flame of their small primus cooker, a treasure they guarded fiercely. Cookers were few and far between, and most of the other men used candles stuck in dixie tins to boil their kettles, which took a long time. Alfie and his mates, however, could have their hands round warm mugs of tea in a few minutes.
He looked at them now in the pale morning light, these three young men who had taken care of him since heâd arrived at the Front. George was dark and wiry and full of jokes; Cyril was big and fair and liked his creature comforts; and Ernie was skinnyand ginger and a worrier. All three were wrapped up against the cold, with sheepskins or leather jerkins over their uniform tunics, scarves round their necks and extra pairs of socks under their puttees and boots. Alfie was kitted out similarly, thanks to them. They had scrounged whatever he needed, and taught him an awful lot too.
But then he was only fifteen, and daft to be there, as George was always telling him. Alfie didnât agree. It had been the best day of his life when heâd joined the crowd at the recruitment drive in Lewisham Town Hall and persuaded the sergeant to sign him up. âHow old are you, son?â the big red-faced man had said. âNineteen, sir!â Alfie had replied, knowing that was the age you had to be. Alfie was short and scrawny and knew he looked young, even for a fifteen-year-old, so it had been a tricky moment. âI suppose Iâll have to take your word for it,â the sergeant had said, grinning.
Alfieâs mum had been very upset, but his dad had shaken him by the hand and said he was proud to have such a brave son. The family had seen him off at the station when heâd left for training camp, his mum and younger brothers and sisters sobbing their eyes out. He hadnât cried, though. He was going tofight for his country, to make sure the Huns wouldnât come marching up Lewisham High Street in those ridiculous spiked helmets of theirs. Besides, he was sure it would be a great adventure.
So far it hadnât turned out that way. Training had been three boring months of drill and being shouted at by lots more red-faced sergeants. After that heâd been sent off by packed train and crowded ship across the Channel to France. Then heâd been left kicking his heels for a month at a huge base camp where the sergeants had been even worse.
He had finally been despatched to the Front in Flanders three weeks ago, but still hadnât fired his rifle, not once. He was beginning to think he never would.
âWatch out, lads,â Ernie murmured. âHere comes the Captain.â
Alfie turned to look further down the trench. Captain Wilkins was heading towards them with Lieutenant Reynolds and Sergeant Jones just behind him. They were all dressed in the same way as Alfie and his mates, in steel helmets and scarves and thick jerkins over their service tunics, although only Sergeant Jones carried a rifle, a Lee Enfield .303 like the rest of the men â the officers had Webleyrevolvers in leather holsters on their belts. The Captain nodded or spoke to all the men he passed, most of whom were brewing up too. Eventually he reached the dugout and stopped.
âMorning, chaps,â he said with a smile. âCold enough for you today?â
Alfie liked Captain Wilkins, even though he was a toff and didnât much fit his idea of an officer, being plump, of medium height, and softly spoken. The Captain cared for the men under his command. Each day after morning stand-to he toured the line, and he always had a cheery greeting for everyone. Alfie wasnât so keen on Lieutenant Reynolds, a slight young man who was a toff too, but never said much. The lads had decided the Lieutenant had grown a moustache to make himself look older, but the wispy fluff on his upper lip had just the opposite effect. Sergeant Jones was the same as all sergeants, a bulldog of a man with a loud bark.
âMorning,
He looked at them now in the pale morning light, these three young men who had taken care of him since heâd arrived at the Front. George was dark and wiry and full of jokes; Cyril was big and fair and liked his creature comforts; and Ernie was skinnyand ginger and a worrier. All three were wrapped up against the cold, with sheepskins or leather jerkins over their uniform tunics, scarves round their necks and extra pairs of socks under their puttees and boots. Alfie was kitted out similarly, thanks to them. They had scrounged whatever he needed, and taught him an awful lot too.
But then he was only fifteen, and daft to be there, as George was always telling him. Alfie didnât agree. It had been the best day of his life when heâd joined the crowd at the recruitment drive in Lewisham Town Hall and persuaded the sergeant to sign him up. âHow old are you, son?â the big red-faced man had said. âNineteen, sir!â Alfie had replied, knowing that was the age you had to be. Alfie was short and scrawny and knew he looked young, even for a fifteen-year-old, so it had been a tricky moment. âI suppose Iâll have to take your word for it,â the sergeant had said, grinning.
Alfieâs mum had been very upset, but his dad had shaken him by the hand and said he was proud to have such a brave son. The family had seen him off at the station when heâd left for training camp, his mum and younger brothers and sisters sobbing their eyes out. He hadnât cried, though. He was going tofight for his country, to make sure the Huns wouldnât come marching up Lewisham High Street in those ridiculous spiked helmets of theirs. Besides, he was sure it would be a great adventure.
So far it hadnât turned out that way. Training had been three boring months of drill and being shouted at by lots more red-faced sergeants. After that heâd been sent off by packed train and crowded ship across the Channel to France. Then heâd been left kicking his heels for a month at a huge base camp where the sergeants had been even worse.
He had finally been despatched to the Front in Flanders three weeks ago, but still hadnât fired his rifle, not once. He was beginning to think he never would.
âWatch out, lads,â Ernie murmured. âHere comes the Captain.â
Alfie turned to look further down the trench. Captain Wilkins was heading towards them with Lieutenant Reynolds and Sergeant Jones just behind him. They were all dressed in the same way as Alfie and his mates, in steel helmets and scarves and thick jerkins over their service tunics, although only Sergeant Jones carried a rifle, a Lee Enfield .303 like the rest of the men â the officers had Webleyrevolvers in leather holsters on their belts. The Captain nodded or spoke to all the men he passed, most of whom were brewing up too. Eventually he reached the dugout and stopped.
âMorning, chaps,â he said with a smile. âCold enough for you today?â
Alfie liked Captain Wilkins, even though he was a toff and didnât much fit his idea of an officer, being plump, of medium height, and softly spoken. The Captain cared for the men under his command. Each day after morning stand-to he toured the line, and he always had a cheery greeting for everyone. Alfie wasnât so keen on Lieutenant Reynolds, a slight young man who was a toff too, but never said much. The lads had decided the Lieutenant had grown a moustache to make himself look older, but the wispy fluff on his upper lip had just the opposite effect. Sergeant Jones was the same as all sergeants, a bulldog of a man with a loud bark.
âMorning,
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