1918, France.

They were crawling across no-man's land, flat on their bellies, covered head to toe in the foul, stinking mud. As silent as the grave, Dust had said. Make too much noise, and you're good as dead. They all understood, but it was hard to be quiet when you were carrying so much equipment, rolls of wire and pliers and shovels and posts; hard to move slowly and carefully when your heart hammered in fear and your entire body was screaming at you to jump up and run back to the cover of the trenches.

There was a hissing noise, and a second later a flare erupted far above them in the night sky. It illuminated the scarred wasteland around them in an eerie green light, the craters full of mud and rain and human blood, the endless rubble, tangles of wire, corpses left where they had fallen. A hellish, nightmare landscape.

Dickon shut his eyes and flattened himself into the mud as he'd been taught. Keep utterly still. Move, and be spotted, and you'd bring the shells down. The stench of the ground filled his nostrils, making him long to wipe his face clean. But he clenched his jaw and kept frozen, his whole body tensed to stillness.

At last the flare faded and the inky darkness returned. They were instantly moving again, and when there was no accompanying shell, they sighed as one in collective relief. One of the men began to pray aloud.

"Shut it!" growled Dust immediately, and the man fell silent. "Pray in your head, or not at all. Now get this wire strung out, and be quick about it."

They began to work, clumsy in the cold, their fingers numb and unresponsive. Dickon found himself with a hammer in his hand. While Liam held the post steady, he drove it deep it into the mud. Despite the cloth wrapped on the end of the pole to smother the sound, each clash of the hammer seemed to ring out like a death knell, a call to the Germans in their trench, here we are, here we are. Dickon grit his teeth and kept on.

There was another flare, and they dropped again like tenpins. The hammer splashed in the mud next to him, and he flattened out beside it, motionless. This time, as the flare began to die, there was a low whirring in the air around them. The strangeness of it startled him after such a long, uncanny silence. Not a shell, a –

"Gas!" hissed Dust, already scrambling for his mask. "Gas! Quick!"

Dickon moved at the speed of light, fingers no longer numb but burning with urgency. He seized his mask and dragged it down over his head, heart thudding as he made sure it was airtight, the filter still attached correctly. His breath rattled as he drew in, his head pounding with the fear of it. Through his foggy goggles he looked around, to see a group of masked men staring back at him, like aliens from another world. But next to him, there was one who hadn't yet fitted his mask. Dickon stared in horror as Liam fumbled desperately with his equipment, his hands shaking so badly he couldn't even get a good grip, let alone attach it.

"Liam!" he cried, his voice muffled by his mask. "Quick! Quick!"

The gas was upon them, rising up out of the darkness like a poisonous spirit, intent on death. And Liam was still fumbling. Now he dropped the mask; a low, pitiful moan of terror left him as it fell at his feet. Dickon lunged for it and shoved it back against his face, but Liam was paralysed with fear, his eyes so wide it seemed he wasn't even human, his skin ghost-white, mouth stretched in a silent scream.

"Liam!"

Liam took a slow, shuddering breath – once, twice – and then he began to cry.

"No no no no no no – maaaaaa!" It was a shrill, keening, desperate scream. Dickon covered his ears, but it just went on and on. Far in the distance, a shell launched. It whined overhead, before crashing some way behind them.

"Fuck!" This was Dent. He pulled out his gun and pointed it at Liam, who was blundering blindly, his mouth still stretched in that awful, desperate scream, his hands clawing at his face and neck. "The kid's gonna get us all killed!"

"No!" Dickon leapt forward, putting himself between Dent and Liam. "You can't!"

Dent spat viciously. "He's as good as dead," he snarled. "The gas's got him."

And indeed, Liam's body had begun to convulse, the spasms contorting his body, twisting it grotesquely. His eyes rolled into his head, the whites shining in the dim moonlight. His scream was a gurgle now, froth bubbling at the corners of his mouth. Another shell came, and another, and then there were explosions all around them.

"We need to retreat!" yelled someone, no longer bothering to keep their voice low. There was no point, not with Liam screaming like that. "Before we're all blown to bits!"

Dust hesitated a fraction of a second, then nodded, as another shell exploded close enough for them to feel the spray of dirt in the air. "Alright, everyone fall back! Leave the wire!"

They began to move away. But Dickon stayed frozen, his eyes fixed on Liam's tortured frame. The boy had fallen to his knees now, and there was more than froth dribbling from his mouth.

"Liam – " he knelt down beside him, wondering if he could possibly carry him to safety.

"Maaaaaaaa," Liam gurgled incoherently, his fingernails scrabbling at his face as though to tear his own eyes out. "Maaaaaa… hellllllpp…"

"We have t' – we have t' go," Dickon tried to pull him upright, but Liam was like a dead-weight, shaking and immobile.

"Leave him!" came Dust's voice, some way back toward the trenches. Dickon shook his head, straining as he tried to manoeuvre Liam onto his back. The boy's trouser leg caught on some of the wire they had just assembled, and there was a ripping noise.

"No… Liam…"

Dust loomed out of the darkness, his features twisted in a scowl. "Leave him!" he shouted, as the ground trembled with another shell. "He's gone. He's gone, Dickon!"

