Wipers

All he could see before him was carnage, the hell on earth that Maxwell had described. German artillery shells exploded in front of them sending huge plumes of smoke and waves of mud splashing through the air. Men screamed in agony as they were hit by bullets and shrapnel, a tin helmet hit Shears in the shin as it came spinning through another explosion.

Yards and yards of barbed wire protected the German machine gunners on top of the ridge, Shears couldn’t see how they were ever going to get through the defences, it seemed hopeless but on and on he ran behind Fuller and Maxwell, flanked by Sergeant Bicknell.

Overhead a shrill whistling sound followed by an angry sucking noise. Shears felt himself being lifted into the air, behind him a terrible booming. Smoke and cordite filled his lungs and a pain like a thousand hot knives piercing his skin. He landed with a splat into the mud. For a moment he couldn’t hear or couldn’t see, pain racked his body, he gagged on the taste of mud and cordite.

The first sight that Shears focused on was the headless, armless body of Sergeant Bicknell lying beside him.

Shears tried to stand up but he couldn’t seem to move his legs. He looked down his body and saw that he had no legs, just stumps above the knees, his bones protruding out. He tried to scream but only a gurgling sound came out, something seemed to be dangling around his neck. He moved his hand around his face and realised that his jawbone was hanging off.

Two familiar faces stood over him.

"He’s still alive, the poor bastard!" Fuller uttered.

"You took a Jerry shell I’m afraid, old man," came Maxwell’s response.

"Is there anything we can do for you?" stuttered Fuller.

Both Fuller and Maxwell were white faced and seemed to be ignoring the shells and bullets around them. Shears could taste his own blood on his tongue, not just normal blood but thick, oozing internal blood, he realised that this was it, he wouldn’t see another sunset. He tried to reach for his inside pocket for the photograph of Marion. Maxwell leant down and helped him recover the blood stained picture. Shears looked at it longingly, the pain vanished for a wonderful moment, they were back in Hounslow dancing, embracing, laughing, how they used to be before he had come to this awful place. How he longed to be there again, now he would never see her again.

Back he came into reality, back in this muddy field somewhere in Belgium, dying without even firing a shot at the enemy. Why did I come here, he thought once again, why did I come here?

"Do us a favour, old man," whispered Maxwell, "If there is another side, the afterlife, come back here and save us, like the angel of Mons. Come back to Wipers."