Bert McCallion was given a thorough dressing down by ‘Old Beardie’ when he turned up at battalion HQ.

But the sealed envelope which the Scottish colonel had given him when he left the Lanark’s sector seemed to strike the right chord with his own CO.

"Don’t get me wrong," he told the inquisitive members of his section later. "The old man gave me a right bollocking but when he opened the envelope and read the letter from the Jock, he went easy on me."

McCallion had been ordered to report to Captain O’Brien after his encounter with the battalion commander.

"You sent for me sir?" announced McCallion, standing at attention.

"At ease McCallion," said the officer, folding up the trench map which he had been studying.

"I’ll come straight to the point Rifleman. I’m aware of what happened to the girl you’d been walking out with. It must have come as a great shock to you and I would simply like to extend my condolences to you.

"Miss Viljoen was buried while we were going up the line for the Messines attack. As you know, officers and other ranks alike were forbidden any outside contact during that period.

"We only found out about the tragedy when the Military Police conducted interviews."

McCallion shifted uneasily. "Permission to speak sir?"

O’Brien nodded his assent.

"The officer, Major Broomfield, he spoke to me in the hospital, he told me how she died. I’ve done my grieving sir and if it’s alright by you, I’d just like to get back to my mates," said McCallion.

Colour Sergeant Nulty slid silently into the listening post and tapped McCallion on the arm.

The sudden burst of a star shell illuminated the landscape. A stiff, dead arm was silhouetted in the glare, like a black, withered tree clawing the sky.

Off in the distance a rattle of machine-gun fire was followed by the crump of a grenade.

"Get this down you lads," whispered Nulty, passing McCallion a mug of hot tea which he had poured from a thermos flask. "You keep your eyes peeled Taf, there’ll be a cuppa for you too, don’t worry your wee Welsh head about that."

"Ta Colour," said Bert. "That’s a proper treat. It’s bloody cold tonight. Nothing to report, all the Gerries must be tucked up in bed."

Nulty peered into no-man’s land.

"Don’t you believe it son," warned Nulty. "They’ll be out there somewhere, just like we are. Forget that and you’ll end up like that bloke."

He indicated the corpse’s upright arm: "Gerry pulled him out of the sap four days ago. Old Fritz was looking for a prisoner but that lad let yells out of him and we opened up on ‘em. He caught it too."

Nulty slid off into the darkness to continue his rounds of the sentries in the front line.

McCallion had been back with the Mudshires for two days. The battalion was now holding the line near ‘Bloody Burn’ in the Langemarck sector. It was August 4th 1917 and what was to become known as the Battle of 3rd Ypres had started three days previously.

After the smooth assault at Messines Ridge, the British Army had sought to break out of the Ypres Salient altogether but the staunch German defences and increasingly bad weather had meant success was measured in yards.

Langemarck was still a relatively quiet sector at this time but neither man in the sap was under no illusions of what the future held for them.

Macallister intoned: "You mark my words Bert. It’ll be our turn soon. There’s too much going on behind the lines in this sector. Only a matter of time before we have to go over there."

With a nod, the Welshman indicated the unseen German positions out in the pitch black.

"We’ll be alright Taf," sighed McCallion.

Taf grimaced in the darkness.

McCallion’s air of apathy had begun to worry him. Ever since he’d rejoined the battalion Bert had been a changed man. The Welshman was aware that McCallion was bottling up his feelings about the death of the girl. And he was worried that his chum might have what some soldiers called a ‘death wish’.

He’d seen a few with that problem. A wife had died at home or maybe they’d even taken up with some bloke earning big money on the munitions work.

Lads on that sort of sticky wicket just seemed to stop caring about themselves. He was determined that Bert McCallion would not to the same way.

"Listen Bert," he chided. "I know that wee girl was everything to you but life goes on mate."

McCallion remained silent. Out in the pitiless night was a rustling sound.

"F..king rats," whispered Taf. "They’re at that dead bloke."

With a slow, slithering movement Bert McCallion was over the lip of the sap and moving towards the bullet riddled corpse.

"F,,k" thought Taf. He nestled the Lewis against his shoulder and prepared to give covering fire.

Bert hooked his hand around the sodden collar of the dead Tommy. He felt scurrying animal feet run over his arm. He almost vomited as the smell of decay reached his nostrils.

Slowly, he began inching back towards the sap, dragging the corpse behind him.

Breathing heavily he tugged the cadaver the final few inches into the shallow trench.

"Oh for f..k’s sake," gagged Taf. "They’ve had his eyes Bert."

It would be a long wait until the morning relief.