Dickon looked at Liam's prone body, and knew it was true. His face was a sickly yellow, the veins showing stark against the papery skin. His chin was sticky with bile and blood. Even his gurgles were dying down now, and his body was growing stiff. But he couldn't just leave him, he couldn't.

"There's nothing you can do." Dust was physically dragging Dickon back with him. They were all alone now, the other men having well and truly retreated. "Come on lad, don't throw yourself away for him." As if to emphasise his point, a shell landed where he had been standing just moments ago; Liam's anguished body was lost in the debris.

And so he fled, the tears streaming down his face. Dickon had never cried in such a way before; he knew grown men weren't supposed to weep like that, like newborn babes fresh from their mother's breast. But all he could see was Liam's face, all he could hear was the gurgling, pleading screams for his mother. He ran blindly back to the trench, not caring if he was hit, not caring about anything at all. And he knew, then, that this was what it was to be in hell.

He awoke bathed in sweat, the memory as fresh in his mind as though he was still living it, as though he were still fleeing blindly through the dark with the rattle of Liam's death throes behind him, chasing him back to safety.

It took him a minute or so to come to himself, to remember where he was. The hospital. Then, like a familiar pattern that grew no less painful with time, he recalled the last moments of the war, Dent's legless form, and Phil… Phil shredded, as easily as though he were made of plaster, just a stick figure, not a living, breathing human being with his whole future ahead of him.

Then the tears came. Hot, shameful tears that made him feel weak and hopeless. He didn't deserve to be alive. Didn't deserve to be here, safe, when so many others never got that chance. He almost wished they had taken his legs – at least, then, he might feel in some way as though he had paid his due, as though he had suffered enough. He wished he were dead.

Then the nurse bustled in, and the routine of bandaging and cleaning began again. Her name was Clara, he learnt eventually, and she did indeed have a French mother. But she had grown up in London, she told him cheerfully, as her capable hands made quick work of his dirty bandages, and she considered herself English. Had she ever been to Yorkshire, he asked her, and she laughed and said that no, she hadn't.

"What's it like?" she asked, sponging him down with a wet cloth. He had grown used to this humiliating routine by now, and no longer even tried to resist. "Yorkshire?"

"It's… " he paused, trying to remember. But he couldn't – it was like that life belonged to someone else, hidden behind a veil that he couldn't pierce. He tried to recall the moors but could see only the wasteland of France.

She gazed at him sadly, no doubt seeing his bewildered expression. "Well, I imagine you'll be seeing it soon enough."

He blinked at her in confusion. "Wh-what?"

She gave him a smile. "You didn't think they'd send you back to fight in your condition, did you? You've earned an early retirement, I'd say. As soon as you're fit to travel they'll be sending you home."

Home? The very concept was laughable. He shook his head. "No…"

She looked confused. "What do you mean, no? Don't you want to go home?"

He closed his eyes as the world spun. He couldn't… he couldn't be saved. Not now, not after Phil.

Clara gave a little gasp, and hurried to place a copper bowl on his lap. A moment later and he was retching the contents of his stomach into it, shaking and heaving as the spasms coursed through him. He retched and retched until his stomach was empty, then fell back against the bed, exhausted. Clara wiped at his face, coaxed a little water into him, then put a hand to his brow.

"You have to eat something," she said, and her voice was darkened with concern. "Here, have a little broth."

But he turned his head away, and sank willingly into the blackness again.

Phil was screaming at him. They were standing together in no-man's land, ankle deep in mud and sludge. His brother's youthful face was contorted in fury as he shouted at Dickon.

"This is all thy fault!"

Dickon shook his head, soundlessly, but Phil was adamant.

"I'm dead cause o' thee, Dickon. Tha' killed me! Tha' killed thy own brother!"

"No – no – "

"You're a murderer," and now it wasn't Phil, but Mary, standing there looking at him with an expression of disgust. "A coward. Filthy. Unfit for society."

"Nothing but a common moor boy." It was Colin's voice, behind him, but when he span around it was only Dent, sprawled on his stomach, his useless stumps trailing behind him. He propped himself up on his hands and glared at Dickon. "You didn't give me the quick shot, lad."

"I – I – "

"Dickon!" It was Phil again; Dickon whirled around to see his brother gaping at him, his grey skin stretched taut, the veins throbbing in his face. "Maaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa…."

He clapped his hands over his ears to drown it out.

"I'm sorry!" he gasped, choking. Dust appeared, but there was a gaping hole where his stomach should be, and he was saying, "He's gone. We're all gone. You're the only one left."

"Dickon!" Phil was screaming. "Dickon help me! Help me please!"

He awoke dripping with sweat, as usual, screaming and tearing at his blankets, his voice hoarse from yelling. Clara was above him, her eyes shining and her hands shaking him awake.

"Stop! Stop. It's alright, it's alright now. It was just a nightmare. Please stop."

He fell limp against the blankets, swallowing down his bile. But she was wrong; it wasn't just a nightmare. It was his life. Their ghosts were all around him, he could feel it. His skin crawled and he longed for a knife, so he could end it.

