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  "Well, Seeston, best be on your way."

  "Thank you sir. Sorry, sir."

  "Oh, and Seeston?"

  "Sir?"

  "I never forget a face."

  Second Lieutenant James Charles Everson was making his way though the trenches towards Company HQ when, out of the corner of his eye, he thought he recognised the soldier skulking down a support trench.

  "Evans?" he called in a hoarse whisper. The soldier stopped and turned sheepishly.

  "Sir?"

  Everson saw he was carrying a couple of hessian sandbags in his hands that, despite his care, clanked suspiciously. He shook his head in exasperation.

  "Damn it, Evans. You're my best scrounger. I can't afford to lose you."

  "Sorry sir, couldn't help myself. I got you a bottle of scotch though." His hand slipped into a sand bag and produced a small bottle of amber fluid. He handed it to Everson, who glanced about cautiously before slipping it inside his jacket.

  "Merci, Evans," he said. "Just don't do it again."

  "I won't, sir."

  Everson arched an eyebrow. "Won't what, Evans?"

  "Get caught, sir?"

  "Good man."

  Evans touched a finger to his temple in an informal salute and slipped away into the muddy shadows.

  Everson, too, continued on his way. Heart pounding in his chest, his mouth dry and breath stale from too much coffee and fear, he took a moment to compose himself before pushing aside the heavy gas curtain. A warm fug of stale sweat, damp earth, the chatter of voices and soft oaths rose up the steps to meet him. Ducking his head, he started to descend into the Company HQ Dugout.

  Private Seeston, coming up the steps, graciously backed down and stepped aside as Everson entered.

  "Thank you, Seeston," said Everson.

  "Sir."

  Seeston had worked for Everson's father before the war and they often exchanged pleasantries in passing, but today Seeston's terse demeanour unsettled him. The men had been on edge for days. Supplies had been moving up from the support lines for more than a week now; ammunition, rations and medical supplies along with new troops, and still nobody had told them anything. The tension was palpable. Was this it?

  Below, the Dugout was sparsely furnished but the furniture was of good quality, requisitioned from some bombed house, no doubt. Hurricane lamps lit the small room, casting large shadows on the crude wooden walls. Everson could hear the disciplined rattle-tattle-ting of the battered old Underwood typewriter as Private Garside typed out order sheets. Major Hartford-Croft, the Battalion Second-in-Command, stood over a makeshift table and looked up from the papers in front of him as Everson entered. Around him stood the Platoon Commanders of C Company. The Major had seen the men through the early summer of the Somme and had even been over the top with them. The men liked him all the more for that. He was a ruddy faced man who permanently looked as if he'd just done the hundred-yard dash and hadn't yet recovered, a raspy catch to his breath as he breathed out, his cheeks almost as red as the tabs on his lapels. His mood wasn't good.

  Captain Grantham was there too, C Company's new commanding officer. This was his first time on the front line and he'd yet to prove himself to the men. Oh, he'd been round the trenches and tried to jolly them along with the odd joke in an accent you could cut glass on, but that had only served to confirm the men's original unfavourable impressions.

  Also present were Everson's fellow subalterns, Morgan and Holmes. In the corner two men, neither of whom Everson knew, muttered together self consciously; a nervous-looking Second Lieutenant and another man, wearing small round spectacles and a British Army Warm.

  Everson edged around to where Lieutenant Morgan was idly polishing his belt with a cuff.

  "Is this it then?" he asked in a low voice.

  "Looks like it. The old man's been huffing over those papers for the past ten minutes. It don't look good."

  Everson ran his fingers under his collar and began to chew his lower lip.

  "Sorry I'm late. Dashed sniper at it again, hmm?" Lieutenant Jeffries didn't wait to see if his apology had been accepted.

  Everson glanced up at him with disapproval but found himself looking away as Jeffries caught his gaze. He was a queer fish that one, no doubt about it. He'd been with them a little over a month and didn't seem particularly keen on the company of the men, liked his privacy, of which there was precious little to be had on the front. Sometimes it seemed the sensible option he supposed. The life expectancy for an officer in the trenches was only months and eventually you got tired of making new friends only to have them blown to buggery.

