October Writing Challenge

[lslaw.livejournal.com]

Thomas tucked a cigarette between his lips and fumbled a matchbox in his cold fingers, his back pressed against the hard-packed, near-frozen dirt of the trench wall.

"Hey, hey! Tommy Atkins!" John Graves slumped down opposite Thomas; Brown crashed down alongside him. "Giz a light, mate."

Thomas opened the matchbox as Graves passed Brown a dogend. There was just one match left and he didn't like Graves or Brown much, but it was hard to be picky about your mates in a trench. He struck the match and held it out, lighting Graves' fag, then Brown's, before lifting the flame towards his own cigarette. He cupped a hand against a sudden breeze and drew in a mouthful of smoke, even as the killing bullet found his skull.

On the other side of no-man's land, the sniper worked the bolt of his rifle, and went hunting for another head.