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an almost superhuman feat, he leapt up and over the top of the trench. The men followed close behind him.
    Despite the peril, I could not help but watch from the fire step as they marched into battle.
    At once, they were spotted and our men were amongst the flash and roar. Harker raised his sword in defiance of the barrage that met them. The ground exploded as the enemy’s well-aimed shells ripped into it. Some men fell swiftly. I felt the force of the blast that took them; earth splattered into the trench. I could smell the iron odour of blood mingled with cordite hanging heavily in the air.
    But Captain Harker pressed on, head up, facing the enemy as if death would not dare touch him. Tin helmets tipped forward against the onslaught of both bullets and hardening rain. The men followed, advancing toward the enemy line.
    Who is this man? I wondered. What about him allows him to sneer at death? I do not know, but I long to joinhim in the fray—to bring glory to my country and this regiment.
    22ND JULY 1916
    I was on early shift today. “Been busy?” I asked Lieutenant Butler as I entered the communications dugout to relieve him.
    Butler nodded wearily. The desk was chaotic with paper. “Translating what I heard from the listening saps last night,” he told me.
    “Picked up anything interesting from the enemy lines?” I asked.
    “Just the same old chatter. The poor sods sound more terrified than we do.”
    I picked up a German newspaper that lay on the desk. The crumpled news sheet felt brittle in my hand—as though it had once been sodden. “Where was this found?”
    Butler rubbed his eyes, which were red from fatigue. “Someone picked it up when they flushed the enemy out of the eastern trench.”
    “Excellent! A victory! And we captured their newspaper,” I commented wryly.
    “For what it’s worth.” Butler shook his head. “Read it; it’s utter piffle.”
    As I flicked through the pages, one of the headlines caughtmy eye.
Damon der Gräben.
“Demon of the Trenches,” I translated. I read out the article beneath the lurid headline:
    Speculation and rumours concerning a so-called demon of the trenches continue to grow. More soldiers have died at their posts, their bodies torn and bloody as if mauled by some animal. One soldier, however, claimed it was no ordinary animal that has been savaging our men. When interviewed, Lieutenant Klinsmann said:
    “On the 12th July, I was patrolling my trench. The moon was bright that evening, so it was easy to see. Rounding a corner, I came upon a scene I will not forget for as long as I live. The bodies of my men lay slumped together, the floor of the trench awash with their blood. Beyond them I saw more men, stunned like rabbits in the headlights of a car, unable to defend themselves as a devilish black-pelted creature with eyes burning red as embers savaged each of them in turn. I shot at this demon with my pistol, but my bullets did not harm him.”
    Though the attack was real, with fifteen casualties recorded that night, no one else survived who could corroborate Lieutenant Klinsmann’s story. Lieutenant Klinsmann has since been recalled to the Fatherland.
    I tossed the paper back onto the cluttered desk and chuckled. “I’m surprised their newspapers are printing rot like this. It can’t be good for morale.”
    Butler shrugged. “My guess is that our intelligence lads started the rumour to spook them. And they seem to have swallowed it hook, line, and sinker.”
    “This poor Klinsmann chap certainly did,” I agreed.
    Butler shook his head. “This war is as bad for the mind as it is for the body. In the fog of combat, we aren’t always able to see things for what they really are.”
    29TH JULY 1916
    Private Smith, who spends part of his day stationed outside the communications dugout, received news from home that he’s going to be a father. Everyone is jolly pleased for him. He’s well liked among the men, being such a good-humoured chap.
    I spent the day