  "Gentlemen," began Major Hartford-Croft. "Orders have come down from Battalion HQ. We go over the top at 7.20 Ack Emma tomorrow morning. We are to take the German stronghold at Harcourt Wood at all costs. The general advance is being held back by the stalemate in this sector. This objective falls to us. We are to take the machine gun positions that have been holding back the line for the past four months. Bite and hold, gentlemen, bite and hold." Using his swagger stick, he pointed at the map spread out on the table. "The Germans have held the ground around the woods all summer. Unless we can break them before the winter sets in the whole advance will be held back until spring. I don't want that ignominy falling on the Pennines, is that clear? Tomorrow is the first day of November and we will take that ridge."

  On taking over the trenches three days previously, Everson had studied the lie of the land well. Before the war, it had been gentle rolling farmland. Harcourt Wood sat on a low ridge about a half a mile beyond the front line, overlooking the British positions. After years of artillery bombardment, the long incline to the wood was a featureless shell-pocked quagmire. It wasn't going to be easy. He caught Jeffries smirking to himself and looking a tad more pleased than he had a right to, considering what they were being asked to do. As if he knew something the others didn't.

  "Sir?" It was Holmes, Commander of No.3 Platoon. "The Black Country Rifles before us didn't manage it. The German machine gun emplacements will mow us down as they have every other assault. We can't get near them. We're well under strength. They can't seriously expect --"

  Captain Grantham cleared his throat in a meaningful fashion.

  "Thank you, Captain" said the Major. "GHQ have absolute faith in the Pennines to sort this little mess out. A bombardment will begin at 5.30 Ack Emma tomorrow to soften them up."

  "Tomorrow, sir?" queried Morgan. "I thought a bombardment would start days before an attack."

  "All very well in theory, Morgan, but that would only warn 'em of an impending attack. Blighters'll huddle in their deep dugouts until it's over and then come out like rats and cut us down. This way we have the element of surprise." The Major broke into a grin. "The Machine Gun Corp Heavy Section is putting a section of their new Hush Hush Boojums into the fray. They'll lead off the assault and clear a path through the wire. That ought to make Fritz windy enough."

  There was a chorus of muttered approval. Tanks. None of them had ever seen one, although there were many wild rumours floating up and down the line. It was said they'd made a great show of themselves a couple of months back at Fleurs Courcelette. They had apparently scared the Hun witless- great roaring metal monsters crawling inexorably towards them through the smoke. By God, with a section of those it might just be possible. Despite his better judgement, Everson could feel himself getting excited at the prospect of an attack.

  "The tanks will set off first and break through the wire. Here and here," continued the Major, pointing at the map. "They will also draw the machine gun fire, giving the Company a fighting chance. Your job will be to take the German positions and hold them until relieved, which may be a couple of days. The Jocks will be holding our flank, but I want this to be our victory. Understood? GHQ have such confidence in us they've even sent one of their flicker-wallahs to film the battle for the Kinemas back home." The Major turned to introduce the men in the corner. "This is Oliver Hepton and his conducting officer, Mr Talbot."
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br />   The bespectacled man in the greatcoat at least had the decency to give a weak apologetic smile. Everson wasn't impressed. This was going to be a difficult enough job as it was, but it looked as if GHQ wanted a circus, damn them. His men needed rest, but perhaps this might provide a momentary diversion in the lead up to the attack. Flickers were always popular among the men and the chance to appear in one might take their minds of things. Briefly.

  "Don't mind me," said Hepton. "Just go about your duties as you would normally. I'm sure your chaps will put on a jolly fine show for the folks back home."

  Everson shook his head; bread and bloody circuses.

  There was a scuffle outside. Everson heard Seeston's deferential but firm voice. "You can't go in there just yet, Padre... Padre!"

  They heard the heavy tread of boots upon the steps and the Padre half stumbled into the room. The only thing that marked him as an army chaplain was his dog collar and lack of a sidearm.

  "Ah Chaplain Rand," said the Major. "Although a little late, I fear. Our prayers, it seems have been answered and without your intercession on this occasion," he said, chuckling. The subalterns laughed politely, but briefly.

