A house sat nearly buried at the edge of a field, the forest bordering the flat plain of grass cut back to make room for a building reminiscent of older, perhaps better times. It seemed typically renaissance; the French décor neither humble nor modest. Instead it spoke of grandeur, slightly faded grandeur, but grandeur none the less. It had once been the place of residence for French nobility but now it was very much considered a country home, only used once a year for holidaying in the summertime.

The family who owned it was rather rich, especially considering the economy, and was lucky enough to be able to afford a holiday, crossing the channel from England then driving up to this peaceful location. Here they could while away the weeks in slightly milder weather than they would experience back in London, and if they so fancied, a trip to Paris was not out of the question.

This year the previously named ‘Hurst’ family (now the Hunt’s) brought along the only son (and only child) of their faithful groundskeeper, who’d passed away some time before when the boy was merely an infant. His name was Jamie, and normally he would stay behind in London with his mother.

With the addition of Jamie, the family reached a proud number of six (if you included their dog) with Mr. Hunt their undeniable head. There was also his fresh faced wife, Magdelaine, infant daughter, Francesca, and boisterous young son, David, all of whom had only just managed to pile into the shiny new Roles Royce, the dog clambering awkwardly over their laps to fit.

Upon arriving, David took Jamie up to their rooms, always fully stocked with summer clothing and family memoriam such as a rifle mounted proudly on the wall. This caught Jamie’s eye, its smooth polished wood reflecting light form an open window and the guns barrel gleaming keenly. Both boys stopped to admire it in silence from their close position to the ground until Jamie tugged on David’s sleeve and asked a question.

“Does your father use that gun for hunting?”

David turned to his friend with wide blue eyes, disbelieving of the question.

“For hunting?” he said with a frown, “Oh no. It is much more important than that.”

David pointed to the gun seriously, even if his frown did cause dimples to appear in his cheeks. “That gun was my father’s. He used it in the great war to kill the Gerries, right here in France.”

Now Jamie’s dark eyes turned wide, looking up to the weapon with newfound admiration. If it brought so much respect out of Davey, then it must be important.

Inspecting the room further Jamie found there were more war relics around than he’d ever seen before, and it filled him with awe. There were badges, shiny and polished, their ribbon neatly pressed and proud. A uniform fit closely to a mannequin, the khaki colored material kept clean; even the hat and shoes well cared for. They hadn’t been allowed to gather dust like the many hunting trophies in this house and Jamie found himself unable to take them all in at once.

“My father was an officer.” Announced David proudly, grabbing hold of Jamie’s hand and pulling him off towards a wide set of double door’s at the other end of the room. “He got awarded his badges for being very brave; he ran the trenches four times and didn’t die once. That’s how he got his limp.”

Leaning up on tiptoes David grabbed the door handle, pulling it open and dragged Jamie into a large closet. It was filled with old costumes and dress up’s, his mothers fancy clothes from the 20’s with their deep rich colors and plush feathers as well as a pair of faintly dented and well worn army helmets.

The two boys raced in, David pulling a helmet over his spiky blonde hair and Jamie following his lead. They collected up the things necessary for their dress up, including two disabled guns, and raced back out towards the front of the house. They planned on taking advantage of the mainly untended fields that stretched before them, overgrown trenches still gouged into the land like old battle wounds.

They were waylaid though by Mr. Hunt’s appearance in the hallway, a rifle in his hand and their dog following closely at his heels. Both boys skidded to a stop, making clumsy salutes with big grins on their faces.

Mr. Hunt smiled down at them, knocking his son’s helmet lightly with his knuckles. “Afternoon, soldiers.” He said, entertaining their game and straightening up, adopting a military stiff pose like it was second nature. “I trust we’re having a good day?”

“Sir, yes sir!” snapped David, Jamie a second behind him. “We’re off to scout for Gerries sir!”

“Oh really now,” replied Mr. Hunt, folding his arms. “Then I have one piece of advice for you, something my commander told me a long time ago. He said to me: ‘There’s always time to be a hero; tomorrow’”

The boy’s nodded eagerly.

