Hell on Earth- April to June, 1917

The front was indescribable. There were miles of trench lines dug deep into thick mud-like clay. They were never clean, or dry, even by June, when it seemed as though the heat should have managed to dry up the mud. But in Ypres, the mud never seemed to dry. The early spring had been dismal, the rain felt constant and Colin was generally stuck knee deep in mud, crouched in a communication trench working or repairing the various field radios and field telephones which were becoming increasingly important for battlefield communication and tactics. The radios were large, heavy wooden boxes filled with various wires, toggles, and dials. There were two machines which Colin would carry into a trench connecting the front line with the rear, a receiver and a transmitter. There, with bated breath, he would wait, crouched in a hole in the ground, clutching the headset to his ears and waiting for a message. When he received one he would run, crouching to whoever the message was for, get a reply and relay the answer. When his unit was placed directly at the front, Colin would be sent over the top generally carrying the heavy radio to set up communication in the forward trench line which they were supposed to capture, though they never moved more than a few dozen yards forward. Generally, they didn't even move that far. Most of their time was spent in the same trench, heaving steel at the Germans in front of them. The worst was the time spent in a communication trench which had been dug into no man's land. This was a particularly precarious position and Colin quickly realized that the life expectancy of those placed in these forward trenches was dismally short. These trenches were often the first hit and the men in them rarely lasted a day. He did everything he could to avoid being placed there, even volunteering to carry stretchers through dangerous roads and muck out latrines. Combined with this, he found that the communication trenches, like all the trenches were a breeding ground for rats, fleas, and disease. Within two weeks of first landing on the Western Front Colin was laid up with a combination of trench fever and the early stages of trench foot, both infections which ran rampant among officers and foot soldiers alike. The long days crouching over radios made Colin uniquely susceptible to trench foot because he always was standing still in mud. He could never get his feet dry and the fungal infection set in quickly and proved impossible to get rid of.

Eventually his luck ran out and he was sent to the front line of trenches. Within a week his unit was ordered try and take the German trenches opposite them. The first time Colin went 'over the top' he was both in shock at the horror and violence of it, and hardly able to take in what he was seeing. The ground was pocked by shell holes, many over six feet deep. Bodies and bits of bodies were strewn about the ground. It was clear from the smell that many were not freshly dead. The pock marked earth was covered in a toxic mud, there were puddles of stagnant water filled with corpses, human excrement, and the greenish byproducts of mustard gas. The earth was also covered by the garbage of war; twisted metal and barbed wire crisscrossed the once fertile landscape.

The second time they were ordered into no man's land, Colin's luck would change.

The whistle blew. Colin gripped the ladder, ready to throw himself over the top. Every instinct he had said to run away, to run as far away as he could from the thunder of the guns. Every order being shouted at him said he had no choice but to go over the top. Towards the storm of steel. For a moment he looked back and saw Dickon give him a small smile, but his eyes were full of fear. Colin launched himself over the side of the trench landing hard on some barbed wire and ran. He heard shots around him, dirt sprayed up around him as shells fell, creating enormous gashes in the earth. Men were falling left and right. It was a suicide mission, it always had been. Through the haze of smoke and dirt Colin found Dickon by his side. They ran, half crouching towards the German trench line. Colin heard the distinctive whistle of a shell above their heads and the earth several meters in front of them exploded. They were so near the shell that the shock wave knocked them backwards. Colin immediately knew he was injured by the blast, his left ankle was twisted and didn't want to take his weight. Staggering to his feet with Dickon's help, Colin tried to find the direction of the shell and his eyes found a German gunner who was now heaving a howitzer into position, facing their direction. Colin made a split second calculation. The next shell would almost certainly hit them. He pulled Dickon's arm and they veered sideways. As he heard the distinctive whistle again he half jumped half fell on top of Dickon into a nearby shell hole. The initial impact sent waves of pain through Colin's legs, he had landed badly but his head was clear and Dickon appeared uninjured . For a split second Colin thought they were safe, then he felt a great impact to his back. Then...blackness...

