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

wire. Their purpose was to check enemy patrols for unusual movement,any signs of increased activity, as if there might be an attack planned.
    More star shells lit the sky. It was beginning to rain. A crackle of machine-gun fire, and heavier artillery somewhere over to the left. Then the sharp whine of sniper fire, again and again.
    Joseph shuddered. He thought of the men out there, beyond his vision, and prayed for strength to endure with them in their pain, not to try to deaden himself to it.
    There were shouts somewhere ahead, heavy shells now, shrapnel bursting. There was a flurry of movement, flares, and a man came sliding over the parapet, shouting for help.
    Joseph plunged forward, slithering in the mud, grabbing for the wooden props to hold himself up. Another flare of light. He saw quite clearly Captain Holt lurching towards him, another man over his shoulder, deadweight.
    â€˜He’s hurt!’ Holt gasped. ‘Pretty badly. One of the night patrol. Panicked. Just about got us all killed.’ He eased the man down into Joseph’s arms and let his rifle slide forward, bayonet covered in an old sock to hide its gleam. His face was grotesque in the lantern light, smeared with mud and a wide streak of blood over the burned cork that blackened it, as all night patrol had.
    Others were coming to help. There was still a terrible noise of fire going on and the occasional flare.
    The man in Joseph’s arms did not stir. His body was limp and it was difficult to support him. Joseph felt the wetness and the smell of blood. Wordlessly others materialized out of the gloom and took the weight.
    â€˜Is he alive?’ Holt said urgently. ‘There was a hell of a lot of shot up there.’ His voice was shaking, almost on the edge of control.
    â€˜Don’t know,’ Joseph answered. ‘We’ll get him back to the bunker and see. You’ve done all you can.’ He knew how desperate men felt when they risked their lives to save another man and did not succeed. A kind of despair set in, a sense of very personal failure, almost a guilt for having survived themselves. ‘Are you hurt?’
    â€˜Not much,’ Holt answered. ‘Couple of grazes.’
    â€˜Better have them dressed, before they get poisoned,’ Josephadvised, his feet slipping on the wet boards and banging his shoulder against a jutting post. The whole trench wall was crooked, giving way under the weight of mud. The founds had eroded.
    The man helping him swore.
    Awkwardly carrying the wounded man, they staggered back through the travel line to the support trench and into the light and shelter of a bunker.
    Holt looked dreadful. Beneath the cork and blood his face was ashen. He was soaked with rain and mud and there were dark patches of blood across his back and shoulders.
    Someone gave him a cigarette. Back here it was safe to strike a match. He drew in smoke deeply. ‘Thanks,’ he murmured, still staring at the wounded man.
    Joseph looked down at him now, and it was only too plain where the blood had come from. It was young Ashton. He knew him quite well. He had been at school with his older brother.
    The soldier who had helped carry him in let out a cry of dismay, strangled in his throat. It was Mordaff, Ashton’s closest friend, and he could see what Joseph now could also. Ashton was dead, his chest torn open, the blood no longer pumping, and a bullet-hole through his head.
    â€˜I’m sorry,’ Holt said quietly. ‘I did what I could. I can’t have got to him in time. He panicked.’
    Mordaff jerked his head up. ‘He never would!’ The cry was desperate, a shout of denial against a shame too great to be borne. ‘Not Will!’
    Holt stiffened. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said hoarsely. ‘It happens.’
    â€˜Not with Will Ashton, it don’t!’ Mordaff retorted, his eyes blazing, pupils circled with white in the candlelight, his face grey. He had been in the