  "What can we do for you, Padre?" said Captain Grantham.

  "I'm after a little Christian charity and a few of your men, if you can spare them. There's been an accident on the St. Germaine Road. An ambulance came off the road hit a shell hole. Thankfully the occupants weren't injured - they're shaken and a little bruised but generally fine."

  "Well send 'em on their way again, Padre, they're no business of ours," said the Major.

  "Well, it's just that they're VAD's -- three of them."

  "Women? Shouldn't they be in their hospitals instead of gadding about out here?"

  "They say they were dropping off supplies for the Casualty Clearing Stations. Now they're stranded until they can get their ambulance on the road again. They've taken shelter in the cellar of the old Poulet Farmhouse. Do you think you can spare some men to get their motor out of the hole?"

  The Major glanced at Captain Grantham, who eased his way round the table to the Chaplain.

  "Sorry Padre, we can't spare the men. Big show on tomorrow."

  "Well what about a couple of men to guard them?"

  "Absolutely not," he said ushering the Chaplain towards the steps. "We can't afford to waste men to nursemaid silly gels."

  "Who's going to look out for them until they can get back to their depot? You can't leave them alone out here."

  "I can't think of a better man than yourself, Padre," said Grantham. "I'll send some men to help them out as soon as I can, but it probably won't be until late tomorrow. But feel free to stop by the kitchens and pick up some rations. Best tell 'em to keep their pretty heads down, eh? It'll be getting damn busy around here soon."

  Everson watched the Padre's shoulders slump. He may have been God's representative to the Battalion, but even the Almighty cut no slack with Army bureaucracy. Resigned, the Padre left the dugout.

  "Right, if there are no questions, that's it," said the Major. "Best get back to your platoons and inform the men. Oh, and I'd like some patrols out tonight, make sure the Bosche aren't up to anything that can put the kibosh on our little stunt. You'll also need to do the usual wire cutting. Same old, what!"

  As the dismissed subalterns shuffled up the steps, Everson was approached by Private Cartwright. "Sir, Can you have a word with the Major? I'd really like to go over the top with my mates, tomorrow, sir."

  "You were a member of the Broughton Harriers, weren't you?" asked Everson.

  Cartwright nodded reluctantly.

  "That's why you're needed as a runner to the Battalion. I need you to watch our backs. D'you understand? If the lines go down - and they will, your speed could save the company. I'm counting on you, Cartwright."

  "Sir," said Cartwright heavily.

  Everson mounted the steps up to the trench. Both he and Cartwright knew he hadn't being doing him a favour. Being a runner was a very hazardous occupation. He felt himself sinking into a distinctly black mood.

  "At last. My first action old man. Bally good show. I've been waiting to give old Hun what for, eh?" Morgan was saying to others at the top of the steps.

  "Oh yes, old thing. Give the Hun what for, hmm?" agreed Jeffries, but the twitch of a sneer at the corner of his lips betrayed his condescension.

  "God help his men," said Everson, half to himself, as he watched him go.

  "Oh I shouldn't think so, John. I shouldn't think so for one moment," said Jeffries. "In fact I should think that's the last we'll see of Morgan."

  Everson looked at Jeffries in disbelief and shook his head.

  They set off up High Street together, Everson slightly ahead as the way wasn't quite wide enough for two-abreast.

  "I didn't see you at church parade this morning, Gilbert," said Everson. "All Hallows' Eve, you know."

  "I don't require a third party to intercede with my god on my behalf, Everson."

  "Ah, Presbyterian, eh? Say no more."

  Jeffries just smiled.

  Everson was about to say something when a familiar screech made him look up.

  "Whizz-Bang!"

  Everson shoved Jeffries down Garland Avenue, a foul- smelling latrine sap, to take cover against the wall. A second later there was an almighty explosion. They felt the concussion wave through their backs as they were showered with soil and mud.

  There was a brief silence before the cries and wails began. Everson got up and brushed the dirt off his uniform. Smoke and dust rose over what was left of the sandbag parapet above his head. His hands were shaking. He took a deep breath, then he stepped round the corner into the chaos.

