Only five minutes had passed when Ernest Thornhill came round again. He had only passed out because of the pain. The gunfire had stilled for a moment — in their section, at least — but there was the sinister, distant rattle of machine guns either side of them. Thornhill blinked, and grimaced as he felt the throbbing in his wounded leg. "Where are we, men?" he croaked.

A heavyset man with a moustache bent over him. "A Boche trench, sir. I carried you here. There's eight men left, and we've killed all the Germans in here."

"An impressive feat, Sergeant."

"There weren't many, sir. I believe some of them fled, but there were certainly enough to cause trouble."

That was enough for Thornhill. He called what remained of his platoon to him. "We must stick it out and capture the support trench. If I can hobble on with this confounded leg, you are all more than capable. This is the big push, for goodness' sakes." He attempted to stand, but had evidently underestimated the severity of his wound, as he fell back and began to turn a delicate shade of green. "Help me, Sergeant." The aforementioned sergeant, Davies by name, heaved Thornhill to his feet.

As soon as the ten soldiers scrambled out of the trench, the Boche opened vicious fire. A lance-corporal fell, writhing, before they had even walked ten feet. So much for a big push. Sheer providence was the only explanation for how Davies and Thornhill managed to limp across. One German soldier began to throw grenades — one after the other, flying on sticks.

Davies saw it first, hurtling towards the two. Too encumbered to leap aside, yet unwilling to let his platoon commander go, he waited to be blown into unrecognisable bits.

"O God, my leg—" A rock had torn Thornhill's bandage and scraped his wound, causing it to bleed afresh. Bile rose in his throat as the burning increased in intensity.

"Your leg, sir?"

"It hurts awfully — makes me sick," he explained.

"No wonder, sir, it's open again. You landed on a sharp rock, and the bandage has torn."

"I am perfectly aware, Davies. Ah —" He fumbled for a field dressing inside his tunic, trying to ignore his leg's complaints.

"I'll bandage it for you. You just look out for shells and the like," Davies replied, ever-patient.

Shells. Had the blast of the grenade blown them all the way here, way behind? Fir trees towered behind the two soldiers, rocks littered the ground, and, worst of all — the land didn't feel French. "Davies—"

"Yes, sir."

"It's frightfully quiet…"

"I was thinking so myself, sir. Funny, isn't it. You'd think the guns would make an awful row." Davies paused. "Can you get up?"

Thornhill shook his head. He was faintly nauseated; his hands trembled at his sides. If only I could walk.

"I'll see if I can't find the line. How queer — that grenade didn't leave a scratch on either of us."

The hapless second lieutenant fell into a fitful sleep, for he was exhausted enough that even the wound in his leg and the jagged pebbles underneath him failed to disturb. Men died again in his dreams, as they are wont to do within the dreams of any soldier once they have served long enough.

Though Davies searched carefully, there was no sign of the line. All he found was a turbulently flowing river, and wastelands which would be more suited to Norway than anywhere near the Somme. This isn't France. I don't know where but not France. The bloody Boche.

Davies was very much used to familiar territory, and familiar people. Before he arrived at the battlefield, he had been training new recruits at Étaples. He had hated it, and he had shown it. The young men called him Sergeant Davies, the Devil. Luckily his commander posted him to the line, where he didn't have to bellow orders until they tore his throat open. Just his luck that he disappeared to this awful place.

When Thornhill woke again, his bandage was soaked through. He had no other dressings in his tunic, and the sergeant had used his already. "Use one of your puttees," Davies suggested. "Unless you want to tear up your drawers."

"Puttees it is. Wash 'em, if you please, they're rather muddy."

The rough serge of Thornhill's new bandages irritated his leg, but complaining was useless. There was no alternative, and the sky was turning a dubious purple. "It can't be raining, can it, sergeant?"

"No, sir, the sun's just setting. It's a bit orangey over there, see?"

"Already?" Thornhill glanced at his watch. Half-past one p.m. "It's barely the afternoon—"

"We're nowhere near France, or Blighty, or anywhere. It could be any time, sir."

"Wake me up when supper's ready." Thornhill closed his eyes, with the hope that he would open them to find himself in his dugout, having dreamt the whole affair.

Author's Note:

In fact, our two luckless soldiers have found themselves in the dead and presumedly uninhabited kingdom, Rhudaur. As our friend Tolkien — a junior officer fighting in the Somme just like Mr. Thornhill, albeit within a different division — was only twenty-four at this time, still scribbling the earliest sketches of what would become the Silmarillion, of course Davies and Thornhill know absolutely nothing of Middle-Earth. Therefore they are extremely confused about how a stick grenade got them where they are. And why it didn't blow them into a disgusting mush, as grenades are wont to do.

This is an un-proofread trial chapter — the rest may follow more slowly, and possibly in bunches. Any queries, critique or issues with my SPaG go in the review box. Please don't hesitate, I want to know what y'all think.

Thanks for reading.

A.B.C.