“Gentlemen! Let’s go!”

James shuffled along, following the stream of men walking over the duckboards. The soldiers were silent as they walked through the trench, the only sound coming from the sergeant calling out orders.

The man in front of James stopped, facing Sergeant Harmon.


“What’s going on, sir? Where are we going?”

Harmon grinned wickedly and took a drag of his cigarette.


“Another party.” He blew out a cloud of smoke, making the man flinch. “Now keep moving.”

Harmon shoved the soldier forward and James caught him, steadying him.


“You okay, Scottie?” James asked, glancing at his younger brother.

Scottie straightened and glared at Harmon; the sergeant stood in the doorway of the bunker, blowing out a cloud of smoke, his yellow eyes fixed on the two brothers.


“Yes. I’m fine.” Scottie turned his attention to his brother. “You don’t think Harmon is going to make us take the German trench, do you?” His voice was barely a whisper now.

James put his hand on Scottie’s shoulder and led him forward. The stream of soldiers continued forward, sloshing through the mud until they reached the ladders on the parapet of the trench. Scottie turned to James, his face bright with excitement.


“James, it is an offensive! We are going to take the German trench!”

Fear flashed in James’ eyes, a knot in his stomach as he saw the smile on his brother’s face.


“You…You are excited about this?”

The smile slipped from Scottie’s face.


“You aren’t?”

James looked at his brother in horror, his breath catching in his chest.


“Scottie, men are going to die out there. You can die out there.”

Scottie thrust his chin out, his helmet shading his eyes.


“I am willing to die for my country. It is an honor to fall in combat.” Scottie’s voice was a harsh whisper now as his eyes locked defiantly with James’.
Anger and frustration welled up inside of James as he glared at his brother, his fists clenched, shoulders heaving. He shoved Scottie against the wall, pinning his hands and putting his forearm to his throat.


“You damn idiot! You think it’s glorious to die for your country? It’s not! It’s painful and a hell of a long way from being glorious. I should know, Scottie, because I’ve been here longer; all my friends are either in a hospital, a madhouse, or are pushing up daisies!” His voice was a hiss as he put his face close to Scottie’s. “This isn’t some stupid propaganda film or poster or whatever they use to suck you in! This is war. We live in the trenches. We fight in the trenches. We die in the trenches. We are here because we fell for the trick: ‘Your country needs you’! That’s just their polite way of saying go out and die. No, it’s not glorious to die for your country; the posters tell you to go out and die. It’s harder to do it than it is to say it.”

Scottie looked at his brother dazedly, shocked by his outburst. Around them, the soldiers murmured quietly, their eyes locked on James. The sound of booted footsteps broke the silence. James turned and saw Sergeant Harmon making his way towards the men.


“Well, well,” he flicked his cigarette into the mud, smiling as it hissed in the water. “It seems as if we are ready to fight. But, if I were you, I would save it for the Germans. You might live longer.”

James backed away from Scottie, letting go of his throat. As he slowly slid down the wall, face pale, Harmon grabbed Scottie’s arm.


“It seems as if Private Baker is ready for battle. Well, then, why don’t you lead us to the Boche’s front door?”

Harmon pulled Scottie away from James, hauling him to the front near the ladders.


“Scottie!”

He could see Scottie’s face, pale and scared now as he reached out to his brother. James ran forward and grabbed his hand.


“No! You can’t take him!”

The throng of men tightened around him and he lost his grip on Scottie’s hand. He felt the words forming on his lips, words he wanted to scream loudly so everyone could hear. No! He’s only sixteen! The words died in his throat as he realized what would happen to Scottie.
Harmon stood on the parapet of the trench, the whistle pursed between his lips as the soldiers formed lines in front of the ladders. James caught sight of Scottie standing halfway up a ladder.


“Scottie!”

Scottie turned and met James’ gaze; he could see Scottie was trembling.


“Don’t worry! I am going to be right behind you!” James called, forcing a smile.
Scottie smiled before turning to look up the ladder, the helmet pulled down over his brow. Harmon blew the whistle, the sound shattering the silence.


“Over the top!”

The men scrambled up the ladders, running out onto No Man’s Land. As the first soldiers rushed out onto the open ground, the silver rain of bullets was upon them in seconds. James was one of the last men to climb the ladder and carefully pick his way through the barbed wire. He ran across the scarred battlefield, his heart running into his chest. All around him, men were falling, screaming, crying for help.
A man grabbed James’ leg, making him fall to the ground. James swung his gun around, ready to shoot, stopping when he saw Harmon’s face staring back at him. His face was pale as tears ran down his cheeks.


“What’s wrong with you? Are you injured?”

Harmon shook his head, his eyes wide. James seized the sergeant by his tunic and shook him.


“You rat! Too scared to participate in the offensive but content with sending boys to do the job for you, huh? Get up, you idiot! Get up and go through hell with the rest of us!”
Harmon tried to pull away, digging himself deeper into the shell crater.




“I…I don’t…I don’t know what to do!”

James stared at him incredously, oblivious to the carnage around the shell crater, not believing what Harmon said.

