Caught Short

“This is bollocks, Corp.”
“Be quiet, Bryant.”
“Look at him, Corp, he's go no chance. And the radio's knackered anyway.”

Hendry had been shot as they'd moved up to the barn. The bullet had smashed through his radio and passed through his left lung, and now he lay there, full of morphia, breathing in wet rasps and shallow gasps. His skin had gone waxy, the peaks of his features pale, the hollows of his face dark and shadowed. He was going to die, they all knew it, and the certainty of it filled the hayloft.

“I'm off back. I'll tell the Captain there's bugger all happening out here and to send that relief.”
“You'll do no such thing, Private,” Corporal Clements snapped.
“Don't try and stop me,” Bryant replied, gathering his kit.
Clements considered his options but they all seemed absurd. He was desperately tired and hadn't the capacity to force his will over Bryant, not when he privately agreed with him. It was bollocks. If the Jerries came down that road there was nothing the three of them could do to stop them, and with the radio out of action they couldn't even report it.

And, maybe, if Hendry could survive another hour or so their relief could save him.

“Alright, Bryant. Go,” Clements sighed, ”and bring some help back for him.”
Bryant nodded and clumped down the steps from the hayloft.

Minutes passed.

“Corp!”  Dodman hissed from his window position, “There's something coming!”
Corporal Clements went to the window and peered into the gloom.

Three lorries lumbered down the road toward their barn. Each one was filled with German infantrymen.

Clements' gut filled with fear and it was all he could do to stop it turning to panic.