*
It seemed like only a moment of time passed. I opened my eyes again. My head ached terribly and it hurt even to blink. I was surprised to find it completely dark. Had I gone blind? Fighting my panic, I reached up and felt that the top of my head was matted with encrusted blood. Feeling around some more, I found my helmet. It had been dented hard. A bullet must have ricocheted off the side, knocking me out cold. I turned over on the muddy floor of that shell hole and saw distant stars twinkling down. They looked faraway and cold. I sat there, wondering what had happened with the battle, and how the rest of the day had passed me by. The artillery was quiet now. I cautiously pulled my pain-wracked head over the lip of the shell hole.
At that moment, a star shell from the Boche lines shot up. I could see their shell-torn barbed wire and sandbags just a scant twenty yards away. I was too close to their lines for my liking. I was going to have a hell of a time getting back to mine. It may have been my imagination, but I swear I could hear low, Germanic whispers drifting from their front lines. In the gloom, I looked around the ground near me and couldn't find my rifle. My Webley was also gone. It must have slid out of my holster and gotten lost when I had fallen into this wretched hole.
I looked over No Man’s Land some more. To my left, not more than ten feet away, I saw a motionless body. It was my poor sergeant and he was lying quite still. “Owens,” I whispered.
There was no response. From what I could see, he was dead. I felt a flash of deep sorrow and hoped he hadn't suffered too much. The poor blighter would still be alive if he hadn't felt the need to be my guardian angel. There was no reason that he had to follow me across No Man’s Land.
The light of the flare above disappeared, and I was once again plunged into darkness. I suddenly felt hot. My throat was parched. I found that my canteen was still strapped to my belt. I brushed the mud off, removed the cork top and took a long swallow. The water was warm, but it felt good. I splashed a bit on my face. In my pocket, I found my trench lighter. I was careful in hiding the flickering light and checked the time. It was just after nine o'clock. That means I had been knocked out for just over fourteen hours. It was time to try to crawl back to my own lines. I just hoped I wouldn’t be taken for an invading German and shot.
Cautiously, I crept back up the steep bank of the shell hole and peered towards the British lines. Perhaps it was my imagination, but I thought I spotted a figure crawling towards my direction. I squinted in the dark, and sure enough, there was someone moving slowly my way. I had no hope of making out who it was, but I started to feel better. Perhaps they had sent someone out to find me.
Then I had a sudden terror-filled thought – perhaps it was a German patrol. He could be returning, taking a route past my shell hole. If I was discovered alive, I was sure to be captured or executed. I couldn't very well shoot the bastard even if I had a gun, since I was too close to their lines. Any shooting would attract further attention. I reached into my boot and found the small hunting knife I carried there. The knife was hardly considered a gentleman's weapon by the officers I knew, so I had taken pains to conceal it. After I opened it with a slight comforting click, I felt the keen blade against my thumb and felt a bit better. There was nothing better in a close fight than a knife.
I waited impatiently, and in all honesty, my heart was beating heavily in my chest. Another star shell went up. I nearly yelped when the sudden light shone up above. At that moment, I heard the brush of cloth against dirt. A whisper came out of the darkness.
“Lieutenant Grant?” the voice said.
I didn't immediately recognize the voice so I didn't say anything. My grip tightened on the handle of the blade.
“Grant?” the voice called out again, and then a head suddenly showed itself over the lip of the shell hole. It was Smythe's servant, Corporal Reese. He was holding a bayonet in his hand. When he saw me, his face broke into a heartless leer. He slid head-first into the shell hole with the bayonet held high over his head as if he was going to kill me.
He must have thought I was wounded, since I had just barely enough time to dodge to the side. The slice of the blade whistled past my ear. I was still surprised by this attack so I looked at him with disbelief. “What the hell are you doing?” I asked in a whisper.
“I'm going to kill you,” Reese said through clenched teeth. He held the blade in front of him and took a measured step towards me.
“Come and get me,” I taunted him with a whispered voice. I lifted my knife in front of me and saw a sudden look of worry pass over his face. He wasn't used to meeting someone on equal terms. These bullies are always the same, and I suddenly remembered my school days. It was an odd time to be thinking of such matters. He rushed towards me. In the close confines of the shell hole it was a tricky business not to get skewered by that bayonet.
I felt his breath close in my ears as I turned away just in time. His bayonet struck the dirt behind my head. I cut upward into his stomach with my little knife. As he grunted in pain, I felt his blood soak onto my hand. I was glad he did not scream and attract any further attention. His left hand came up and struck me hard in the side of the head. In the shock of the blow, my knife fell to the ground, and my head roared in pain. I saw stars in front of me. With one final effort, I just managed to push him away before falling to my knees. The star shell above us began to die out. His face became a shadowed black mask.
“You're going to pay for cutting me,” Reese said between ragged breaths.
“Why are you doing this?” I spat out weakly.
“Because I was ordered to,” he replied.
I was still dizzy and could do nothing but watch as he advanced towards me. His bayonet was at the ready. Suddenly, behind Reese, another shadow joined my vision. A rifle jabbed out. The bayonet on the end hit the man straight in the back. The bastard let out an ear-splitting scream and fell towards me. I crawled over and pushed his face straight into the mud and held on tightly as he struggled against my weight. I had to keep him quiet.
“That's a good Lieutenant,” a weak voice said. It was Owens and he was lying down with his body just over the side of the shell hole. The rifle had fallen from his grasp and was lying with the bayonet stuck in the mud.
I know it sounds terrible, but I waited there until Reese no longer moved. I then checked for a pulse on his mud-stained neck. He was dead.
I gasped out, “Sergeant, I thought you were finished.”
“So did I, sir,” he said in a choked whisper.
“You did the right thing to help me,” I said thankfully. “Do you think you can make it back to our lines?”
“With a little help, sir,” he admitted.
That night, I dragged Owens through the mud. The work seemed to take hours, but he never complained. Though our lines were really close, it felt like we went for miles through that hellish landscape. We crawled past our own dead men, who leered at us like broken ghouls. At some point my sergeant went unconscious and without his feeble help, I had to pull him along as best as I could. It was a near thing when we finally were spotted by one of our sentries. I had to call out and convince the trigger-happy fool that we were not Germans. They finally sent someone to come out and help us.
He was a big man with giant hands, thick whiskers and a large grin. “You made it back, Lieutenant,” he said to me.
I nodded with exhaustion. “I’ll need some help with my sergeant here. I’m afraid he’s been badly wounded.”
The big man bent over the body and said calmly, “I’m afraid he’s dead, sir.”
I looked at the man in disbelief and went over to feel for a pulse. Owens really was dead. The skin was barely warm. I reached over and gently closed the half-open eyes. I felt sick and weak inside. The big man pulled me up by the arm and led me down into our front line. I fell into a faint.