“Lead your men! That’s what you do!”

A mortar exploded next to them, making James let go of Harmon. The sergeant buried his face in the mud, his body racked with sobs. James picked up his rifle and climbed out of the shell hole, continuing on.

James reached the barbed wire, his advance ended as he saw no opening in the wire. Around him, men were stepping high over the wire, crawling underneath, sawing at it with the bayonets. None of it was working. He felt around his waist for the wire cutters, realized he had given his pair to Scottie.

James dropped to his knees and began digging underneath the wire, his nails clawing desperately through the mud.


“Damn it! Why now?”

Next to him, an officer had reached the wire, putting his hands on the barbed coils; his hands clutched the wire tightly as he began to step over it. As his foot touched the other side of the wire, a shell exploded in the mud next to him. James buried his face in the mud, stiffening as he felt wetness splatter across his skin. He raised his head, the smoke burning his eyes as he saw only the bloody stumps of the officer’s hands hung from the wire.

James continued to slide his body underneath the wire, adrenaline coursing through his veins at the idea of dying like that officer. He got his head through, pulling his legs out of the mud. He struggled to his feet, grabbing his gun as the soldiers surged forward. His eyes scoured over the coils of wire; he had yet to see Scottie.


“Advance! Keep moving!”

In front of him, James saw the muzzle of the machine gun flash; he dropped to the ground, flattening his body like a board as the instructors had taught him at Blighty. The air around him was alive, men twisting and flailing; another officer went down in the silver rain from the German guns. He turned and saw that the opening in the wire that he crawled through was now gone, replaced with a shell crater.

The sounds grew louder around him, the chatter of machine gun fire, the slower bark of the rifles, the music of war echoing in his head…deafening him. He looked up at the sky, peering through the smoke, another sound reaching him; it was eerily familiar, a flash of memory in the darkness of Hell. A fading glimpse of cherry trees in full blossom, pink and crimson in sunlight.

The memory was shattered by the chatter of gun fire, the shriek of shells, the light from the flares…the cries from the men falling around him. James turned and looked wistfully at the coils, thought of garroting himself with the barbed wire. He shook his head, throwing the thought away. No. He had promised Mum he would always look after Scottie.
James sat up and grabbed a hand grenade from around his waist, pulling the clip. He turned and threw it towards the German trench, watching it arc into the machine gun nest. A few seconds later, there was a loud explosion followed by silenced screams, smoke pouring out of the bunker. James stood shakily and ran forward, firing his rifle blindly.
Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, James reached the German trench; the first wave of soldiers must have cleared it out, wiping out its occupants. He jumped down into the trench cautiously, landing up to his waist in water. He struggled to find the duckboards around him, found one, pulled himself onto it. He lay on his back staring up at the sky, breathing heavily. He reached under the collar of his tunic, found the cross on the chain his mother had given him; tears escaped from his eyes as he realized he had lived through Hell.

He forced himself to get to up, reluctantly tearing his eyes away from the sky. Around him, it was silent, the gun fire ceased, the shells no longer screaming over him. Again, the image of the cherry trees flashed in his mind, only to be replaced with the muddy landscape. He checked his rifle and saw he was out of ammunition; he grabbed his pistol out of the boot-holster, swinging it around in front of him.


“Scottie?”

James’ voice echoed through the silence, bringing no answer. His boots sloshed through the mud, echoing off the duckboards as he walked over him. He reached the bunkers, the scenery changing dramatically. The bodies of men, both British and German, were lying in the mud, their faces contorted and ashen. James’ heart jumped into his throat as he retched, leaning against the wall.


“James!”

James opened his eyes again, ignoring the bodies in front of him. It was Scottie’s voice. He ran forward through the blood-filled puddles, jumping over the bodies. He stopped in front of a bunker, cautiously pushing the door open with the barrel of the gun. He peered into the darkness, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the dim light.

Inside, slumped in the corner of the bunker, was a German soldier in a worn trench coat. His sightless eyes were wide open, staring into James’. There was a little red hole in between his eyes, a trickle of congealed blood in the corner of his mouth. He didn’t look any older than Scottie. James slowly backed out the door, stepping back into the mud.


“James!”

James whipped back around at the sound of Scottie’s strained voice. He ran forward again, passing the ladders and bodies. He stopped as he saw two figures standing in front of a bunker marked with a red cross. He saw Scottie’s familiar dark hair.


“Scottie!”

The two men turned. James saw Scottie’s face, covered with dirt and blood; his eyes were wide and scared. A German soldier was standing behind his brother, his arm clasped like a vice around Scottie’s neck. He moved forward to aim the pistol at the German’s head, but stopped when he saw the soldier holding a flare gun to Scottie’s side.


“You move, he dies!” The German hissed, his heavily-accented voice echoing across the distance between them.

James froze, his finger loosening around the trigger. The German’s eyes were wild as he pointed the flare gun at Scottie; James’ eyes never left Scottie’s.


“Put gun down, Tommy!”

