Jameson surveyed the battle-scarred landscape. Shadows rose from the mud, moving through the fog obscuring the carnage. The sharp smell of cordite hung in the air. Jameson’s ears were numb—the only sound was the agonising wail of an injured soldier on the ground beneath him. Shrapnel had shredded the man’s face; his stomach was a gurgling pile of entrails. Jameson read the patch on the man’s blood-soaked uniform. The name was familiar: T. Jameson.
His own.
Damn it, Jameson thought, recalling the whistling of the incoming mortar. Direct hit.
He sighed, then joined the other shadows in the fog.
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