"Bloody 'ell," the man next to him exclaimed as a shell exploded on the other side of the trench.
"Quite literally," Monty replied.
"Well yer right about that. These 'ere trenches are filthier than any chimney wot I've ever been in."
"Are you a chimney sweep, then?" Monty asked. It seemed a bit ridiculous to carry on a conversation in the middle of a battle, but there was little else to do. It helped maintain a sense of normalcy amid the chaos.
"Aye, weather permitting. I do jobs of all sorts really. Sometimes I'm a chimney sweep, sometimes a screever, sometimes I sells kites, and sometimes when it's cold I sells 'ot chestnuts," the man said with a grin.
Monty extended his hand. "Montague Navarro," he said. "You may call me Monty."
"Herbert Alfred," came the reply, a firm hand grasping Monty's. "But everyone calls me Bert."
"I take it you are from London?"
"Indeed I am! A proper cockney, through an' through. And yerself?"
"I live just outside of town. Have you heard of Highhurst Castle?"
"Of course I 'ave, who 'asn't?"
"Well, that is my current residence," Monty said in his most earl-ish tone.
"Blimey, I thought I recognised yer face! From the papers! Yer lordship, I suppose! Wot an honour!"
"Not at all, my good man. Monty will do."
"Oy!" barked the commanding officer from down the trench. "We're going over! All the men from me down to Alfred, follow on my command!"
"Well," said Bert, turning back to Monty. "A right pleasure meetin' you. I 'ope to see you again. If that castle of yours ever needs a proper chimney cleaning, I'd be glad to take the job."
"Good luck, Bert," Monty said warmly.
"An' the same to you, gov'ner."
"Ready your weapons!" the officer bellowed. "Steady… steady… now!" A wave of twenty or so men leapt up and scrambled over the top of the trench, charging into the field with a shout.
Sprinting head on into a barrage of German gunfire, Bert shot right back, his gun held out in front of him. Flying debris bounced off the brim of his helmet as there was shouting from somewhere to his left. Suddenly, a cloud of orange illuminated the surrounding darkness, and a wall of heat seared his right side, tiny pinpricks of pain scattered across his skin. He collapsed with a shout, the dirt he landed on extinguishing the lines of flame running across his jacket. A ringing in his ears left him deaf to the world around him, the gunfire and other explosions sounding as though he were under water. He felt hands on his arms and legs, accompanied by two blurry faces, and then he was being lifted, something stiff beneath him. He was vaguely aware of a tingling sensation in his right side, and then the world was black.
Time passed in a blur after that. There was a cot in a tent, some women in white caps, and the strong smell of pure alcohol. Then, at a different time, there was jostling, and the roar of an engine and sirens. Then, salty air, a breeze, barely noticeable over the moans of other men. More jostling. Then, finally, a blue sky, faint birdsong, a brunette woman giving orders, lots of stone. He was carried into a large, imposing building. Another woman was calling for Bella, and there was a hint of perfume.
"Name?" He heard the brunette woman's voice above him.
"Herbert Alfred," came the reply from one of the stretcher-bearers.
He thought he heard the yip of a dog, but that didn't seem to fit with the rest of his surroundings. The second woman called for Bella again. A scurrying sound. Then, nothing.