Starshine by John Wilcox

bullet passed through the flapping corner of his jacket. Then he was among a group of Prussians, judging by their shining helmets, parrying their bayonet thrusts and thrusting in return, turning and stabbing, feinting and swinging his rifle butt.
    But he was not alone. Bertie was at his side, ducking and weaving like a bantamweight boxer, swinging his bayonet-tipped rifle from side to side as though it was a Celtic claymore. Then they were joined by the five other men of the section and, suddenly, the Germans had faded away as though they had not existed – except that three of them lay on the ground, bunched over in pain, foetus-like, as blood oozed through their thick greatcoats.
    ‘Well done, Hickman.’ Captain Yates was at his side, his revolver hanging from its lanyard and his face glistening in the light from the flames still shooting up on the ridge. ‘Now, we must find out if there are any more of them that have got round us.’ He turned to the panting men of Jim’s section. ‘Spread out in a line, behind me. Go on.Fan out further than that. Right, keep your bayonets fixed and follow me slowly. Make sure that there aren’t any Huns hiding.
    ‘You,’ he gestured with his revolver to Bertie, ‘double back and tell the major what has happened and warn him that we might be surrounded.’
    Together the little band walked down the slope, their heads down, dreading the sound of a rifle crack from ahead, behind or either side of them. They were completely exposed, well lit by the blazing village and with no cover. But they met no one, except a platoon of Service Corps clerks, forced off the Menin Road by the shellfire and struggling up to lend support to the defenders below the ridge ahead.
    Eventually, Yates held up his hand. ‘Must have been a stray group who slipped through between us and the Bedfords on the right,’ he confided to Jim. ‘I’ll report it to the major. Thank you for your quick thinking, Hickman. I shall commend you for it.’ He turned to the others and waved his revolver. ‘Back to the line.’
    He led them back up the slope. The Germans had retreated back over the ridge but, ominously, enemy light artillery was beginning to find their range. ‘Dig in, as best you can,’ the captain shouted, turning his head along the line, ‘and get your heads down. They won’t be able to get their heavy stuff on us because we’re too near their line. But they will probably attack again at first light. NCOs, give me ammunition reports.’
    For the first time, Jim realised that there was blood on his bayonet, but he had no recollection of having bayoneted any of the Prussians, only of frantically defending himself.
    ‘Oh aye, Corp,’ confided one of his section, a tall cavalry trooper. ‘I got one,’ he grinned. ‘First time I’ve ever used a bayonet. More used to a sabre. But you got one and Paddy here,’ he nodded to Bertie, ‘got the other. Proper little terrier he was.’
    Hickman nodded, gave a half-shy grin at Bertie, and then collected his section’s ammunition reports. They were still well supplied, having come up to the line carrying their ammunition reserves. He reported as much to Captain Yates and also gave him the news of the death of Sergeant Jones.
    ‘Damn.’ The captain shook his head. ‘He was the best sergeant in the company. Thank you. I’ll send up a detail to bury him. It will have to be here, I’m afraid. Can’t afford to carry him back.’
    ‘Can I ask you something, sir?’
    ‘Ask away but be quick. There’s much to do before sunrise.’
    Jim paused and shifted from one leg to the other. Would he sound impertinent? ‘It’s the line, sir.’
    ‘What about it? Come on, man. I haven’t got all day.’
    ‘Well, I don’t see how we can hold it, either under heavy shelling or a few more attacks like the last. There’s no time to dig in properly and we’re more or less left lying out in the open. Even if they don’t attack we’ll be blown to pieces by a