  A soldier, blood streaming down his face, ran blindly past, screaming, almost knocking him over. Everson walked up the communications trench towards the sound of pitiful squeals and gruff shouts.

  "Gilbert, there's men hurt down here," he called back. Jeffries sauntered out to join him. They rounded the corner of the traverse to a scene of devastation. The shell had burst in the trench, taking out a dugout, burying the men below. Severed limbs lay on the ground and slick red offal steamed in the mud.

  Everson saw a soldier walking around unsteadily. He grabbed the fellow by the shoulder. "How many?" The man wheeled round and stared through him, eyes wild and rolling like a cow that had smelt the abattoir. Everson could see no blood, no injuries, but the vacant expression in the eyes told a different story if you cared enough to look. "How many? How many in the dugout?"

  "Nine, ten. I only stepped out for a fag. Harris's talk was getting on me wick. I only stepped out for a fag," his gaze focused on Everson as if remembering where he was. "You got to help 'em, sir. You got to get 'em out."

  "And we will do. Now get some entrenching tools and we'll need wood for levers and bracing. You there," he said, his eyes alighting on another Tommy. "Get back to the support trenches and muster up a rescue party. We won't have much time."

  "Why bother?" said Jeffries. "They'll be dead before they can dig them out. Might as we'll just wait for the trench repair party. This whole section will have to be repaired overnight anyway. It'll be needed tomorrow."

  "Damn it, Gilbert. There's still hope we'll find some alive."

  "Sir!" Several men digging with their entrenching spades called him over. A hand protruded from the mud. Everson brushed the dirt from it and clasped it gently by the wrist. There was a pulse; weak and thready.

  "He's alive. Quickly, but carefully."

  The men nodded and resumed their task, excavating the body. He wished he could join them but that wasn't his role. They looked to him for leadership. It was his job to stand back, take in the chaos before him and shape it into order.

  "Everson!" called Jeffries. He was holding up a wounded, insensate man whose face was covered with blood; a ragged wound in his side. "He can't wait for stretcher bearers. I'm going get him to the Regimental Aid Post. Can you carry on here?"

  Everson nodded c
urtly and watched as Jeffries, staggering slightly under the weight of the semi-conscious soldier, started off down the trench.

  Jeffries half walked, half dragged the man down the communications trench. The Tommy's hold on consciousness was tenuous. They came to a T-junction in the communications trench. A left turn would take them to the Regimental Aid post, where the Medical Officer could see to his charge and take him off his hands.

  "Come on, not far now," Jeffries said. The strain was beginning to tell and his charge wasn't helping. He stumbled on past the junction and took the next right. This wasn't the sort of work he was used to, or usually deigned to do but needs must. His own dugout lay a few yards ahead.

  The Tommy tried to mutter something, but with shattered teeth and bloodied lips, it was hard to make out. Not that anything he had to say would have mattered.

  With a last effort, Jeffries reached his dugout and clumsily pushed aside the gas curtain. He glanced quickly up and down the trench and, seeing no-one, dragged the soldier inside.

  Jeffries dropped the soldier to the floor, before striking a match to light a hurricane lantern hung from a joist. The dugout wasn't as well appointed as Company HQ but this one at least had a bed with a mattress of sorts. Over in one corner was a small writing desk and chair. The back wall had been panelled with the sides of tea-chests by a previous occupant. Several thick wooden joists ran the width of the dugout supporting a corrugated tin roof.

  The Tommy on the floor groaned.

  Jeffries looked down at the man and noticed, for the first time, the battalion brassard on his upper arm. A runner. "Seeston?"

  A groan.

  A grin opened on Jeffries' face like a knife wound.

  "Well, well. This is fortuitous."

  Jeffries went over to the back wall and, with a little difficulty, removed a section of tea-chest panelling exposing a sackcloth curtain behind. He lifted the curtain with all the solemnity of a priest unveiling a tabernacle, revealing a niche containing several objects; an ornamental dagger, several black candles, an incense burner, a small leather-bound volume and a carved totem of black stone.