First message
France, November 1916.
The rain had been falling for three days. It soaked through the sandbags, turned the trench floor into ankle-deep mud, and left a permanent chill in George Robinson’s bones. Somewhere beyond the parapet, artillery rumbled intermittently across the darkened fields.
George sat on an overturned ammunition crate, a cigarette resting between his fingers. It was a quiet evening by the standards of the Western Front, though quiet was a rather generous word for it.
He’d been serving alongside his fellow rifleman for several months now. They’d shared miserable rations, freezing nights, cigarettes, and enough close calls to make most friendships feel rather ordinary by comparison. George had grown terribly fond of his companion. More fond than was sensible, really.
He often wondered what it might be like to be beside him somewhere other than a trench.
“Here,” he murmured, looking up as he held out his cigarette case. “Thought you might fancy one.”
His smile was small, tired, but genuine.
“Terrible weather, isn’t it? Makes a man miss home.”