Dickon POV

Dickon looked up at Colin, who had fallen hard on top of him. Colin looked down at him, nodding that he was at least moderately uninjured. This look was rather unconvincing as a wound had opened on his forehead and was bleeding profusely, but Dickon could feel blood blossoming from his own face and his arm seemed to have been somewhat crushed beneath him so he didn't mention it. For a second the world seemed to quiet. Then -crash!- another explosion. Clods of dirt, shards of shrapnel and heavy planks of wood rained down on them as a nearby duck bridge was hit. Dickon felt a hot pain is his cheek, another in his shoulder as shrapnel cut through his flesh like butter. There was a great impact from a falling plank and Colin's body was shoved down onto Dickon. Colin fell heavily, his eyes rolling back in his head as his body went limp. Dickon grabbed his shoulders shaking him, screaming "tha can't die! Don't you dare die Colin Craven!" He pulled Colin against the wall of the shell hole, out of the muddy water which collected at the bottom, now it was his body who protected Colin. He clapped Colin on the cheeks, trying to make him wake up. Colin's eyes fluttered, he was alive. He looked up at Dickon for a moment before letting out a high, inhuman scream. "Shhh, Colin! Lie still. I'll get tha outta here. Medic! Damnit! Medic!" But no one came. No one could hear him over the whistling of shells above them. After a time, Colin's screams subsided, Dickon looked down at him, fearing that he had again lost consciousness. Instead Colin was looking up at him with a look of wild terror in his eyes. He grasped Dickon's uninjured arm. "Where are my legs? Dickon I can't feel my legs." Dickon sat up on his heels studying Colin's body. His legs were lying at odd angles, completely, almost eerily still as the rest of his body writhed in pain. Dickon felt helpless, watching as his best friend screamed and cried in agony. For the first time in his life- Colin Craven, the young rajah- cried for his mother. Dickon lay himself next to Colin, shielding his friends body with his own. Tears pricked Dickon's eyes and he too screamed. He screamed at God for his cruelty. Dickon didn't know if the barrage went on for hours or days. His and Colin's screams intertwined in a ghastly chorus. Eventually Dickon lost consciousness as blood spilled from the wound in his shoulder. Colin and Dickon lay in the mud. Their bodies pressed together, protecting each other even in their unconsciousness. After what felt like years Dickon awoke to find two medical officers lifting Colin onto a stretcher. He lay completely still, his face as white as a sheet. Dickon only half heard their conversation over the rushing in his own head. "What's it look like to you?" The younger asked.

"I'd say it's a spinal injury." Replied the older shaking his head. "Shite." Cursed the younger, an Irishman. The older replied curtly. "If I'm right, he won't survive a week, almost a blessing, better than living as half a man." Dickon protested, unsure if he was speaking to the men, screaming at them or just speaking to them in his own head. "Don't you dare say that, he'll live, he's got to" Dickon murmured as he felt a third pair of hands lifting him. As he was being carried away his head rolled back and once again lost consciousness.

Dickon woke frantic. He didn't know where he was, instead of a rough wool blanket he was covered by soft cotton sheets. As he flailed, pain shot through his shoulder, then he remembered. Going over the top. The shell hole. The explosion. Colin. God, where was Colin? He fell back into his bed and took in his surroundings. He was in a field hospital and there was a young nurse coming towards him. Dickon tried to take stock of his body, he was exhausted and his head was pounding and spinning so this took him a moment. "Thank God" he thought, he still had all four limbs, although his right arm and shoulder were in severe pain. It was bandaged so as it lay immobilized across his chest. Dickon had never felt anything like it. He had bumps and bruises plenty of times growing up, but nothing like this. He had always been extremely healthy so he had never been in hospital before or even seen a doctor. Slowly sitting up, Dickon felt a rush to his head and groaned, feeling suddenly nauseous. He looked around the hospital tent and found Colin, a curtain surrounded most of his bed but a doctor and nurse were standing by his bed so the curtain was drawn back slightly. Colin was as white as his sheets and lay deathly still. Panicking, Dickon swung his legs out of bed and tried to stand, he managed to, but only for a few seconds before his head spun and his vision began to blur. He saw a nurse come toward him and felt her arm on his, coaxing him back into the bed, then all was blackness.

He woke again about a day later, more alert this time. Feeling slightly less dizzy he sat up and looked around for Colin. The bed where Colin had been was now occupied by a soldier Dickon didn't recognize. Tears leapt to his eyes, and he moaned fearing the worst. Quickly a young nurse was beside him, her hand resting on his back.

"It's all right lad, you're safe, you're in the hospital, but you'll be alright, no more fighting." Dickon gasped, forcing the tears to slow somewhat. "It's not me I'm cryin' for Miss. It's Colin- sorry- Private Craven. He was here when I woke up last, now he's gone. I know what that means Miss. He didn't make it." The nurse rubbed his back comfortingly.

"There was a transport this morning, taking the worst cases to a different hospital to get them back home. Maybe your friend was on it, there's still hope. I'll check the list for you and I'll be right back." Dickon sighed and wiped his eyes, leaning back on his pillows. He closed his eyes and prayed harder than he had ever prayed in his life 'God in heaven, please let him be on that boat. Just let him live.'

The nurse came back several moments later, smiling. Dickon looked at her with fear in eyes. "It's alright, your friend was on the transport. His injuries were very severe, but he was alive when he left this morning, and they must have thought there was a chance he would live or they would have kept him here to let him be more comfortable." Dickon let out a sigh of relief. "Thank you Miss" he said leaning his head back. Soon, he was asleep once again.