“Oh, be careful with your friend this time Davey, I don’t want to have to send Jamie home with a broken arm again….and thank god for the peace we have. “

The boys saluted again then galloped past the man in the hallway, sprinting out the door and leaping down the steps, as agile and elegant as young springtime bucks.

The pair flew across the field, grass and flowers almost to their shoulders as they raced one another, Davey yelling orders. They skidded down into a trench, Davey springing up as soon as his feet hit the bottom while Jamie stained the seat of his khaki colored trousers with green grass, dirt flying out from beneath his palms.

Distantly, the dog barked, a gun shot rang out, and a fat pheasant hit the ground.

Davey looked to the heavens, disappointed that the sky was grey with a holey blanket, sunshine only breaking through in patches. It provided an insulation, warming the moist ground and creating a degree of humidity in the air, even if the promised rain they promised would abolish it soon enough. This imminent rain was only a slight damper on his spirits and he was laughing at Jamie soon enough, who had blundered into a cloud of midges that hung head height.

Waving his arms spastically to rid himself of the pestering insects Jamie stumbled, his too large helmet falling over his eyes before he could shove it back, half skidding in the mud. He made another angry swing at the insects, his actions futile.

“Stupid bugs!” he cried, trying to escape the cloud David had spotted and waltzed around, swinging his weapon. It only made David laugh harder.

“You Donkey!” He called from a safe distance, “Keep your mouth shut unless you wanna be eatin’ them too!”

Jamie’s boots slid in the mud beneath them, an unseen decline in the field unsettling his centre of gravity and leaving him teetering for a moment on the brink of a bank, balancing on the balls of his feet . He came precariously close to rolling down the steep, muddy hill, but at the last second Davey leapt forward and snagged the lapel of Jamie’s shirt, and yanked him back up like he weighed nothing.

“Woah. That was a close one.” He breathed, peering over the bank to the sloshy puddles of mud and horse manure below, malformed by deeply gouged caterpillar tracks. He patted a slightly paler Jamie on the back. “Your mother wants you back safe remember?”

Catching his breath Jamie nodded, wiping dirt off the palms of his hands onto his already dirt caked trousers. After a moment he straightened, imitating Davey’s toothy grin. “Yeah- thanks for catching me.”

Together they sloshed through the muck across the field. They fell into step automatically, David in front and Jamie half a step behind, their feet hitting the ground in unison, leaving the souls of their boot’s deeply imprinted in the sodden soil behind them, sweat starting to gather beneath their dirty clothes. Their moods were still high, and like happy hunting dogs they wagged their tails while marching, Davey whistling the ‘Colonel Bogey March’.

Quietly at first, but gaining volume with confidence, Jamie began to sing along with tune.

“Hitler;” Davey patted the barrel of his gun in time with the rhythm, both their feet automatically following along. “He’s only got one ball!” Stomp. Stomp.

“Goering, has two, but very small;”

Stomp, stomp.

“Himmler- is very sim'lar,”

Stomp, Stomp.

“And Goebbels has no balls at all.”

Bang!

Their mouths snapped shut immediately, heads whipping in the direction of the sound. Only half a second passed before orders were being screamed back across the open field. “Get down!”

Davey and Jamie obeyed in a second flat, dropping to mud slick ground just as heavy, stinging drops of rain spat down from the sky, chilling the muggy air as it fell. The pair crawled for cover, weighed down by dirt sodden clothing that rapidly absorbed the sharp raindrops, sliding off their helmets and creating a handicapping curtain before their eyes.

Lifting his head Davey flashed his eyes across the sodden field to a tree line no less than one hundred meters away. The dense undergrowth there could easily hide their enemy’s and he realized that out on the open fields the allies were sitting ducks. There was nowhere to hide except for a few low hills and ridges like the one they lay before, but it could hardly be called cover.

For a moment a lull swallowed the field, only the sound of rain and each soldiers breathing in their own ears to be heard before, collectively, the fire began. Bullets bit into flesh and mud with all the savagery of a wild animal, thudding into tree trunks and pinging off metal. This was kill or be killed.

Commands were being given and men were reacting instantaneously, falling into line and rushing forwards, their weapons held at the ready, fingers wrapped round the trigger and the metal gleaming dully in the half light. Their eyes were shadowed by their helmets, and Davey found it hard to pick out the individual faces of men he knew.

