When had he last seen a tree that was even vaguely in the shape of a tree, let alone a tree with all its leaves, a tree not smashed to splinters by the shelling? And yet here were trees, lots of trees, a forest of trees. But there was no sergeant, and no noise except the birdsong in the trees.Īnd, as dawn light seeped into the sky, he wondered, ‘ What trees?’ And if it wasn’t heaven, then his sergeant would be giving him a kicking, pulling him up, looking him over and sending him down to the mess for a cup of tea and a wad. Well, if he was dead then this would do for a heaven, after the hell of noise and screams and mud. After all, it had been a fearsome bombardment. Ah yes, fragrant grass, there hadn’t been much fragrance where he’d just been! Cordite, hot oil, burned flesh and the stink of unwashed men, that was what he was used to. For a while he was content to lie there in the blissful quiet.Īlthough he was slightly worried, in a concussed kind of way, why he was lying in damp though fragrant grass and not on his bedroll.

It was a long time since he had heard birdsong, the guns saw to that.

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