“The Last Fusilier's Whisper”
The trench reeked of cordite and gangrene as I jammed the bolt-action—again. “Hauptmann's got us zeroed, Sarge,” wheezed Wilkins, his field dressing already soaked through. The Vickers gun fell silent mid-burst. Too quiet. Then came that godawful whump of mortar tubes from Hill 107. “Incoming!” someone shrieked. Too late. The concussive blast hurled me into the mud, ears ringing with that peculiar ping of shrapnel on helmets. Through the smoke, I saw the lieutenant's revolver gleam—single round left. Not for them. For us. “Fix bayonets,” he croaked. The mustard gas rolled in at dawn. Typical.