Ypres, Belgium – 25 April 1915

David knelt in the shallow shell hole, watching the last of the stretchers disappear down the slope. He bowed his head, replaced his cap and spoke to the two soldiers beside him. "Let's regroup. Make the four platoons into two, then get the men dug in and secure the position. You're the new platoon commanders."

"But we're only privates."

"Yes, and so am I. That's all we've left now. Somebody has to take charge." He pointed toward the German trenches across the slopes to the east. "We're a bit higher than Fritz here, so their gas shouldn't reach us. But to be safe, have the men continue saving their piss."

"Fritz? Who's Fritz?"

"That's the Brits' nickname for the Krauts – the Germans."

"When's reinforcement coming?"

"Captain said tonight." David winced, then looked over his shoulder, down the slope toward Ypres, while he thought. "When the men have been organised, set them to deepening and connecting these craters."

He scanned his scribbled notes to find priorities. "Holmes, when the platoons are sorted, have a few men set up a latrine area. Nothing fancy; we won't be here long. Tompkins, cut me a squad to help the Engineers deploy the barbed wire. I'll show them where at dusk."

A quarter-hour after sunset, David was with the squad twenty yards in front of their position when he heard an incoming mortar whistle down.

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Black. Nothing but black.

Oh, God! I'm blind.

David closed his eyes and drifted at the edge of consciousness. His face felt like it had been ripped off, but the stench of spilt guts and scorched flesh showed his nose still worked.

Realising his face was in the muck, he rolled onto his back, head throbbing with the effort. He opened his eyes again and stared into the blackness. The sky slowly came into focus, and he blinked to clear his vision. The Milky Way. The stars.

I can see. I'm alive. How much of me?

He began a digit check, wiggling his fingers and toes, relieved they were still attached and functioning. Then he tensed. Fuck! Cold, wet crotch.

No! Please, no.

His probing relieved his mind and stirred smells of stale urine as he relaxed and began breathing again. All twenty-one. So, now what?

He tried to remember where he was. Thoughts of the squad laying barbed wire drifted in, so he rolled his head side to side to examine his surroundings and saw scattered bodies. Then pausing his breathing, he listened. Quiet.

Nothing but the ringing in my ears.

David rose onto his elbows to look around in the dim light and check on his comrades. No movement. Unconscious, perhaps. Maybe dead.

He scanned back and forth, finding it difficult to count the mangled bodies. He stopped, struggling to quell a gag. Six or eight of us. Some made it back. Maybe captured.

Down onto his back again, he fought his nausea and the pain. Focus, David, focus. Ignore the pain. Which way back?

Opening his eyes, he turned his head to again scan his horizon for movement. Satisfied there was none, he sat to check beyond the scattered bodies. In the middle distance, he saw shapes moving – dark forms silhouetted in the starlight. Spiked helmets. Fritz. Wrong way.

Plastering his back to the ground, he closed his eyes again, wondering how many were still alive. "Anyoof ..." His attempt to speak in a low voice was cut short by the pain in his mouth.

"Lo ... Lo ..." Easier to say. He listened.

"Lo ... Lo." He listened again, then repeated the process.

Enough. He pushed himself up onto his elbows again and scanned for movement among the bodies and beyond. The Germans are still there.

He looked for his hat without success. Then, finding his rifle, he slung it to his back and crawled from soldier to soldier. Cold.

All of them.

After finding an unbloodied forage cap, he checked the enemy's position again. Then he rose to a low crouch and moved away from them, lurching and stumbling across the uneven terrain in the faint starlight until he tripped over a dead soldier and fell to his hands and knees. As he tried to calm his breathing, he peered into the gloom. More than far enough now. Where are they?

He shook his head, feeling the pain increase as he rose to his knees. Can't be! Wrong way?

Looking up at the Dipper and then back at the spiked helmets, he nodded. Damn, damn, damn! Heading east. Fritz must have advanced past us. Now what?

He unslung his rifle and pulled back the bolt to load the chamber, finding it had jammed again. "Fucking Ross," he mumbled, feeling the pain intensify as his mouth flapped loosely. He moved his hand to check, but stopped. Don't touch. Filthy hands.

Still curious, he ran his tongue through his gaping cheek and felt his face had been ripped to shreds. With his rifle slung again, he crept farther from Fritz, then dipped into a shell hole for another look at his surroundings. Lots of them over there. Perhaps searching for living among the dead.

David examined the bodies strewn around the crater, seeing most were in German uniforms. What a waste of young men. Theirs. Ours. What's it matter? He shook his head. So where to from here? Don't even know where here is or what's ...

An approaching voice startled him. He plastered himself to the moist soil and held his breath as two German soldiers passed about ten yards away.

"... sogar leicht verwundet?

"Ja, keine Gefangenen mehr. Der Leutnant hat gesagt, dass wir zu viele hätten. Schneide deren Kehlen. Der warme ..."

David listened to the voices recede as he lay on the crater's slope, absorbing what he had heard. Too many wounded prisoners. Kill all the warm ones. Knowing surrender meant death, he examined his other options.

He could try to sneak back across to his side of the line. But how far had they pushed it? And with so many Germans in his way, he'd likely be shot. And if not, he would be captured and have his throat slit. He considered clearing his rifle and charging their rear, taking some of them with him. Bloody Hell! That's quitting. I'm not ready to quit.

