Free The Ephemera by Hal Duncan, Neil Williamson Page A

cautiously, intrigued, and saw half a dozen soldiers in various poses of relaxation, apparently untroubled by the hellish re-landscaping undertaken by the bosche shells only a few feet above them. Three of them clustered, laughing, around a letter. The central figure of the trio seemed somewhat embarrassed by what was written there, but apparently did not mind too much. A lover's letter, perhaps? On the bunk above them another stretched out lazily, reading a tatty book. Two more sat around a small table, playing cards. Barring the uniforms the scene could have been from a holiday chalet on a rainy afternoon in Skegness.
    Outside a shell hit close by. The lamps swung wildly, little falls of dirt pattering from the ceiling. My heart clenched.
    "Wooh! Getting a bit stormy," the men chorused, laughing again. The shock wave kicked me down the remaining steps.
    "Oh, hello!" One of the card players, a gangly young man with a flopping blonde fringe rose from his game. He peered in my direction, and then reached up to stop the swinging lamp. "That's better," he grinned, "we can see you now. Name's Marten," he said, extending a hand. His handshake was firm and friendly. "Well, come in, please," he said. "Would you like some tea? There's a pot on. Should be just about ready. Right, Gordon?"
    His gaming opponent pulled a battered timepiece from a tunic pocket. "To a tee," he said with a nod of satisfaction. Gordon was an older, tougher looking man. There was a rough burr to his voice that made me look instinctively at his insignia.
    "Cameronians?" I asked.
    "Spot on," Marten answered. His own accent was similar to my own, a teased-out product of the public school system, but there was possibly a hint of a Scottish lilt there now I was listening for it.
    I was offered a bunk to sit on, which I did gratefully, and a hot enamel mug was pressed into my hands. I had not realised until that moment that I was trembling.
    "So, what brings you round this neck of the woods in weather like this?" Marten said.
    They listened politely while I introduced myself and told them what had happened to me that day. Afterwards, Marten introduced the lads, referring to them collectively as The Happy Gang—although he did not bother to explain the nickname. My trembling subsided as I began to enjoy the comfort of the dug-out's camaraderie. I found myself liking Marten's quick wit and infectious humour. However, when I mentioned General Atkinson's name there was a chorus of hoots and boos. While I knew the command was becoming increasingly unpopular with the rank and file, I was shocked by such open derision.
    "Atkinson's not a favourite around here I take it?" I ventured.
    Marten chuckled. "The man's a baboon. An ape, I tell you, and with no more military sense. His only strategy is to hold the line, keeping us sitting here, waiting to be blown to little bits. Men's lives are cheaper to him than artillery shells. He goes through them fast enough." There should have been rancour in Marten's tone as he said this, but he spoke as if he were discussing a disappointing cricket result. The other men murmured their agreement.
    It was then, as I looked round them, that I realised there was no higher ranking officer in the dug-out than myself. "Who's your CO?" I asked.
    "Captain Braithwaite," Marten replied blithely.
    "Where is he?"
    "He's out picking flowers," Marten said, barely suppressing a smirk.
    "Are you trying to tell me that your CO is a casualty?" I found the euphemism, not to mention his attitude, suddenly more than a little distasteful. If this Braithwaite had bought it, the humour of his men was callous in the extreme.
    "No, Sir." Marten made reference to my rank for the first time. He had the good sense too to moderate his tone somewhat. "Captain Braithwaite is out picking flowers. He thought they would brighten up the dug-out a bit."
    "In the middle of that ?" Incredulity raised my voice, but it was then that I realised that the shelling was