August 16, 1917

Billy studied the muddy wasteland in an attempt to pin-point the weak voice which had called for help. Squirming along on his stomach, he laboured through the slime until he reached the lip of a stagnant shellhole.

In the stinking pool of water at the bottom lay a British soldier, his uniform sodden and torn. Dried blood was caked amongst his filthy hair and his face had a doomed, almost skeletal appearance.

Billy prodded the water with his bayoneted rifle. It was only a few inches deep but in some other parts of the battlefield an unwary soldier could find himself drowning in just such an obscene hole.

He slithered over the edge and using his heels to dig into the clay for support, moved crab-like towards the wounded soldier.

"Give us a fag, mate," croaked the man.

Billy reached for his water bottle instead but the man indicated his stomach. It was then that Billy realised the soldier was 'gut shot'.

"No point in giving me water chum," said the man. "I'm done for and that'll only make it harder on me. It's a fag I need."

The man's face twisted in pain and his hands clawed into the soft mud.

Billy put two Woodbines in his mouth and lit them. He put one between the soldier's lips and watched as he inhaled and then coughed up a mouthful of blood.

"How long have you been out here chum?" asked Billy. "Your mob's meant to be away to the south of here."

The soldier moaned: "I think it's been about three days. Oh Jesus I woke up one time and a f..king rat was at me. We were out on a night patrol when it happened."

"Gerry spot you then?" asked Billy.

"Oh aye chum, he spotted us right enough. F..king b.....ds. They got two of us right away but it wasn't Gerry who did for me. It was a bloody officer, and the b*****d thinks I'm dead.

"You've got to get a message to my brother .. tell him ... " the soldier arched his back as another spasm racked his body. "No, wait. Give me something to write with. And a piece of paper."

Billy fished in his tunic pocket and produced a scrap of paper and a well chewed pencil.

The soldier scribbled a few words and then the pencil and paper fell from his grasp.

"Hold on chum," pleaded Billy. "Who's the message for?"

"You find Rfn. William McCallion of the 7th battalion. Give him that note. Tell him that Hartley thought he'd shot me through the head, but it just knocked me out. Tell him I got this stomach wound when I was trying to get back to our lines.

"And tell my brother that Hartley has killed before and he'll kill again. Tell him to ask about the girl in Ypres .. tell him to ask at Vincent's about Amanda ..."

Another gush of blood befouled the soldier's tunic. He turned his head to the sky and died.