“For god and country,” the sergeant shouted.

We all cheered, except for Kercher. Yellow damn Kercher.

“Orders came down. We’re going over at tea time. We’ll drink our cuppas in Boche mud tonight.”

There was more cheering and pledges of magnificent violence when we got to their trench. All except Kercher.

A sallow youth from north Folkestone. Good for nothing but pinching fags from. Now he was even more useless. Trench fright they called it. While we got our blood up, he was terrified and frozen, slumped over his knees with his head in his arms.

We was all scarred and scared as Kercher. Our feet rotten and clothes moldy from the damp. Filthy and starved, so even the rats looked like Yorkshire puds.

At tea time, we clambered over and good enough on Kercher to miss it.

 “We’ll have their guts for garters boys,” sergeant shouted.

There’s nowhere to hide in no man’s land and the heavies cut us into crimson mud clods.

The sergeant urged us on until a fizz bomb turned him inside out and what was left of us scarpered back over what was left of him.

Kercher hadn’t moved and in our defeat we wasn’t as forgiving.

“Kercher you cowardly bastard.”

Someone kicked him and we learned something.

A Hun sharpshooter had long ago potted him in the kettle.

When his helmet came off, so did a cup of skull with brains like porridge.

We all had a good laugh about that.