Disclaimer: See Chapter 1.

Thanks for the reviews & everyone who's sticking with this story, despite the time between chapters :)

& the reunion's coming soonish, don't worry, it'll happen :D

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"War does not determine who is right - only who is left."

-Bertrand Russell

March 1915

As soon as he left the trench and was fully exposed, the adrenaline began to kick in. It felt like his legs were moving of their own accord, propelling him forward amidst the shower of bullets whirring past him in every direction. His heart pounding in his chest, he risked a glance to the left to see men, people he knew, falling to the ground around him; injured or dead, he had no idea, but he couldn't stop to check, he had to keep moving.

All his training, everything he had learnt since signing up and the experience he'd gained being on the front lines for weeks on end, made him focus. They had an objective, and he had to reach it. He couldn't think about how close he was to dying every second he was exposed out in the open, otherwise he'd probably just run in the opposite direction. Or go mad. Or both. That was the thing about battle; you could do endless drills and be told countless times about it, but nothing could prepare you for the reality, and it was impossible to know how you would react to it.

Every now and then he'd slow down, aim his gun and fire into the direction of the enemy. He had no idea if he'd found a target, and in all honesty he didn't want to know. Yet, as they advanced, this became unavoidable.

A soldier, an enemy, emerged from the ranks and advanced in his direction. It took less than a second for him to aim his gun towards Branson, ready to shoot. The next few moments would be etched in Tom's mind for as long as he lived.

Branson, immediately seeing him, raised his own gun and fired.

The man fell to the ground, his shouts drowned out by the continuous gunfire around them. All Branson could do was stare, the mere second feeling like hours in his mind. The man was probably just like him; maybe he had a family, a wife, children, and he'd just taken him away from them. Branson may have killed people since arriving on the line, but none so close that he could see their last moments and know he was the cause. Right at that moment, in Branson's mind, standing in the middle of a muddy field of death and destruction trying to kill the enemy didn't seem as noble or heroic as they had been constantly told. All this flicked through his mind in an instant until a shell blast hurled him back to reality.

The division initially made rapid progress, managing to break though a section of the German line. As they came closer and closer to the village of Neuve-Chapelle, the more dangerous it became.

Out of nowhere Branson was suddenly pulled up short as a force seemed to barrel into him, pushing him back a step. At first he didn't seem to feel the pain, just the impact of the bullet as it shot through his body. The adrenaline and shock initially dulled the pain of the injury and so he carried on going, unsure how bad he'd been hit and wanting to get to some form of safety. It wasn't until the first bullet was quickly followed by a second that the pain suddenly hit him with full force; now that one he definitely felt.

His vision soon began to blur. It was like everything was going in slow motion around him. He suddenly felt a wave of exhaustion overcome him and he fell down onto his knees, his gun discarded, forgotten. He soon found himself lying on the ground, unsure how he'd gotten there, and took in the endless blue skies above him, his mind casting back to happier times.

It was strange, surreal even, that all he could think of in that precise moment was something that had happened months ago. The announcement of the war, and the instant when his and Sybil's eyes met across the array of guests at the party, flashed though his mind in a heartbeat. The moment when everything changed. It was his last coherent thought before his eyes slipped closed and he descended into darkness.

Branson awoke with a start and immediately regretted the movement as a blinding pain shot through his chest, causing him to wince. He muttered a few choice swear words as his eyes attempted to adjust to his unfamiliar surroundings. His mind seemed to be trying it's best to keep up, trying to work out how he'd gotten there.

Soon it was obvious that he was currently in a field hospital, judging by the lines of beds filled with wounded soldiers. He tried once again to sit up and managed to lean against the wall behind him, eyes scanning the faces of his fellow injured comrades. Did he know any of them?

It was when his eyes landed on a nurse nearby that his mind was brought to Sybil. His heart suddenly sped up as his mind tried to clear the haze it was still under, questions whirling around in his head; Where was she? Was she alright? All these thoughts flashed through his mind before he realised, much to his relief, that she was safe; she was in England.

"Well don't you look like hell."

The all too familiar voice made Tom look to the left and grin as he was greeted with his friend Joe Murphy. Apart from a cut above his left eyebrow he looked the same as usual, confident grin still in place.

"Yeah, getting shot does that to you" he replied light-heartedly, "So you made it, huh?"

Joe's face turned uncharacteristically solemn as he replied, "Yeah, just about."

"How long have I been here?" Branson questioned, needing to fill in the blanks.

"You were brought in a few days ago."

A few days? He let the information sink in before deciding to broach a more serious matter. He took a deep breath, reluctant to know the answer but knowing he would find out sooner or later. Better to get it over with now.

"Who did we lose?" He didn't even need to ask if they'd lost anyone, it was a near certainty. Joe sighed and cast his glance to the floor before replying.

"Taylor, Miller, Webb, all dead, and a few others are in here somewhere" he finished with a quick gesture around the rest of the room, before returning his attention to Tom.

Branson raked his hand through his hair, unsure how to respond. They were people he'd known since training, men he'd known well, all with families and friends back home. He tried to imagine what would happen if he had died, but he couldn't get past contemplating how Sybil would react that he had no time to think of what his family back home in Ireland would say.

When he didn't respond, Joe continued, unusually serious; "Well, I'm glad you're okay, thought we'd lost you there for a while."

Branson gave a half hearted laugh, "You can't get rid of me that easily."

"Yeah I know, you were lucky, must have had someone watching over you. Hey, maybe it was that girl of yours back home, what's her name again?"

Branson laughed, but immediately regretted it as the wound in his chest began to throb. Murphy may have thought he was joking in his vain attempt to win some money on the pool they still had going about Sybil's name, but he was probably closer to the truth than he thought. Even though he couldn't remember much after he was shot, the one thing Branson did remember was thinking of Sybil. Maybe she did help him stay alive he mused, though this thought just made him miss her more. They'd had so little time together before he'd left, he just wished he could have waited a few more months, or even until he was forced to, to sign up for the army.

He looked back at his friend, "Wouldn't you like to know."

"Yes, actually I would" he replied with a grin.

After Joe left, Branson was told he had to remain in the hospital for the time being. His wounds would heal, in time. How much time, exactly, he had no idea. He had only been there a few more days before he was approached by a nurse who stated she had news for him.

"What's going on?" he asked, confused.

She gave him a kind smile before replying; "You're going back to England."