Where did everybody go?" I shouted. But there was no reply.

Upon waking, I found I was delirious with fear. Only images of how I had come to be here managed to reach me. Men, shaking uncontrollably, forcing themselves and being forced to go out on to the battlefield, into a living hell.

I couldn't do it.

I could not go out there and let them kill me; but then, if stayed behind, I would surely be shot for cowardice. Killed for no reason, or no good one.

Killed because I was scared out of my wits.

I had an idea. By this time I was on top of the trench but still I wouldn't run headlong into what I was sure was a trap involving the German army and lots of deadly weaponry.

Petrified of the relentless deadly fire, I decided to throw myself from the top of the trench into a crowd of paranoid soldiers. They raised their weapons at once, thankfully not firing, but the fall knocked me out in an instant. Black nothingness stretched for miles before me.

No one gave me a second glance. All eyes were on the enemy. It was strange; I was the strongest at home yet the weakest at war.

The world was a dizzying puzzle with no immediate, apparent or reasonable answer. Men were killing each other sometimes because they wanted to, a lot of the time for the sake of it, but often because they had been bullied to. Where I had slipped when I was trying to escape the wave of men surging over the top, my leg was gashed badly and blood was seeping through my uniform like sadness out of the trench walls. I would have to suffer in silence.

Death was unavoidable.

The war was pointless. Fit, healthy and well-loved men were forced to fight for their lives in the hope that they would live and that they would see their loved ones again. Survival, tearful family reunions and promises to never fight again came to few. I was one of these unfortunate men sent to die because the officer commanded me to run, untrained, unknowing, into oblivion. My friends were others.

Worse was the fact that underage boys, who were only after a bit of glory, were mercilessly being shot and killed. Little Billy Jones was one. I can't believe we used to tease him about his size.

Haunting scenes from the night of his death flashed through my mind, a bad memory controlling my dreams – or my personal torture, along with this continuous battle. There were more boys, innocent boys out there with no idea that their act of what they thought was bravery, but was no more than ignorance, would kill them. They were walking into their last moments of life, handing themselves willingly to death out in No Man's Land.

They had no idea. They didn't know what they were doing.

I had to help them.

Slowly, I limped to the muddy trench wall and hauled myself up, thinking about the times us soldiers had gone through. The war had given me new friends that otherwise I would never have met but there was always that dread that was as soon as you had met them, they were cruelly blasted off the face of the earth. That was the thing about this horror; there is always a horrendous down side.

I was reminded of the night we arrived here and were told that after a long and agonising journey, we would have to dig a trench. What seemed like days passed, digging deeper and deeper, until our backs were stiff and our arms were screaming. We couldn't stop though; we were forced to carry on until the brink of dawn, when not even the usually heart-warming songs of the birds could lift our spirits. Every time we tired and we begged to stop, to rest, to sleep, our officer turned around, looked at us in the eye and said: "Do you want to die out here sonny? No? Well then keep digging. When those Germans start firing, however deep your trench is you'll wish you'd dug deeper. Now back to work!"

I was back on top now, gazing down into the trench we dug. My back seems to stiffen every time I think about it. Forcing myself to focus, I turned around.

That is when I saw it.

That greenish-yellow cloud of death was floating silently towards me. Men were falling as easily as if some mighty invisible force was pushing them over. I saw before me a phantasmagoria of wounds, pain and death. My ears were ringing with the sound of my own screams. The war was raging; my head was spinning.

Gas

***

"Where did they all go?" I silently moaned.

They say in the village that the truth cannot escape my penetrating eyes. That or no one here is good at lying.

The men did not go to work on a bigger farm. I know that. If they had, their own fields would not have been left for the girls to toil in, day after day, in the blistering heat when they should be at home caring for the remainder of their families. Because of my illness, no one tells me anything as they do not want to agitate me; even the name of my illness is a mystery to me. I have not uttered a single syllable for weeks, although inside I am screaming. But there is one thing I know that any amount of lying cannot cover up. The pain I feel in my heart is unbearable when I think about it. My already broken heart is cracked once again leaking love into a puddle on my lap.

My grandson Will, and many other men besides, have, unknowingly, let themselves be cruelly snatched away from us, perhaps for ever more.

They are at war.

***

I fumbled with the gas mask, trying desperately to force it over my head. I was hyperventilating, unable to control myself. My heart was pounding so hard I thought it would burst into flames. Trying not to think about my dear family, I told myself sternly that this was no time to be sentimental; I was fighting for my life.

"Stop!" I told myself sharply. "Will, calm down. Put your mask on. Now get your handkerchief and wrap it around your wound. Come on Will, you can do it."

After obeying my orders, I took out the small painting, about the size of a postcard, that grandmother had given me for my last birthday. It seems like a lifetime away, before I was foolish enough to sign up for this whole thing, only seeing the mask of glory – glory indeed!

What I saw in the village was no more than a pointless charade! In front of the pain, the hurt, the loss, before this whole nightmare started. How did I ever see a good side to this?

By now the gas had subsided a little and it had burned out completely by the time it was about to glide over the trench. I kept on telling myself what to do and gradually my breathing slowed, although I felt that this dystopian dugout was going to be the last thing I'd ever see. Sleep was permeating my body and I did, exhausted, nothing to fight it.

I was about to drift off when I heard the sound of heavy boots making their way towards me. Panicking because I did not want to be shot for cowardice – although, that may finish me off quicker and relatively painlessly – I pretended I had lost consciousness and had not yet woken. Thankfully, the soldier had not seen the blood-stained handkerchief tied methodically around my leg. When he had gone, I limped to the corner of the trench, wondering if grandpa had seen scenes as horrific as I had.

I doubt I'll ever find out.

***

The one thing that has planted itself firmly in my mind and is still crystal clear is what happened to Robert. We had just got married, and I didn't even know I was going to have a baby yet, when he went to fight in the Crimean War. All that remains of him now is a faint memory.

All the men had disappeared. The women were working on the farms. Many, if not all, of the girls in the village rarely remember I have seen this happen before.

One of the women from the village, too old and unfit to work in the fields and one of those who has not gone off to work in the factories, walked through the door. Not in the mood for small-talk, overly optimistic voices and queer looks, I pretended to be asleep. I have done this many a time and it always works; these girls are the most gullible I have had the pleasure to meet in a long while. After coming to see if I was asleep, she bustled out of the room, leaving me in peace.

Suddenly, my eyelids felt heavy and all of the energy rushed out of me like it was in a hurry to be somewhere else. The last thing I saw was the carving of Nelly, my favourite chestnut mare, the one that Will gave me before he went away. The last thing I thought of before I fell asleep was whether I would ever see my poor grandson again.

I doubt I will.

I inhaled one last time.

***

Divided by distance, united in pain, both lay still, never to wake.

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