Edmund
The rain drove down as Archie and Edmund and their escort sloshed along the trench. It bounced off the helmets of troops struggling past, crashed onto the duckboards – except where those duckboards were already hidden by rising yellow water. But they couldn’t hear it; it was drowned out by the thunder of artillery, the roar of explosions in front of and behind the trenches, the crack and rattle of rifles and machine-guns.
The CSM stood near a big dug-out into which stretcher-bearers were carrying silent or moaning shapes, slithering and slipping on the slushy ground. He was soaked through: beneath his helmet, the bristly hair was plastered to his forehead.
He scowled as they arrived. ‘You two lend a hand with the wounded. You’re not good enough to lick their boots, but I’ve got n