They were too far away to hear the orders but they saw the sharp, immediate reactions of the troops.

A thud shockingly close to where the boys lay forced them both to snap round, wide eyes fixing on the collapsed form or a soldier not four feet away, his body splayed out in the mud like it where on exhibit, face forward with milky eyes staring back at them. One of his hands was outstretched and the top half of his helmet caved in, skull mashed with metal, blood and dirt all being washed away by pounding waters.

Davey was frozen, breathing stopped.

He knew that man!

His name was Adam. He was born in Bedfordshire. He had a wife and a baby girl.

He was only twenty six.

Reaching out Davey was shocked to find Adam’s limp hand was still warm, the wedding band on his finger slicked with mud. He remained frozen there, blood rushing in his ears, heart thrumming in time to machine gun fire. A bullet hit the ground close enough to splatter mud across his cheek, yet he did not flinch.

Nearby a grenade went off, another three foot closer to where they lay, raining clotted earth down on their heads.

Panicked Jamey dug his fingers brutally into Davey’s shoulder, yanking at the straps of his military backpack and the rough, cloying folds of his uniform in a desperate bid to get his frozen friend to move. Another grenade cratered the ground near them, this time rippling and drumming the air with its blast. It left his head ringing, roaring over the sound of bullets and dying men until it was like listening to the radio through two sets of double doors.

Miraculously a hare sprung up from a hole Jamie had not seen before; the white’s of its eyes glaringly vivid as the creature legged its way across the field, catapulting under barbed wire that tore crimson blossoms in its fur. It leapt away from falling soldiers, scampering to the side as an explosion ripped up the earth only for it to collapse when a stray bullet hit the dirt beneath its nose. Its eyes rolled, leg’s kicking and twitching before it fell still.

The hare’s heart gave out.

“David! We have to move! Please! We have to go! Get up! We have to go!” Jamie yanked violently on Davey’s clothing, hitting him in the back until David’s head whipped around. Without thought he snatched up Jamie’s hand, yanking them both to their feet and leading them, stumbling, towards an unhealthy looking hedge.

They dived amongst its foliage, clinging together like frightened infants, trying to catch their breath. The scene unfolding before them seemed unreal, their comrades falling one by one under ceaseless enemy fire; David didn’t realize he was crying until Jamie wiped the tears from his cheeks with clumsy, clammy fingers that trembled violently.

“Don’t cry.” He begged, pleaded, his voice just a frail whisper. “Please, you aren’t supposed to cry.”

“What’d we do Jamie? I never- I never planned for this. I don’t wanna- we cant…we cant just let them die!”

Jamie flinched as a hole was ripped into the hedge further down, a soldier collapsing into the dry, woody branches, a lifeless rag doll. “We have to go out there and help them Jamie! We’re soldiers for Christ’s sake.”

He nodded frantically in response, his shaking hands repositioning themselves on his weapon to grip the trigger, imitating Davey and shifting into a shaking crouch, their heels sliding back in the muddy earth till they found purchase.

“We go on three okay? We have to. We can’t leave them okay?”

“Yeah.” Jamie agreed, swallowing the lump in his throat. “Okay.

“….One...” Davey whispered, and Jamie tried not to hold his breath.

“…Two…” Jamie attempted to still his trembling hands. I can’t do this, I can’t run. One more second and they’d be gone, out across the killing fields. One more second. I can’t.

“THREE.”

They threw themselves forward; gun’s raised to the ready, side by side. The ground beneath their feet was treacherous, but they moved on. Their comrades fell on either side but they kept running. The rain and dirt blurred their vision, but they saw clearly straight ahead.

Jamie stopped dead.

His hands came up to his chest, weapon hitting the ground with a hollow thud, and Davey turned to catch his friend before he followed it.

“Davey….” his voice sounded strained, and to Davey he suddenly weighed a hundred pounds.

Jamie’s mouth opened, blood staining the front of his uniform so brightly. His face was pale, though his trembling had ceased.

“I- I don’t think I want to play this game anymore.”