The morning broke without light—only the dull grey of smoke and mist rolling across No Man’s Land. The air was heavy, thick with the stench of oil, damp earth, and nerves stretched too thin.

Captain Stanhope crouched further down the line, his fingers tracing the map laid out on a sandbag. The rumble in the distance grew louder, like thunder building beneath the earth.

“Any word from the front post?” he shouted above the wind.

Trotter’s round face was grim beneath his helmet. “Raleigh’s up there, sir. Says he can see movement—enemy massing in the fog.”

Stanhope’s jaw tightened. “Tell him to keep his head down. They’ll start soon.”

Before Trotter could move, the sky split open.

A shell whistled through the air, landing close enough to throw men off their feet. Then another—then twenty. The whole trench shuddered, the world turning to sound and flame. Mud and bodies flew together.

“TAKE COVER!” Stanhope roared, ducking behind the parapet as dirt rained down like ash.

Raleigh was at the front line, crouched in a forward firing bay. The blasts lit his terrified face, his rifle trembling in his hands. He could see the German line now—dark figures moving through the smoke. He raised his rifle—

—and then the world exploded beside him.

The shell hit the trench wall just feet away. A scream tore from Raleigh’s throat as shrapnel ripped through his leg and shoulder, throwing him to the ground. He fell hard into the mud, clutching his side, the warmth of blood spreading fast.

“Trotter!” someone shouted. “Raleigh’s down!”

Trotter spun, saw the boy crumpled ahead—and bellowed down the line, his voice ragged with panic. “STANHOPE! RALEIGH’S HIT!”

Stanhope’s head snapped up. “What?” He tried to stand, but another shell struck nearby, the shockwave slamming him back against the trench wall. Dirt and timber rained around him. His ears rang.

“Raleigh—!” he choked, half-crawling forward through the chaos. A blast went off close enough to suck the air from his lungs. He lost his footing, stumbling into the mud, gasping. “Trotter—get to him!”

“I can’t, sir! It’s too exposed!” Trotter yelled back, shielding his head as more shells screamed overhead.

Raleigh lay face-down in the muck, the cries of battle drowning his own. Every breath was pain. His vision blurred; the sky above him was nothing but grey smoke and streaks of orange fire.

“Stanhope…” he gasped weakly, trying to lift his head. “Sir…”

Stanhope pressed himself low, shaking, fury and fear burning in his chest. He could hear Raleigh calling through the shellfire, faint and desperate, but every time he moved to go, another explosion forced him back.

He slammed his fist into the earth. “Hold on, Raleigh! Just hold on!”

The trench was chaos—men shouting, shells bursting, rifles cracking through the haze. Trotter crawled toward Raleigh on his hands and knees, mud splattering his face, shouting over the roar.

Raleigh’s cries grew weaker, his breath shallow. “It hurts—God, it hurts…”

Stanhope, half-buried in dirt, could see him now—just ahead, lying broken in the front trench, eyes wide with pain. He tried to move again, dragging himself forward through the smoke.

But another blast went off—closer than before. The shock hit him like a hammer, forcing him flat. His ears screamed with the ringing of it.

He couldn’t move. He couldn’t breathe.

All he could hear now was Raleigh’s voice—thin, trembling, swallowed by the thunder of war.

And as the shells fell without mercy, the line between bravery and helplessness blurred into one long, endless scream.