The sudden glare of light brought momentary blindness to the stranded soldiers.

A German flare descended, swinging slowly on its silken chute, casting weird shadows on an already alien landscape.

Seconds later, rifle grenades began to explode around their imperfect hiding place.

It was a battle of nerves. An inexperienced soldier might break and run as the explosions came inexorably closer to them. Those who did lose their nerve, more often than not, were cut down by the machine gunners and snipers who were ready to fire on any movement beyond their wire.

Hartley and McCallion could draw on such knowledge to overcome all the urgings to dash for the shelter of their own trenches.

Clods of muck and jagged pieces of metal flew through the air but neither man was injured and the German look-outs abandoned their lethal game, for the meantime, at least.

As the last glimmer of lurid glow from a starshell faded and died, McCallion rolled twice to his left and over the lip of a deeper crater. He slid to the bottom where a stagnant pool gave off an evil smelling reek.

In a split second, he was joined by Hartley, who flashed him a white toothed smile.

"Close shave for us," hissed Hartley. "The boche seem to have put Murdoch and Evans out of the game for good. Bit of bad luck that."

McCallion pulled the sweat soaked balaclava from his head and ran a hand across his brow. The movement left a white streak on his otherwise blackened face.

"They aren't the only ones out of luck," murmured McCallion.

"Maybe one of your fancy fags might lift out spirits a little ... sir," he added, insolently.

Hartley played his hand beautifully, like the expert bridge player he had been in those altogether dull times before the world went mad and killing became not only a duty ... but such jolly good fun.

"Not the place to have a smoke, old boy," whispered Hartley calmly, even as Bert McCallion pointed the webley at his head.

"I saw what you had in that fancy case, you *******," intoned McCallion, his voice quivering with anger.

A puzzled frown descended on Hartley's face: "I'm quite sure I don't know what you are talking about McCallion but I can tell you that you are in very serious trouble for this behaviour."

McCallion spat his disgust: "I know what you did to that girl Hartley. You're a bloody murderer, a f..king monster. Why, you ******* .. just tell my why?"

Hartley lashed the handful of mud into McCallion's crazed eyes and with the other hand raised and fired his own webley in a swift, flowing movement.

Bert felt a searing pain near his temple. His body quivered and his head slumped forward into the muddy puddle at the bottom of the shellhole.

Hartley knew he had to move fast, the pistol shot would draw down fire from the German, perhaps even the British lines.

But he had time to aim a kick at McCallion's unconscious body.

"Why?" he sneered. "Because I enjoy it, you f..king imbecile. "

Hartley set off on his belly for the long haul back to his own lines.

Hopefully, Hollinger would have a warm coffee waiting for him. With some toast and that lovely strawberry jam from Fortnums. So kind of father to send out that last parcel.

McCallion's blood mingled with the water in the shell hole, creating a nauseating slurry. But it wasn't lifeblood that flowed. It was not time for Bert McCallion to die.