'Mons, 1914' by Grace Palmer

Daisy’s head was low, her skin twitched, her tail whisked but those horseflies still hovered. Lewis chucked, ‘Come on, girl,’ the supply wagon behind them beginning to bog. He patted his pocket where his sister’s letter lay, looked at the sky as inky as dead men’s fingers.

A bomb crumpled, air rippled, earth volcanoed. Daisy swayed, tipped the wagon and Lewis pitched into mud and sulphur gas. Her groan punctured his heart as he crawled towards her.

She tried to lift her head. Lewis laid his dirty palm against her wild white eye, breathed in, and wasted a bullet.