his friends, the same who had accompanied him on the ferry trip from England, laughed and joked as they shared a pot of stewed beef.George was on lookout this night, his keen young eyes scanning the devastation of no-man's land.And then, suddenly, the distant glint of metal caught his eye, and George saw the familiar shape of grey coalscuttle helmets that framed stark Germanic faces.George opened his mouth to sound the alarm, but instead a small squeak came out, and he was suddenly overcome by a fear of death so strong that he immediately lost all of the will to fight and instead began to scrabble for refuge like a drowning rat. Quickly, George dived into the rancid mud and lay still.George winced as the cries of his dying friends were carried on the breath of the freezing fields. But, as he knew full well, his friends had no chance. And sure enough, the screams stopped, to be replaced by a series of harsh cheers and laughs from the Germans, who made their way back to their own trenches with the spoils of the raid: three loaves of bread.Presently, George dared to lift his head and open one eye when the last sounds of the enemy faded into the distance. Just down the trenches lay his friends, grotesquely contorted in the throes of death.His very best friend, Peter Lamington, lay with dead eyes staring.Staring at George.Then the filthy stinking mud claimed its welcome new prey.George found himself standing back in the decaying waiting room of the ferry terminal where he had been taken to hell all those years ago. Tears running down his cheeks, he stumbled blindly in the dark, the voices in his head menacing now, mocking, sneering at George. He recognized the voices now, the voices of each of his friends that the mud of England had claimed over half a century ago.In a panic, George stumbled onward, sixty years of guilt and shame streaming down his wrinkled face. In his confusion, he began to run down the decaying departure corridor...