After checking the horizon for movement, he climbed out of the crater and into the increasing stench of spilt guts and rotting flesh to search for the least bloodied uniform, sending scavenging rats scurrying from his path. Unable to hold his gag, he dropped to his hands and knees as he puked, feeling the retch of his empty stomach and the sting of bile in his mouth wounds. Easier to quit. He shook his head and looked up. Have to keep going.

After searching for a while, he stopped beside a dead soldier. Shot in the head. About my size.

With the body dragged into another shallow shell hole, he sat still to listen and assess his surroundings. There was still a strong stench of shit, and he realised much of it was coming from his own trousers.

He undressed and used his shirt and water from his canteen to clean up from his fouling. Feeling fresher, he stripped the uniform from the dead soldier, his cold, trembling fingers making the buttons awkward. He was relieved to find the trousers unsoiled. Must have gone just before ... He held his gag as he looked away from the bullet hole.

Unfamiliar with the uniform, he fumbled as he dressed. With his own identity discs in one of his new boots, he finished by putting the cord of the soldier's tag around his neck and pocketing the wristwatch.

After emptying his old uniform, he put it against the steep side of the crater, dragged the corpse on top of it, and using his Ross rifle, he collapsed the earthen wall to bury them. With a careful look around, he flung the rifle into the darkness. Piece of shit! Works better as a pickaxe.

He stepped out of the crater and searched among the bodies for a Mauser. Once he found one, he picked his way slowly across the uneven ground. Behind their lines, but continuing deeper seems the only safe way. Need to see who I am now.

He pulled out the metal tag to read it, finally realising the moon had gone and that he must have been unconscious for several hours. Have to play stunned. Good thing my mouth's buggered. Disguise my strange German accent. Must remember not to be too guttural.

To refresh his German vocabulary and grammar, he began running old conversations with Conrad through his mind. His thoughts wandered through their expansive, rambling discussions in the mountains while they climbed and explored. Such delightful times. Love his way of thinking. That camp below the rib on Bugaboo Spire ...

"Halt! Identifiziere dich!" came a voice ahead through the dark, quite close.

Startled by the order, he froze, stopped breathing and peered into the dimness of the starlight, searching for the owner of the voice. Images flashed through his mind. Weapons pointed at him. A firing squad lined up and aiming.

Stupid idea. Should have headed back. "Hallo," David replied with a mumbled and slurred voice, "Mund tut so weh. Bitte, Sani."

"Bei welchem Bataillon bist du?"

"Schwer zu reden, zu denken." He stepped closer and motioned to his face with a trembling hand, feeling relief when he saw the horror in the soldier's expression. Relieved that his need had been recognised and that the man had forgotten about identification, David nodded, grunted, and played stunned for the remainder of the exchange.

As another soldier led him farther into enemy territory, he tried to spot landmarks, thinking they'd be useful. But it was too dark to see any detail as they followed a path across an open field.

After about a quarter mile, they arrived at a brick barn at the edge of a small hamlet. The soldier helped him down onto the cloth-covered hay along a dimly lit side of the makeshift dressing station. The place was crowded with wounded soldiers, and he blended in easily. He felt safe, so he lay back and closed his eyes as he used his tongue to analyse the source of the pain.

Bottom lip gone. Big chunk of cheek missing. Three teeth out. Maybe only two. Jaw feels broken. He shook his head. Enough of this.

He wondered how the rest had fared when the Germans advanced. Surely the reinforcements had arrived by then. Three goddamn days for the Frogs and the Brits to move their reserves forward. Bloody Hell! We mustered in less than an hour.

As David lay waiting, he looked at his options, thinking that once his wounds had been treated, he could surrender. Stupid. Why give up now? I can find a way out of this.

His turn came, and after an examination, he was given an injection of heroin. Then his wounds were cleaned and dressed by an orderly, who finished by adding several layers of gauze around his mouth and the back of his neck and another multiple wrap under his jaw and over the top of his head.

David communicated with hums and nods as a clerk wrote information from his identity tag onto a white paper card and hung it around his neck, telling him he'd be heading to the field hospital for stitches. After giving David a tin of Aspirin tablets for when the Heroin wore off, he had a soldier lead him outside to a troop truck two-thirds full with walking wounded.

As David sat in the truck, a hint of dawn lit the horizon, and he finally realised he had been out for many hours. Started the wire at dusk. It's now dawn. Not tired. Was I unconscious the whole time? Sleep part of it? Likely a bit of both.

He was pleased by how seriously wounded the bandaging made him appear. Great for my ruse, but I wonder how long the supply of gauze will hold out in the clinic. Seems wasteful. The medic used so much this helmet rides even higher now.

He glanced around at the soldiers, checking if he was being watched. Seeing the others all absorbed in their own misery, he removed the felt helmet and examined it, finding it odd. The souvenirs he'd seen had all been made of thick leather, and he found himself thinking Fritz must have run short of it if they were sending these kids into the trenches in felt. My God, they're so young.

After another quick scan of the soldiers, he put the tip of his little finger through the single bullet hole. This must have been mercifully quick. He shuddered. Blood's now dried.

He pushed the thick felt tatters together from the inside to close the hole, then smoothed the nap on the outside. That's better.

Closing his eyes and slowing his breathing to try to ease the pain, he assessed his situation. It's working so far. Just blend in. Be part of the scene. Move with it as it evolves. An opportunity will emerge.

The truck soon filled, and the sun lit the eastern sky when they started moving. He pulled out the stamped metal tag to learn his new name. Strange, the clerk called this a hundemarke, a dog mark. 

No name, only a unit and a number. Shit.

Could play amnesia.