Free The Penguin Book of First World War Stories by None, Anne-Marie Einhaus

perpetually staring at you, instead of getting up and lying down with death… Incredible.
    He would not be killed. Warburton and Baron and Hogbin would not be killed. No one else in the battalion would be killed. Incredible. A thrill of almost painful exultation went through him, as if the first rush of returning hope and vitality were a hurt like blood flowing back into a crushed limb. Then with a worse, almost unendurable pang, he thought of the millions of men of many nations who would never feel that ecstasy, who were gone for ever, rotting in desolate battlefields and graveyards all over the world. He turned his head further from Warburton to hide the tears which, to his amazement, came into his eyes. Would they dare to ‘maffick’ 7 in London and Paris? Probably. Well, let them. A lot of cheering idiots in an unlimited cemetery would make a good emblem for the first quarter of the twentieth century. Perhaps the men’s quietness and lack of demonstration meant that they too felt this – they were extraordinarily quick now in refusing to be taken in by humbug. Ellerton (like them) was indeed quietly and deeply grateful that the long torture was over, but neither he nor they could join with the Captains and the Kings in shouting for the Victory. The only victory that had resulted was in fact the victory of death over life, of stupidity over intelligence, of hatred over humanity. It must never happen again, never, never. It was the duty of the survivors to the dead so to warn the world that this abomination never occurred again. Even the dullest of them would see that and help. He turned to Warburton:
    â€˜Well, what are you thinking about it all?’
    From the more than ever perplexed frown on Warburton’s babyish face, Ellerton expected some revelation of deep emotion, perhaps a solemn pledge to labour for the abolition of war. What Warburton said, however, was:
    â€˜I’m wondering if Baron’d lend me the horse. If I could ride over to the Divisional Canteen I might be able to get some better grub for us.’

ANNE PERRY
HEROES
    Nights were always the worst, and in winter they lasted from dusk at about four o’clock until dawn again towards eight the following morning. Sometimes star shells lit the sky, showing the black zigzags of the trenches stretching as far as the eye could see to left and right. Apparently now they went right across France and Belgium all the way from the Alps to the Channel. But Joseph was only concerned with this short stretch of the Ypres Salient.
    In the gloom near him someone coughed, a deep, hacking sound coming from down in the chest. They were in the support line, farthest from the front, the most complex of the three rows of trenches. Here were the kitchens, the latrines and the stores and mortar positions. Fifteen-foot shafts led to caves about five paces wide and high enough for most men to stand upright. Joseph made his way in the half-dark now, the slippery wood under his boots and his hands feeling the mud walls, held up by timber and wire. There was an awful lot of water. One of the sumps must be blocked.
    There was a glow of light ahead and a moment later he was in the comparative warmth of the dugout. There were two candles burning and the brazier gave off heat and a sharp smell of soot. The air was blue with tobacco smoke, and a pile of boots and greatcoats steamed a little. Two officers sat on canvas chairs talking together. One of them recited a joke – gallows humour, and they both laughed. A gramophone sat silent on a camp table, and a small pile of records of the latest music-hall songs was carefully protected in a tin box.
    â€˜Hello, Chaplain,’ one of them said cheerfully. ‘How’s God these days?’
    â€˜Gone home on sick leave,’ the other answered quickly, before Joseph could reply. There was disgust in his voice, but no intended irreverence. Death was too close here for men to mock faith.
    â€˜Have