James McE. Love

AFTERMATH

He wriggled further into the bottom corner of the trench, pushing the headset tight against his ears. But it was no use. He could still hear the pathetic screams of the dying man.

He was somewhere out in the darkness: lost, alone. He cried to his God, and for his mother. The only answer he got was from the unsympathetic toms. They had listened to him crying for the last six hours.

We knew he was going to die. He knew he was going to die. He just wouldn’t do it quietly. Now he was getting on everybody’s tits. We all silently willed him to die. Darkness cloaked the battlefield; the fighting for the moment was over. We didn’t need reminding of the previous day’s events.

The silence became deafening. It had been forty minutes or so and no cries from the Argy. He tried to relax and go to sleep. Though none came.

One ear was tuned in to the radio, one for the weakened enemy’s cries. Then it started to snow.