Love is Always Write Anthology Volume 9

then fell to their bellies as the remorseless machine-rifles turned their attention to that trench.
    At first it all seemed like a horrible coincidence, this outpouring of attention toward my flank by the Mippites. Then I saw something twinkle in the trench, like a star in a dark sky. Cursing, I hunched over and began to half-run, half-crawl toward the trench, like a fiddler crab seeking the shelter of mud.
    The rifle-fire was coming so thick now that I had to halt behind a boulder several yards from my trench. "Lexington!" I shouted. "Cover your water bottle! It's reflecting the sun – the Mippites are shooting at it!"
    Lexington stared at me, his eyes blinking. He had evidently just woken from deep sleep, because he made no move toward the water bottle.
    "Curse you, Lexington—!" Abruptly, I stopped speaking. Shifting slightly behind the boulder, I had seen what was missing from my sight before: Lexington's back. The cloth on it was singed black.
    There was no sign of a wound, but Lexington still was not moving, though ordinarily he was quick to obey orders. I had been in enough battles to know what this must mean: the shell that had amputated Fulton's hand had also touched Lexington's spine as he crouched in the shallow trench. He was paralyzed.
    I looked over at the stretcher-bearers. They were in consultation with Healer Mahone, who had made his way up to the edge of the summit. He was shaking his head, pointing at the knoll, from which machine-rifle fire continued to chatter. Even my battle-hardened soldiers were being held back by the rifle-fire, unable to reach Fulton, Lexington, or any of the other shell-wounded men there.
    I raised my body slightly, risking a bullet in the head, and at that moment saw something which made me forget Fulton, Lexington, and every other man on the field.
    Fire.
    The latest shell to explode had not merely singed the grass – it had set it afire. This was hardly out of the ordinary; we'd fought shell-fires in previous battles. But on a day like this, so hot and so dry, with no water on hand with which to douse the fire . . .
    I felt a hand grip my shoulder; turning my head, I saw that Fairview had made his way out from the safety of the General's rock to inspect the mounting danger. "Drive it toward your trench," he said succinctly. "The wind is from the south, and your breastwork is high enough that the fire will die in the trench. I'll have Arundel create a diversion."
    The next few minutes were worse than being on a raft when the nor'west blow hits the Bay. I remember a confusion of shouts and movement. One moment, I was ordering my men out of the trench, the next moment I was faced by Doyle, his arms filled with the frightened, struggling spaniel; Doyle had chosen this moment to come to me with some complaint or another about something he was being forced to leave behind in the trench. I remember shrieking at him that I'd shoot him and any other soldier who failed to fight the fire.
    My other soldiers, who looked uneasy at the idea of abandoning the relative safety of the trench, obeyed with sluggish movements. Several of them tried to argue with me. I had to point my rifle at them to force them to follow my orders.
    Nearby, the half-dead remnants of Tice's battalion charged the sharpshooters, drawing off their rifle-fire. The battle surged onto the summit, with the pleasant result that the Mippite gunners lifted their shelling of us, evidently afraid of hitting their own soldiers. The machine-rifle fire continued sporadically; many more of Tice's men fell, and the soldiers in the main trench were forced to join the fight in order to reinforce the line. I saw Fairview leading them, drawn away, yet again, from the General's rock.
    Finally, by whacking the fire at its edges with our uniform jackets and with the blankets that some of the brave stretcher-bearers brought us, we managed to drive the fire back to the right flank's trench. I took a quick look around at my men; they looked anxious and sullen. No doubt they were thinking of the dead men they had left behind in the trenches. Well, fire was the new-fashioned way of sending the dead into afterdeath, and at least the air would be clear of the growing smell of rotting corpses. I was just letting out my breath with relief at our victory over the fire when I saw a flicker of light in the trench, at the point where the fire was about to touch. The light was a reflection on a water bottle.
    It was at that point, with horror,