The helmeted silhouettes whispered feverishly amongst themselves, scampering amidst the inky blackness of the night sky. The silken-white flares bursted at marked intervals, enshrouding the cratered landscape in an endless cycle of white, black, white, black. White as the open eyes of shell-shredded corpses on the open craters, black as the shadows of the valleyed trenches.

This night was the same as any other night; it had been about ... was it ... the third hour of the bombardment?

"Nice of them to knock on our door first."

"Sure. Let's roll out the welcome mat for them - I've a lovely landmine to wipe their feet off."

"Hohoho. Ammo?"

"A couple of boxes."

"ONLY a couple? What do you think you are, a sniper?"

"Look, Bert, I'm jolly well not going to get out of this trench to crawl my ass all over the place to grab more ammo - the snipers got Jim the other day as you well know!"

"But Jim, that fool, he went out on a FULL moon. I know his backside was screaming SHOOT ME in that moonlight, but c'mon, James, now's the new moon, and it's pitch-black."

"Say all you want - between being dead now and dead later, I'll take my chances."

"But... don't you get it? They're getting desperate. You've seen how they're starting to fix bayonets and charge... they're going all out! We've better weapons than them - and they know it - but still, they've got more men and guns than us! Look, I took MY chances, and came back alive with ten boxes of blessed bullets!"

"Sigh. What else can we do? Our reinforcements are coming soon anyway. Lend me some then."

"No problem. Feel free to get them out of their bodies."

"Haha. I like that one. I'll return them to you after I'm done."

"Sigh. It's your choice, man."

Sighing in gentle exasperation, Bert crouched into the shadows, and carefully lit a cigarette, concealing the flame with his free hand. Taking a deep breath, he began to murmur in a low voice,

"What passing bells for these who die as cattle?
Only the monstrous anger of the guns
Only the stuttering rifles' rapid rattle
Can patter out their hasty orisons."

James whispered back,
"No mockeries for them now, nor prayers nor bells
Nor any voice of mourning, save the choirs
The shrill, demented choirs of wailing shells..."

"Ah, James. I see you remember that poem we learned in school."

"Oh yes. I did. How could we forget our Lit teacher? Mr de Cruz, you remember?"

"Yep. I remember. A great one, he was."

"What was the last line of that stanza?"

"Haha... you still don't remember?"

"Hmm? No I don't." James stretched himself out and yawned.

"Whatever. I'm tired man. Thank God I'm not on guard duty tonight."

"Yeah. Me too. Don't fall asleep."

"You too."

Slowly, both of them nodded off, with the stars flickering in the darkness.

Bert suddenly woke up. What was that?

Using his trench periscope, he peered cautiously into the black night. Some uncertain shapes. Were they... Then he quickly prodded James.

"Hey James."

"Umm? Yeah?"

"I think I saw some movement there."

James became very wide-awake.

"Damn it! Where?"

"There!"

And so, the alarm was sounded. James scrambled back into his own trench. The enemy came rushing en-masse.

Bert fired his machine-gun again and again. Bursts. Blurred. Screams. Confusion. Contused corpse. Acrid vapours of blood intermingled with sweaty smoke. Demented choirs of wailing shells. His fingers cramped, he tried to steady his trembling paws.

Poor bloody men, he thought to himself. I could have well been one of them. Sons, fathers, brothers... and James. That fool. Why hadn't he stocked up on his ammo? They have more men than he has bullets!

Then there was silence for a moment. The first wave was repulsed.

James staggered back into Bert's trench. He was shivering, wide-eyed, gasping for breath, with a bloody shoulder. And he staggered unsteadily.

"Bert. Bayonet to my shoulder."

"James... drink some water."

"Got any more ammo? I'm out."

"I can't. I only have two more boxes. If I don't hold this section... we're all dead. You still may have time. Run!"

"Then... I guess I have to run for more ammo."

"James..."

"It's ok. You were right."

James looked carefully out of the trench. It was silent.

"Do you think we beat 'em?"

"I ... hope so."

"I'll take my chances."

"Ok. Take care... I'll cover you."

"Yeah. Thanks buddy."

With that, James quickly jumped out of the trench. It was now almost dawn, and there was the soft and dim morning light.

Bert fired a couple of bursts to cover James. And with every burst, he whispered a dry-throated prayer. Maybe James would make it. Lord, let it be so. Please.

Suddenly, a shot whistled past. Somehow, Bert heard it above his machine gun.

His heart stopped for a second. He spun around.

James was kneeling, motionless.

"Oh my God... James? You ok?"

In reply, James collapsed wordlessly backwards into the trench. His face was just a mangled hole.

Bert choked deeply. "James... you bloody idiot. You bloody, bloody idiot."

But there was no time left already. The next wave came. It lapped up against the trench's lips, increadingly redder and redder, as red as the rising dawn.

And finally, the enemy wave ebbed back, leaving only whitened bodies and blackened rifles on the cratered shores.

Bert stared blankly at the clouds in the near distance. The reinforcements had finally arrived. He collapsed in weariness.

Then as he stared at James, he finally remembered.

"And bugles calling for them from sad shires."

He took his empty ammo boxes and stacked them next to James' body in the form of a cross.

Then he took his lighter, and held it above James. And he flicked it three times, very slowly, and very softly.