Over the ladder. Out of the trench. It was their turn…

Gunshot echoed through the grey land, stained by bodies and dried red blood. I paused and stopped my sprinting. Harry Turner lay on the ground with a shell fragment stuck in his head; sealed by a crimson mass; his face twisted in horror. Harry. The Harry who thought it was a brave idea when we handed in our forms. The same Harry who had sung on the train to grey, wet France. My best mate Harry.

The bullet whistled through the air.

“Today, I will join you in paradise.”