Three days later Willie McCallion was mopping up the remains of a plate of egg and chips in a warm but smelly estaminet just outside the village of Poperinge.
He washed down the meal with a glass of rough French wine. Willie would have preferred a beer but past experience had taught him that the watery liquid which passed for Ale in 'Pop' was 'no bon'.
Just 24 hours after hearing of the death of his brother, Willie and the Mudshire's had advanced into no-man's land in an ill-fated attempt to take what was laughingly termed the 'village' of Langemarck .. another of those God-forsaken little mounds which represented the high ground on the battle maps.
Almost from the moment they left their trenches, the 'Muddies' had faced a hail of fire. German machine gunners in concrete 'pill boxes' with interlinking fields of fire had every inch of ground covered.
Willie grimaced as he tossed back the dregs of his glass and reached out for the bottle on the table. He was drinking by himself.
"Here's to you Squirrel," mumbled Willie. His mate was gone and Willie just didn't know what had happened to him.
In a split second, Squirrel had disappeared.
The shell had blown Willie into a water-filled shell hole. It had blown Squirrel into eternity. In years to come, Squirrel's mother would wake up from a dream in which she saw her young son stumbling aimlessly over a shell-pocked landscape.
It was as if Squirrel was trying to work out how death had come to him.
Willie's head still ached from the concussion of the blast and he would have huis own personal nightmare for years to come of his desperate scrabbling attempts to pull himself from the quagmire in the shellhole.
At one point he'd almost given up and then a strong hand had grabbed his webbing, hauling and pulling him from the stinking pit.
To his amazement, he looked into the face of 2nd Lt. Hartley of 14 platoon.
"F..k me Sir," Willie had gasped. "Jesus I thought I was a goner. Thanks."
In the midst of the carnage, the grin on Hartley's face was disconcerting: "Good lad, we're going to try and flank this bloody pill box. Have you any bombs?"
Willie nodded and handed two of the mills grenades to the confident officer.
With a wink, Hartley set off, crawling expertly towards the concrete structure, using every possible fold in the ground for cover.
"*******'s after a VC," muttered Sgt. Reed as he followed the young officer's progress. "Right you f..king lot, earn your marksmanship pay ... everybody shoot at those bloody loophole. Give that officer cover!"
Willie emptied three magazines at the target. Most of the shots linged harmlessly off the reinforced concrete but the men pinned down in no-man's land felt they were at least fighting back against their tormentors.
Then with a final dash, Hartley was below the loophole. In that split second there was a silence on the battlefield as if in salute to Hartley's bravery.
"Share this amongst yourselves,"yelled Hartley as he fed grenades through the slot.
"F..k's sake," muttered Sgt. Reed. "I thought they only said that in the comic papers."
But for all Hartley's bravery, it was merely a local victory. The rest of the German line had held and the Muddies - what was left of 'em - could only consolidate their little gain.
Willie's thoughts were interrupted by the soldier who pulled a chair up to his table and leaned forward confidentially.
"You're McCallion then?" said the soldier in an accent which Willie could barely understand.
Willie nodded at his new companion who had helped himself to a swig of wine.
"I've something for you," said the soldier. "I've been looking for you for a wheen o' days."
"Never mind that chum" asked Willie. "Who might you be."
"Billy Swinton, Royal Irish Rifles, but the boys call me 'Swizz'. I've got something for you lad ... found it on a dead fella in the last attack. Well, he's dead now anyway. Here ye go."
Willie unfolded the scrap of bloodstained paper and pulled the lamp closer to read the water blurred scribble of pencil which it contained.
The note was short.
It stated simply: "William McCallion, 7th Mudshire Rifles, 13 Platoon. Hartley did it."
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