The burning, ripping in his side told him he'd torn his stitches again, before Clara confirmed it. The ache in his chest, like a grinding spear point, also spoke of the damage his nightmares were doing, refusing to allow his body to heal itself. In a way he was glad. He didn't want to heal. Didn't want to forget.

"You've never told me your name," said Clara shakily after a while. "How can I wake you from your nightmares, if I don't know your name? You don't have your tag, and no one knows who you are."

He was silent, staring up at the light above him until his eyes burned.

"Well?" she asked. "What is it?"

"What's what?"

"Your name, silly," she was fussing over the wound in his side. "What's your name?"

"Nothing," he said flatly. "I'm no one."

"Everybody's someone."

"Not me."

She sighed. "Will you eat?"

"No."

Later, when he was pretending to sleep but in fact trying desperately not to, he overhead Clara talking to the surgeon, a grim-faced man who inspected Dickon's wounds once a day and said hardly a word. They were standing just behind the curtain, their voices carrying clearly for all that they were whispering.

"So?" Clara asked. "What do you think?"

The surgeon sighed. "I don't rightly know. His wounds should have healed by now, but it seems to me his body's refusing to get better, and not just because he keeps tearing his stitches."

"What are you saying?"

"I've seen it before," said the surgeon heavily. "Boy doesn't want to live. Doesn't want to heal."

"He has the most awful nightmares," whispered Clara. "I have to wake him from them, before he sets the other men off. I can't stand to hear him screaming like that."

"Yes, I expect there's a lot of suffering there. Have you found out his name yet?"

"He won't tell me. I can't figure out if he's forgotten or just doesn't want to remember."

"Well keep trying. At any rate, it's of no consequence until he's recovered enough to travel. And I have a feeling that won't be for a while, if ever."

"He… he won't die, will he?" she asked, and Dickon wondered why she cared, why anyone cared. Why they wouldn't just let him die.

There was a sound like the surgeon rubbing his forehead. "He shouldn't. With the care he's getting, and his injuries, he should make a full recovery. But if he won't eat…" he trailed off darkly.

"I'll make him eat," said Clara fiercely. Dickon winced at the determination in her voice. He didn't deserve her kindness; didn't deserve any of it.

"You're a good girl," sighed the surgeon. "He's lucky to have you looking out for him."

The hospital's Chief Medical Officer stood officiously at his bedside.

"You are from Yorkshire, is this correct?"

Dickon said nothing. He felt dizzy and weak from lack of food, exhausted from his nightmares and the unhealed wounds he carried, both outside and within. He didn't want to think about where he was from; didn't want to think about anything at all.

"You were recovered in a region under the command of the 5th Yorks Battalion," the officer went on patiently. "Unfortunately there were… few survivors. We have no way of identifying you if you do not tell us."

Silence.

"You should know," the officer's tone was solemn. "That by now your family has probably been informed of your absence. You will be presumed dead, killed in action. It is vital we notify them that you are in fact alive… you wouldn't want them to grieve without reason, would you?"

Without reason? Dickon blinked. Of course there was reason to grieve. There was every reason, in fact.

"If you are indeed from the 5ths, it narrows down the possibilities of your identity." There was a rustling sound as he rifled through the paper on his clipboard. "I am going to read to you a list of those members of the 5th whose bodies have not yet been found and identified. Perhaps this will jog your memory."

Dickon closed his eyes. Were they trying to torture him?

"Anderson, George," the surgeon began. "Clayborough, Thomas. Dent, Richard."

Dickon grit his teeth, his hands curling into fists beneath the bed sheets.

"… Jarrett, Edward. McDonnell, John…"

Macca, they'd called him. Very handy with a rifle. So he was dead too, then.

"…Slater, Joseph. Sowerby, Dickon. Sowerby, Philip – "

Anguish ripped through him, like talons clawing at his insides. It was merciless. Dickon convulsed, his head jerking to the side; he stared furiously at the wall, wishing he had the strength to stand up and clobber this doctor over the head with his own clipboard. A list of names? His brother's entire life, reduced to a single line of typeface.

"I see," said the officer in a calm voice. "Which is it, then? Phil Sowerby, are you?"

His vision span, and he arched his back, straining to free himself from the bed sheets that seemed to be strangling him.

"Alright, alright," the man sounded alarmed now. Good. He hoped he gave the useless sod a heart attack. Phil Sowerby, are you? Dickon trembled in cold fury. "Where's the nurse? Come here will you?"

There was the sound of running feet, and then Clara's exclamation. She appeared above Dickon, her pretty face filled with concern. "What is it? What's happened?"

"I'm afraid I've distressed the poor boy," said the officer. "Put him under, will you? Give him some rest. "

Clara was already unpacking the mask and lifting it to Dickon's face. He tried to resist her, but he was so weak…

"At least we've got his name now. Phil Sowerby, apparently."

Dickon tried to shake his head, tears pricking the corners of his eyes. He could feel the sleeping gas enter him as he opened his mouth. "No…"

But they paid him no heed, and he was already being pulled back into the fog of unconsciousness.

"Better get the paperwork done…"