Third light

It was one of those nights when even the trees were listening. Birds had swapped their evensong for a conspiracy theory and sat with cocked heads waiting for anything out of the ordinary. Jack Wingham stepped out of the underground barrack into the trench. “I don’t like it, it’s too quiet”.
“Do you mind old chap some of us are trying to sleep” said a voice from further down the trench. It was James Murdoc a most unlikely soldier that could only be described as a pain in the arse who talked incessantly about nothing.
 
It was too cold to sleep and they both knew it. Jack pulled up the thick wool collar of his coat in defiance of the searching chill that had long since been in his bones. Every now and again he would indulge himself by trying to recall the warmth of a deep hot bath; he could only bathe for a few seconds before the feeling would end as the icy fingers of the damp field air, slipped inside his jacket. He shook his head, “god it’s bloody freezing” he said through a ventriloquists mouth.
 
Jack quite liked being on patrol with Murdoc because he was always upbeat and fun to be around, and he always had a joke or two to take the edge off their reality.
Laughter went as quickly as their rations, swallowed by the cold empty blackness they peered into every night.
 
Jack’s trembling hands tapped out two cigarettes, one he offered to Murdoc the other to the flaking skin around his lips. With a metallic click he snapped open his lighter and set spark to wick.
 
Dieter Shenkal was in a good mood; actually he was in a great mood. His gullet had been warmed by a soothing nip of brandy, stolen from a French farm house and his belly was full for the first time in weeks. He felt lucky tonight and he had found a new resolve to make the most out of his situation. He barely noticed the dull glow that danced only for a second, like a cheap firework. Yet still he fixed a point on the horizon, calmly he reached for his rifle, never taking his eye from the mark.
“What do you see?” asked Hans Bowerman blowing smoke into the marksman’s face as he spoke.
“Not very much with you puffing on that thing, well I’m not sure it could be nothing; wait there it is again”.
 
Murdoc had given up smoking two years before but he had been watching his new found friend’s cigarette, keep time to the conversation for long enough, willpower gone, he had snatched the lighter from him and lit his trophy. With a drag that seemed to burn an inch he coughed and spluttered the exhaled smoke, picking bits of tobacco off his tongue. With a wild swing of the hand he stubbed out the cigarette on James’s rifle “Jesus, be careful will you?” “Sorry I thought I had given these damn things up, but it appears not, pass me your lighter will you?”
 
Any light-headedness or sign of dullness caused by the Brandy had gone from Dieter. The range finding fire ball of the second cigarette had called on all his training. He set the cross hair and held his breath; the lightest of touches on a finely balance trigger that he had practiced and perfected a hundred times a day in training.
 
Tim Newton was half laughing at the two Jokers by his side and if he was being honest he was very glad of their company. He was a simple soul, more akin to cattle and mud than conflict and killing. He had miss-spent most of his youth avoiding school by working on his father’s farm and hunting Deer and small game in his spare time. “Hush” said Tim all traces of laughter now gone.
“What do you see?” asked Murdoc reaching for his field glasses and scanning the darkness. Tim didn’t answer he was holding his breath. “For god’s sake Timmy your making me nervous” said Murdoc whose thoughts were already returning to the un-smoked gift he had been given as he dismissed Tim’s skittish acts as trench madness.
Murdoc’s thumb rolled round the wheel of Jack’s lighter, the third light appeared like a solar flare.
 
Dieter was engulfed by the target, time slowed then ceased, all he could hear was his own heartbeat, counting down the moment; three, two, one. Tim’s bullet hit Dieter full in the chest and the force sent him backwards off the trench wall.
Tim had squeezed the trigger and Murdoc had nearly swallowed his cigarette, “bloody hell Timmy what the hell do you think you’re doing? You nearly gave me a heart attack.”
“Me?” said Tim with a smile, “I’m just chasing shadows, and If I were you I’d give them things up for good before they kill you and while you’re at it try to make a little less noise”.
 
Hans had scrambled down the mud slide wall and was frantically opening Dieters coat he was shouting for help as he applied pressure to the dark stain pumping across his shirt. “Help me, hurry, someone help me”. Dieter was coughing and laughing at the same time. His hand reached inside his shirt and he pulled out a silver flask complete with a bullet hole.
It was precisely at that moment Hans had registered that he was covered in Brandy and not blood. He was so surprised his mouth fell open, dropping the lit cigarette he had managed to keep with him, directly onto the chest of the Christmas pudding that was Dieter.
 
As Murdoc and Wingham moved away saying something derogatory about the mad country bumpkin, Tim was looking across at the dancing lights inside one of the enemy trenches. “Just shooting shadows, he said under his breath. "Just shooting shadows”.