August 1915The push was on.
The company went over and before they had time to think about it, Harry and Eddie found themselves backed against each other, fending Johnny Turk away, shrieking bloody murder at the tops of their lungs. They’d rushed to the front of the surge and now it seemed natural to step back, to ebb away from that high tide mark. There was no clean fighting, no thought of anything they’d been taught. This was just scrapping as hard as they could, raging like they were in the middle of a wharf-side rumble, except this time they really wanted to kill someone. They wanted it more than rest or peace or home. Don’t pick a fight with me, Abdul, or I’ll kill you, I will. I really will kill you, I want to kill you.
Too many times they got what they wanted. Breathless and filthy