James glanced at the German, saw him press the flare gun harder into Scottie’s side, making him wince. James slowly lowered the pistol, stooping to place it on the ground.


“On ground!”

James glanced back up, saw Scottie crying softly now.


“I should’ve listened to you, James. I should have never joined up.”

The German stepped back a bit, holding Scottie away from him.


“Shut up! Keep quiet or I shoot you!”

James brought the gun up and fired, hitting the German in the chest; he was thrown back, pulling the trigger on the flare gun.


“No!”

James saw Scottie blanch and crumple to the ground, falling beside the German. He ran forward, saw the German crawling over to Scottie, his hands reaching for his neck. James fired the pistol again and the German grew still. He knelt beside Scottie and saw the ragged, singed hole in his side, blood pumping from the wound.


“Is…is it bad?”

James looked in surprise, saw that Scottie was conscious. His face was contorted in pain, his eyes dull.





“No…it isn’t that bad at all. Just…just a scratch.” He forced a smile.

He took the wad of field dressing out of his tunic and cut of a bandage. He lifted Scottie up carefully and wrapped the bandage around him, pressing it tight over the wound. He moved back to sit against the wall of the trench, setting Scottie beside him. Scottie sat with his head resting on his shoulder.





“Stretcher! Stretcher bearer!”

James heard nothing but silence, saw no medics running towards them. He shifted to look at Scottie, saw his brother’s eyes closed. He gently put his hand to his face, felt his cold skin.


“Scottie, you have to stay awake.”

Scottie’s eyes fluttered open, the color almost gone from them entirely; he could only see a faint trace of the green-blue. He smiled weakly.


“I was so stupid to join up, such a stupid kid.”


“You aren’t stupid, Scottie.”





“I should’ve stayed and looked after Mum. She’s at home all alone…”
The memory flashed through James’ mind again, Mum standing under the cherry trees in the backyard. He shook his head, clearing the image from his brain, focusing on Scottie. He could feel the blood pumping from Scottie’s side soaking his shirt. He took Scottie’s
hand into his, entwined his fingers around his brother’s trying to keep him awake.


“I’m sorry, James.”

James looked down at Scottie.


“What do you have to be sorry for?”


“For enlisting under aged. For leaving Mum alone at home. Leaving you behind…” His voice was growing quieter, barely above a whisper.
James felt tears escape his eyes and run down his cheeks.


“You have nothing to be sorry for. It’s my fault. I told Mum I would always look after you and now look what’s happened…Some big brother I am. I was supposed to look after you and I failed.” James stopped, trying not to let Scottie see him cry. “You can’t die Scottie. You aren’t going to die. You are going to go back home and hold Mum in your arms again. You are going to grow up and get married then hold your children in your arms. You will watch them grow up and have kids of their own. You will live to be a hundred-maybe older- and die an old man happy in his bed…not out here in Hell.”

James felt Scottie’s head growing heavier on his shoulder; he buried his face in his brother’s hair, trying to stop crying, knowing there was nothing he could do. He heard a noise and looked up, hoping to see medics coming with a stretcher. To his despair and horror, he saw a few tendrils of mist seeping into the trench, lingering in the hollows.

Gas.


“Scottie, where is your gas mask?”


“I…I lost it…it in the offensive…shell crater…”
James felt around his waist for his own gas mask, found it, put it over Scottie’s face. He could hear Scottie breathing heavily, his breath fogging the eyepieces. The mist was growing thicker, turning a deathly pallid yellow.


“James?”


“Yes, Scottie?”


“Could you read that poem you were going to send to Mum?” Scottie’s voice was barely audible in the gas mask. He was slipping away from James.

James reached into his tunic and brought out his notebook. He opened it and found the folded up poem. He cleared his throat, wiped his eyes with a bloody hand and began.

The sun is finally setting on this long day
Which has taken so many innocent lives away.
Despite the end coming near
I still have not gotten rid of my fear.
I think of you, my dear, daily
As the shells begin their wailing.
I cannot bear to think of life without you
As so many of my fellow men will have to do.

James could feel his throat tightening, the gas burning in his throat. Scottie’s head was a deadweight on his shoulder, his hand slipping from his grasp. James fought back the tears in his eyes and forced himself to continue.

I fall to my knees and pray
In the poppies that in the wind sway.
I can see the light in the Darkness of Hell
And hear God’s voice coming to tell.
I long to feel the warm breeze of home
And stand under my own Church’s dome.
I long to walk hand in hand
With my beautiful love in the sand.
I am so close to home
That nothing can stop me.
I can hear your sweet voice, my dear
Whispering in my ear.
The Hell of War is over
Someone has finally plucked Fate’s four-leaf clover.
So I run to you, my dear
Through the poppy fields of home.

He could no longer hear Scottie’s ragged breathing echoing in the gas mask. He leaned back against the wall, his face buried in Scottie’s hair. The memories were flashing in his head now. The cherry trees… so beautiful and crimson in the light. He closed his eyes, welcoming them, breathing in the smell of the cherry blossoms.


“I love you, Scottie. That’s one promise that I can never break.”