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The exhausted ranks reformed. Officers strode impatiently up and down, yelling for weapons to be readied, did they want the enemy to cut them down where they stood?
At the front of the lines, huge ornate tubes were wheeled into position. The soldiers murmured, perplexed. Then flames were touched to the tubes and they disgorged missiles at the enemy. Screams rose from both armies. The enemy lines were cut in pieces. Behind the vast tubes soldiers wept in horror, their snow white wings darkened with soot.
The dark haired angel shook with terror. He had never meant to be here.
* * *
He sprinted along the trench, ignoring the shouts behind him. The dead and dying stared as he went past, finally seeing more than the young officer he pretended to be. His men were further up, they would be all right.
When he saw the bodies he moaned in horror, falling to his knees, knowing there was still time, he could save them and be damned to witnesses. The survivors pulled him back, trying to spare him the sight. His gaze fell on the shrapnel that had done for Jones' leg, and he stopped struggling.
He had always hated the guns.
* * *
The guns had gone on all night. He cursed his eyesight that allowed him to see pulped flesh and bone, blood drenched feathers and khaki. He could not remember why this war had started nor why he had been caught up in it.
Everything was silent in the cool dawn air. The light gave the scene a bright, crystalline quality. The early morning mist glowed and drifted. In the pale sky he saw the trace of white wings and heard the faint call of birds.
He no longer knew if he stood on the field of France or of Heaven.
* * *
What passing-bells for these who die as cattle?
Only the monstrous anger of the guns.
Wilfred Owen (1893-1918), Anthem for Doomed Youth