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destruction. His comrades-in-arms were falling, eyes glazing over, or crying out with the agony of their wounds as the hot metal lodged in their guts.
    Yet he mustn’t show any weakness in the face of the enemy. Don’t think! Don’t think! His sphincter muscle tensed.
    The sergeant landed next to him. His hand went to his buttock and came out covered with blood. ‘The bastards have shot me in the soddin’ backside.’
    â€˜Drop your trousers, Sergeant, let me look.’ There was no sign of the bullet. ‘It’s just a crease. I’ve seen better wounds, so I’m afraid it won’t get you home. If it did we’d all be shooting each other in the arse.’
    Beamish swore with such feeling that Richard began to laugh.
    The man grinned at him. ‘It’s better than getting the bits blown off, I suppose.’
    They made the next trench, falling over the edge with guns at the ready.
    They ignored the corpses. The burial detail followed behind, and would find the dead or injured, and either assign them to stretcher-bearers or dispose of them. If they didn’t, then the tank tracks would roll over them and mince them into the mud, where they’d become part of the soil.
    His gaze went to his men. Half of his regiment had been cut down. The survivors leaned wearily against the wall of the trench. All this for a few yards of mud, he thought. A machine gun chattered, but it was too far away to raise any alarm in them. A light wind blew across the battlefield, bringing various smells to their nostrils. A wisp of smoke caught in the current and drifted towards them.
    â€˜Gas!’ somebody yelled.
    There was a scramble for respirators. Richard had lost his. Quickly he peed onto his handkerchief and held the damp square to his nose, even knowing it wouldn’t be good enough. The sergeant ripped a mask from a body and pulled it over Richard’s face. It stank of decomposition  . . . of the last living breath of a man.
    Bile roiled in his stomach. He threw the mask aside and began to gag. His body jerked uncontrollably. The sergeant wrestled him to the stinking mud, and when he tried to struggle he pushed the mask against his face, saying calmly, ‘Easy now, Sir  . . . let’s get this on and you’ll be all right in a minute.’
    As if he were a fractious horse being soothed. Of course he’d be all right in a minute. He just needed a good night’s sleep. If he stood on the edge of the trench, somebody would shoot him and he could sleep forever.
    Even knowing such thinking was dangerous, he found the concept to be almost irresistible and began to scramble up a ladder. The sergeant closed a hand round his ankle and jerked him back down.
    â€˜I can’t seem to control myself, Beamish,’ Richard muttered, his words muffled by the stinking mask, and he burst into tears.
    â€˜Don’t worry. It’s nerves, Sir  . . . just nerves. You’ve been at the front too long and need a good night’s sleep. Don’t worry about anything  . . . I’ll look after you and make sure you get back to base safely.’
    The smoke thickened. Tapping him on the shoulder the sergeant pointed along the trench. They began to run, hoping the wind would change and the gas would kill somebody else.
    Half an hour later, and a few yards away to the left, a young man in a shallow hole gazed down the sight of his rifle. Both his legs were broken, and half his intestines were now outside his body. He’d been left for dead, but he wasn’t dead yet – not quite.
    The man had two bullets left. He’d been the best shot in the gunnery class, and he took careful aim at the spot where he’d last seen movement.
    His finger caressed the trigger as a head was raised. The Britisher was careless and took his hat from his head, as if inviting the caress of a bullet. He ran his fingers through his mud-streaked golden