The Sergeant knelt beside the Corporal’s hole and began to conduct the assault. He moved several men into covering positions, tapped the Corporal’s steel helmet and instructed him to stake out the farmhouse. The Corporal grasped the Sergeant’s outstretched hand and wrestled with the mud until he half climbed and half slid out of his freshly dug hole. He stood awkwardly, stiff from his digging and stared back down into the hole. It reminded him of a grave from this angle, yet it felt so safe in there and now, with the open field ahead, he was reluctant to leave it behind. He was scared, scared of the darkness and fearful of being hit, he didn’t want to be alone.

There was a loud crack, that echoed near him. A scream hung in the air and a wave of dizziness and nausea tried to rise in his stomach. He fought it down, nodded to his sergeant and slunk away…

The farmhouse remained a distant destination. His gear was heavy, soaked through by the constant drizzle and his back was weary from the dig. Nevertheless he ran raggedly across the field. His feet slipped in the sodden earth as his half bent form weaved its way toward the guiding light of the kitchen. Bullets, explosions and screams continued to deluge his ears. And yet the kitchen light shone reassuringly in the hazy night, whilst the dance hall music hypnotised his striding feet. He began to run with a rhythm that lured memories out from the past. The red dress of Rita Ray held close to his side as they moved together across the darkness of the dance floor. The fear of tripping and tumbling, of losing the contest, was beating loud in his heart. But Rita’s presence was calming, her warm red lips spread like a sunset and the delicate smell of her perfumed skin filled his nostrils. Deep down he knew she would forgive him if he fell. And yet the farmhouse seemed no nearer. He collapsed into the mud through exhaustion and began to sob.

Was he asleep, did he black out? He lifted his head and the wall of the farmhouse was a stone’s throw away. He leant on his rifle, hauled himself up and staggered to the cold, wet grey wall. The vague outline of his sergeant’s ghostly wave drifted to him through the darkness. He waved back.

He fixed his bayonet and crept beneath the bright window to a hole in the wall beyond. Saxophones, trombones, clarinets and oboes slithered out of the window and followed him melodiously. As he clambered over the broken stones and into the darkness of the house, his melancholy heart lightened with every parp, every oomph, every doo-da-dee, wap-wop, hum da dya day dib dob. He mouthed the sounds, tapped the stones, grinned like a madman and laughed. He slung his rifle out like a lady and pulled her back in. Side stepped to the left and right. Da-da-da-de-da, bub-dee-dee-dee-da, parp, tally dee.

A light laugh of delight broke from the corner of the room. The Corporal grabbed his lady, swung her up into his arms and held her trigger. With eyes wide, mouth dry, finger trembling, he looked hard into the darkness. The fizz of a match ignited and the Corporal’s rifle sent a ricochet round the ruined room. A lit cigarette revealed the painted black face of a soldier. The soldier rushed at him, knocked his rifle aside and pinned him against the wall with the barrel of a revolver.

“Wot you turning into an animal for?” The face yelled. The smell of grimy body odour filled the Corporal’s nostrils and his knees weakened. “Hell I almost thought you were human, seeing you dance so delightfully.” The darkened man pulled back a couple of steps and aimed his revolver. The shining light from the kitchen intervened as the blind on the door was lifted. The two soldiers gazed into the bright light. The music became clearer and the movement of two figures in the kitchen caught their attention.

“What you drinking George?” Said the elderly lady.

“A cup of tea would be splendid Martha!”

The room was filled with the light sound of dancehall music and in between every song the crashing sounds of warfare could faintly be heard. George was sat at the dining table in his pink shirt and bow tie, a yellow rose in his top pocket. His receding grey hair neatly brushed back, tidy moustache hiding a warm smile and two bright green eyes dancing delightedly after Martha.

Martha, in a bright blue dress with apron tied, was lifting a hot pan of water from the stove and pouring it into two cups. Her grey hair in a bun and warm brown eyes returning to George in between each small chore.
The table was covered in a blue check cloth, with knives and forks set opposite each other. A small vase sat proudly at its centre with a blooming pink rose. “I think it’s going to be a beautiful day my dear?”

“It certainly is George. You can smell it on the wind.” She breathed deep as a warm breeze blew in from the open window. Then a shell crashing loudly blew the window frame into the room. Martha looked out through remaining the hole in the wall, her feet crunching on the broken glass. “We must plant the cabbages in the morning if we’re to make the most of this year’s harvest George.”

