The dugout was thick with the smell of damp earth and stale candle smoke. Outside, the front line was quiet for once — that heavy, unnatural silence that always meant the enemy was planning something. Inside, Captain Stanhope sat at the small wooden table, the stub of a pencil in his hand, trying to finish a report by the light of a guttering candle.

He heard the steps first — boots on the duckboards, quick and uneven. Then Mason’s voice at the entrance.

“Beg pardon, sir — new officer arrived from battalion headquarters. Lieutenant Raleigh, sir.”

Stanhope froze. The pencil broke between his fingers.

“Raleigh?” he repeated slowly.

“Yes, sir. Said he’s just been posted to ‘C’ Company.”

For a moment, Stanhope didn’t move. Then, in a low, hard voice, he said, “Show him in.”

A young face appeared in the dugout doorway — fresh, keen, far too young for the lines. Raleigh saluted sharply, his blue eyes shining even in the dim light.

“Hullo, Dennis!” he said brightly. “I mean— er— Captain Stanhope, sir. It’s splendid to see you again!”

Stanhope just stared. The candlelight flickered across his face — a mask of disbelief, then anger.

“All right, Raleigh. I’ll see you later. You’d better report to Osborne for now.”

Raleigh, still smiling, saluted again and disappeared into the trench. The moment he was gone, Stanhope slammed his fist onto the table. The candle jumped.

“Of all the blasted men they could have sent— him!”

Osborne looked up from where he was mending a torn map. “He seems a nice boy, Dennis.”

Stanhope turned on him. “A nice boy? Don’t you see? He was at school with me — under me, damn it! He worshipped me there — and now he’s to sit here and watch me drink myself rotten every night! He’ll write home, tell them what I’ve become—”

He broke off, pacing the dugout, the anger trembling just beneath the surface.

“I couldn’t bear his mother knowing — she’s always written about me, you know. ‘Dennis is such a splendid chap,’ she’d say. God, Osborne, can’t you see? The boy’s going to find out I’m not that at all. Not splendid — just a drunken wreck trying to keep his men alive for another blasted week!”

Osborne watched him quietly, his calm eyes full of sympathy. “You’re being too hard on yourself, old boy. He’ll understand. He’s come out here to do his duty — same as you.”

Stanhope stopped, shoulders tight. “If he writes home about what he sees, Osborne, I’ll censor every damned letter myself.”

He sank down on the bunk, covering his face with one hand. “Oh, God… why Raleigh? Of all people — why him?”

Outside, a shell moaned distantly, and the candle flickered again, throwing long, trembling shadows across the dugout walls. Osborne said nothing. He just poured another cup of tea and set it down in front of Stanhope, quietly, as if the gesture alone might steady him.

Stanhope stared at the steaming tin mug, then gave a short, bitter laugh.

“Well,” he muttered, “welcome to ‘C’ Company.”