It was dark. Stygian blackness unrelieved by star or moon or man-made illumination. As dark as you think that it would be if you had no candle, or lacked the wit to light the one you had.

It came from afar, the sound. A gentle whizzing up into the air and then a glorious burst of actinic light, brighter than the sun, as the flare gently wafted to earth on its parachute, leaving afterimages on the retina where the visual purple had been depleted.

CRACK-thump and the bullet imbedded itself in the sandbags on the far side of the trench.

"Blimey! Missed again. The Hun is a lousy shot," thought Carlyle, his last thought, as the second bullet spattered his brains into the mud and slime of the trench bottom.

"Told the stupid blighter to keep his head down," muttered Fordyke. "Now we'll have to police the trench again. Bloody Sergeant-Major."