“We certainly will Martha. Now where is that tea?”

“Just coming George. By gad you men, you don’t know how lucky you are having such a thing as a lady in this world.” And she walked quickly to the two hot cups, muttering lightly to herself. George received the cup, put it to his lips and took a sip.

“My, that’s a mighty fine cup Martha. The best.” A bullet whizzed through the air and shattered the cup, leaving George with just it’s handle, drenching him with tea. “Now didn’t I say that these cups would never last.”

“You did George, but they were in the sale. Never mind dear, you can have mine.” He took her cup, smiling lovingly from beneath his moustache. Martha stopped by the stove, spooning out two boiled eggs. Soon they were dipping their buttered soldiers in the yoke. They ate quietly, looking up now and again to share a smile or a wink. A stray bullet occasionally flew through the room, embedding itself in a wall, denting a saucepan or causing some other mayhem.

George took the empty plates to the sink and began to wash them. Martha removed her apron and was tidying her hair in front of the mirror, when it was shattered by a stray bullet. “That’s the fourth mirror this week!” She cried. “We’ll have to do something about that George, it’s not natural. I swear this place is haunted.” George was drying his hands and Martha used the back of a large spoon to finish her hair. She laughed at her oversized reflection.

“Shall we dance?” Asked George.

“Why George, I’d be delighted.” They took each other round the waist and held their other arm aloft with clasped hands. Their feet followed the rhythm of the brass, spinning and gliding around the room. Bullets continued to fly, shattering plates, ornaments and glass, but always missing the tender pair.

“Ain’t that beautiful!” Said the painted face as he gazed longingly into the room.

“It sure is,” replied the Corporal. Both men watched trancelike as the old couple danced. The Corporal felt the gentle touch of the dark soldier’s hand on his shoulder. He looked up to see the man smiling at the dancers, tears rolling down his eyes. “They make a fine couple don‘t they.”

“I’m right with you on that one brother,” replied the Corporal.

“Would you like to dance?” He asked.

“I sure would.” Replied the Corporal. But before he could move there was a cry and the Corporal looked up to see his Sergeant charging in. The crackling fire of his gun hit the soldier and threw him back against the wall. The Corporal cried out in rage and lifted his rifle, emptying it into his Sergeant. Then all was quiet. The music, the guns, the planes, the shells, the screams ceased in an instant. The soldier sat against the wall, his dark eyes open, lifeless. The Sergeant lay face down in the rubble. The Corporal turned to watch the old couple dancing elegantly around their dining table. He opened the kitchen door and entered their world.

“Hello,” Greeted George. “Do come in. We love to have visitors.”

“Yes,” Added Martha, “Don’t mind us, pour yourself some tea.” The Corporal sat heavily in the chair watching them continue their dance. His smile squeezed tears out of the corners of his eyes.

“What’s your name?” Asked the old man.

“George.” Replied the soldier.

“That’s a mighty fine name,” Said Martha. “I do love my George..” And she kissed her partner on the cheek. “I’m Martha by the way.”

“Martha,” Laughed the soldier. “That was my Mother’s name.”

A bullet came silently through the hole in the wall, severing a major artery in the soldier’s neck. His blood sprayed the room, covering the walls, tablecloth and floor, even the old couple were showered. He fell forward onto the table with eyes wide and mouth gasping like a fish.

“Oh George, isn’t that a shame. Such a nice young man too!” Frowned Martha, her hand going to her mouth.

“Yes. Dreadful. He could have made someone a fine husband. Still, can’t be helped, my dear. Now how about a nice cup of tea to cheer us up?”

“That would be lovely.” She smiled.

“Biscuits?”

Their voices slowly faded.

Was he asleep, did he black out. His back ached. He opened his eyes to see his freshly dug hole laying before him like an open grave. He remembered the loud crack of a rifle shot and a scream that hung in the air. It was him screaming, he could hear it now rising out of his throat. He felt dizzy, nauseous, scared. Blood was gushing as he slunk away into the hole, clasping his neck with his hands and landing face up in the cold mud. His head hit his shovel, his eyes gazed up and out of the hole, into the dark sky. Was that the ghostly wave of the Sergeant he could see. He wanted to wave back.

“Give me the rifle,” He heard the Sergeant call, “I’ll stake out the farmhouse. You chaps cover me.” Then 222 company drifted silently away and he felt his loneliness fade with them and the red dress of Rita Ray floated down to cover his still face.