜Ah, bugger! I know you’re using me as cover. Shoot the short bloke first,’ Spud accused in a weak groan.
    Jamie bent his knees to lower Spud beneath an overhang for a few moments of respite. He was panting but could tell Spud was breathing with a struggle.
    â€˜Spud?’
    His friend gave a grunt. ‘What?’
    â€˜Are you dead yet?’
    They both began to laugh . . . the sort of out-of-control laughter like children have at someone who just made a farting sound. It felt good to release the tension but it cost them both. Jamie was aware that other soldiers, clambering up with water or supplies, were crouched in crags and gullies around them, also avoiding the sniper bullets and staring at the lunatic spluttering, bleeding duo, but he knew if he didn’t laugh with Spud right now, he might just sit back and cry.
    â€˜We’re going to the field hospital, Spud, and I’m getting you on that hospital ship. All right, mate? No more talking. I need my strength to get to the bottom and not fall or get shot in the process. You need yours to stay alive. Ready?’
    â€˜Heartthrob?’
    â€˜Yes?’ Jamie could hear his friend’s seriously laboured breathing now.
    â€˜Tell Mum it was me who broke her granny’s vase all those years ago, not Eddie, and that I’m sorry.’
    Jamie paused, the muscles in his thighs complaining loudly beneath the weight; he was grateful for his rigorous training with the Light Horse Brigade, which had taught him to push through the burn of muscles and to keep moving at all cost. ‘You tell her, Spud, when you get home. Now, be quiet. Save your energy. Ready?’
    Spud didn’t answer and Jamie didn’t wait for his approval. He pushed off, moving as