The candle on Stanhope’s table was burning low, throwing long, thin shadows against the dugout walls. The air was close — heavy with damp, tobacco, and the faint metallic smell of mud and rust. Outside, the trench murmured quietly: boots shifting, whispers, the occasional cough swallowed by the dark.

Stanhope sat hunched over a stack of reports, his eyes red from strain, when he heard boots on the steps.

“Come in,” he said without looking up.

The Sergeant-Major ducked inside, saluted, and stood stiffly just inside the door. He was a solid man, calm and practical — one of the few who seemed utterly unfazed by the nearness of the front line.

“Evenin’, sir. Sorry to trouble you, but there’s a message from battalion.”

Stanhope dropped his pencil, rubbing his temples. “What now?”

“Orders for a raid, sir,” the Sergeant-Major said plainly. “We’re to take a small party across tonight — twelve men in all. The Colonel wants a live prisoner brought back for intelligence.”

Stanhope’s head came up sharply. “A raid?” He gave a short, mirthless laugh. “They think we can just pop across and grab a Jerry like we’re shopping at the corner store.”

The Sergeant-Major didn’t reply. He’d heard that tone before — that brittle edge between bitterness and exhaustion.

Stanhope pushed back his chair and stood, pacing the small dugout. “All right. Who do they want to lead it?”

“I thought Major Osborne, sir,” the Sergeant-Major said. “He’s steady. The men trust him.”

Stanhope nodded, his eyes narrowing in thought. “Yes — Osborne’s the best man for it. He’s got a good head. Won’t lose it under fire.”

The Sergeant-Major hesitated before adding, “And for the run-in, sir — the grab itself — I was thinkin’ of young Raleigh.”

Stanhope froze. He turned, his expression hardening. “Raleigh?”

“Yes, sir. He’s quick, quiet, good on his feet. We’ll need someone to slip in, take the sentry before he can shout. He’s the best choice we’ve got.”

Stanhope stared at him for a long moment, the candlelight flickering over his face. Then, quietly but firmly: “No.”

The Sergeant-Major looked surprised. “No, sir?”

“He’s new,” Stanhope said flatly. “Barely been out here a week. He won’t know what he’s doing in a raid — not properly. The first time a flare goes up, he’ll freeze or run the wrong way. I’m not having that.”

“With respect, sir,” the Sergeant-Major said evenly, “he’s a keen lad. The men like him. He volunteered before I even asked.”

“That’s exactly the problem,” Stanhope snapped. “He’s too damned keen. Still thinks war’s a rugby match. Eager to make a name for himself.” He turned away, jaw tight. “Eagerness gets men killed.”

There was a short silence. The Sergeant-Major shifted his weight, then said quietly, “Beg pardon, sir, but the rest of the company looks up to him already. If he goes, it’ll do a lot for morale. And Osborne’ll keep an eye on him.”

Stanhope’s expression softened for a brief moment, though his voice stayed hard. “Morale,” he muttered. “Is that what we’re calling it now?”

He turned back to face the Sergeant-Major. “All right. Osborne leads. Raleigh goes on the run-in — but with ten good men behind him, do you hear? Ten. And I want every one of them briefed twice over. No heroics. If there’s trouble, they fall back.”

“Yes, sir.”

Stanhope moved to the dugout wall and pressed his hand against the rough boards, steadying himself. His voice, when he spoke again, was quieter — almost weary. “Make sure Osborne knows the plan inside out. I want the boy brought back in one piece. Both of them.”

The Sergeant-Major nodded. “Aye, sir. I’ll see to it.”

He saluted and turned to go.

As the hatch closed behind him, Stanhope sank slowly into his chair. The candle had burned down almost to its base. For a long while he sat in silence, staring at the thin wisp of smoke curling into the dark.

Then, in a low voice that no one heard, he muttered, “God help them.”