Free My Brother's Keeper by Tony Bradman

on the night of the raid. ‘That’s no way to speak to an officer, is it? Now be a good lad and pick up your rifle. We’ve got a job to do.’
    â€˜You’re wrong, it’s not a job,’ said Alfie, his eyes still fixed on the Captain’s. ‘It’s slaughter, that’s what it is. He’s going to get us all killed, and for nothing.’
    â€˜Arrest that man and have him removed, Jones,’ said the Captain. ‘We can’t afford to waste any more time listening to riff-raff like him spreading sedition.’
    â€˜I hardly think there’s any need for that,’ Lieutenant Reynolds said hurriedly, pushing his way through the crowd too. ‘Especially as it will mean that…’
    â€˜He’ll be court-martialled and shot?’ said the Captain. ‘Well, good riddance – it’s no more than the little coward deserves. I’ve half a mind to shoot him myself.’
    Then Ernie was beside Alfie, holding his arm and whispering, his voice full of urgency. ‘Don’t give him the satisfaction, Alfie. Pick up your rifle and come with us. At least that way you’ll have a chance. We’ll take care of you, I promise.’ Then Ernie turned to address the Captain. ‘Sorry sir, he’ll be all right once we get going.’
    â€˜What are you talking about?’ Alfie yelled, trying to pull himself free of Ernie’s grasp. ‘Cyril’s dead because of him. None of us are going to be all right.We’ll just get slaughtered so he can get another pat on the back from the red-tabs. I’m doing this for you, Ernie, and for George, and for everyone else who doesn’t need to die!’
    â€˜That’s enough,’ snapped the Captain. ‘Sergeant Jones, I gave you an order.’
    â€˜Er… yes sir,’ said Jonesy. He grabbed Alfie’s other arm, but Alfie shook him off and advanced on the Captain, Ernie desperately trying to hold him back. Alfie stepped over his discarded rifle, his boots skidding on the muddy duckboards,
    â€˜How many died when you were playing with your mortars, sir?’ Alfie yelled, spit flying from his mouth, the last word filled with hate. ‘How many men died on the raid because of you, sir? How many are going to die this morning, sir?’
    â€˜You’d better get him under control, Sergeant Jones, or I will,’ the Captain said coldly. He stood his ground, raising his revolver, aiming it at Alfie’s chest.
    Alfie didn’t care. He screamed abuse at the Captain, using the foulest swear words he could think of. Out of the corner of his eye he saw a movement, something swinging towards him, and a light seemed to explode inside his skull. He fell to his knees, thenonto his front, the back of his head throbbing with intense pain, and he realised that Jonesy must have hit him, probably with the butt of a rifle.
    He heard shouting somewhere and there were boots too close to his face and his mouth was filled with mud. He felt hands under his armpits, two men lifting him back to his feet. His vision was blurred, huge faces looming in and out of sight around him, their mouths open and yelling, the Lieutenant and Jonesy and George and sad-eyed Ernie, the ladders behind them, and he tried to speak but couldn’t.
    He blacked out, his head falling forward onto his chest, and when he came to he was being dragged away, his boot tips bumping and thumping over duckboards. His first instinct was to struggle, to try and break free from the men gripping his arms, but they were too strong and he could do nothing but shake his head and groan. Suddenly a new noise cut through the fuzziness of his mind and filled it with pure anguish.
    Someone was blowing a whistle, a high, clear note that was soon joined by the sound of cheering. Alfie could see in his mind what was happening, a thousand men swarming up the ladders, going over the top, advancing into no-man’s land. Then he