Twilight casts pale illumination over a scene of desolation. Line upon line of tree stumps rise from the quagmire of mud that surrounds them, blasted trunks thrusting branches into the air to resemble the arms of corpses - blackened by corruption - reaching into the sky for a salvation which will never come. There is no dawn chorus to accompany the rising of the sun, birds have long since deserted this place of death and destruction. Those creatures which thrive now are the parasites and scavengers, the rats and flies that prey upon the dead, the lice that prey upon those waiting to die.

It has been a cold and wet Summer this year of 1917 which has turned the fields around Ypres - even under normal circumstances little more than a marsh - into a swamp, a literal killing ground in which men become trapped and drown as if the land is taking its own revenge on those who are desecrating it; as if death by bullet, shell or poison gas is not enough. Perhaps this place is cursed, twice already major battles have been fought here. 

This is a true place of death. 

This is Passchendaele.

As the first rays of watery sunlight cut through the grey twilight, a whistle blows, then another. More blasts follow in quick succession and then, like ants swarming from a nest, men flow from the lines of trenches, rifles held at hip-height, fixed bayonets reflecting the low sun's rays.

Through the mud they tramp, slipping, sliding, many have no option but to plough through brackish water which washes up to their thighs. No voices are heard, they march toward the enemy in silence, the only sounds the splashing, sucking, slurping noises of their footfalls in the thick mud.

 And then the thump-thump-thump of automatic gunfire rings out. The pace of the advancing soldiers quickens - as much as conditions underfoot allow - as they march inexorably to oblivion. Bullets fizz through the air, many hit their target. Men fall to the ground, some gently as if simply lying down to sleep, others jerking violently as bullets tear through them, flinging them to the ground. The coppery stench of blood fills the air as still the men make their way forward.

The artillery begin their work then - high-pitched whistling grows ever closer, terminating in dull crumps as the shells hit the muddy ground and explode. Water and mud is thrown high into the sky, the ground shakes. Bodies are obliterated in split-seconds or are torn apart to fling bloody remnants across the battlefield as the shells find their targets. Limbs and body parts festoon the ground, lie in pools of water (red slowly mixing into the blackness), hang from the branches of the blasted trees. A Heironymus Bosch nightmare has become flesh.

Fear grips Billy Barnes as he stumbles through the mud. His breathing is ragged and, despite the coolness of this early hour, sweat pours from his brow. His heart hammers in his chest, the sound of it pounding in his ears but not so loud as to mask the fizzing of bullets, the explosions of the eighteen-pound shells, the screams of the men being mown down around him. His stomach cramps and he stops, bends over and vomits - acid bile floods out of his mouth to splatter on the muddy ground at his feet. He wipes his hand across his mouth as he straightens up and sees his sergeant standing glaring at him.

"Get your arse moving Barnes!" he shrieks, the words only just out of his mouth as the ground erupts behind him. Shrapnel rips through his body, shredding it, covering Billy with blood. He feels a tearing sensation in his stomach and - simultaneously - something hard hits his helmet. He falls, feels his feet slip away beneath him and then he's sliding, sliding, down into a shell-hole. He loses consciousness and a welcoming darkness engulfs him.

*

He awakens to a world of quiet. Lying on his back in the mud he stares upwards, watches as pale tendrils of mist float past the rim of the shell-hole into which he has fallen.   The sky has no colour but in its paleness he sees stars twinkling. The smell of cordite hangs heavy in the air. How long has he been down here? How long lying in the mud? Is the attack over? A vague memory comes to him, a blow to the head before his descent into darkness. But then a noise - a splashing, sucking - footfalls in mud but irregular, stumbling. Three splashes then a pause, three splashes then a pause...

Panic grips him - someone or something - is approaching. Friend or foe? He must move, lying here in the mud he is a sitting target. He rolls to one side to extricate himself from the black, clinging muck and screams as pain rips through his stomach. Through tear-blurred eyes he looks down and sees the gaping wound, sees purple coils of intestine spilling out. The sight causes him to scream again and - as he does - above him a horse stumbles past the rim of the crater, its flanks lathered in white sweat, the stump of its missing left foreleg jutting out from its body. Nostrils flared, its eyes are wide open in fear and incomprehension. Billy looks deep into those eyes, sees his own emotions mirrored within them.  The horse is only moments from death and so, the realisation strikes him, is he.

"Yes Billy, you're going to die."

Billy flinches at the sound of the voice and pain flares once again in his wound. He feels something shift inside him, dares not look - afraid of what he might see. Instead, he turns his gaze to the source of the words he has just heard. 

To his right, squatting on the side of the shell-hole, is a man. His head is cocked to one side, allowing him to look at the young soldier. A smile plays across his lips revealing rotting brown teeth. His gaze is intense and he stares at Billy with eyes that are black as night, black as the pinstripe suit that he incongruously wears. The white spats that cover his brown and white Derbys are stained with black mud. 

"Who are you?" asks Billy, unsure whether this is a real person or some bizarre hallucination brought about by his injuries.

The figure remains crouched. Grins. "Ah Billy, you know who I am - the name's not important. Anyway, I have so many - too many to choose from! It's a beautiful morning and I feel inspired!" he glances up to the bleached sky, "let's say I'm the Morning Star - fallen to Earth!"

And then a flash of movement, the man becomes a blur and Billy's confused brain is filled with images and sensations that come and go so quickly he can not register them but which leave him with a feeling which is a mixture of intense sadness and dread.

Somehow, the man is now cradling Billy in his arms and the young soldier can now see those rotten, coated teeth, see also the dirty chipped fingernails, can smell the foul odour arising from his body. This Hell on Earth has its own obscene variation on the Pieta. 

 "How did you..." Billy begins but is stopped by the shushing of his companion (his saviour..?)

"No questions Billy, no questions." His voice is calm, soothing. "You're dying Billy," he continues, "not long left now. But don't worry, I'm here to help you take those final steps."

Billy's mind is in turmoil. Is this a dream - a nightmare - is he dead already..?

"No Billy. Not dead yet. But soon. You're in a very special place - let me show you."

They stand now - one supporting the other - on the rim of the shell-hole, gazing out at the battlefield. Pale light washes the landscape casting everything in a pale shade of grey, only the burnt stumps of trees stand out in stark black contrast. As he watches, Billy sees dark, shadowy figures moving across the acres of mud in front of him. They have no real substance and appear to glide over the ravaged ground.

"My avatars, my psychopomps" his companion tells him, anticipating the question.

Billy hears the words but has no comprehension of what they mean. A coldness has filled him, a numbness... "I've never seen them before" he manages to say.

The other man chuckles. "I told you that you were in a special place didn't I Billy? You're on the border my friend, the cold place between life and death. This is no longer the world you once dwelt in..."

"This is Passchendaele!" says Billy, "I'm Private Billy Barnes and this is... this is... Passion.." he slumps against the other man.

"This is my cathedral." He lets the young soldier slump to the ground to sprawl at his feet. He crouches over him, leans forward so that his face is only inches from Billy's. "Will you worship at my altar?"

A series of muffled crumps echo across the wasteland. He looks up and smiles as he sees the exploded shells release their deadly payload. Clouds of mustard gas billow out of the newly-made craters.

"Time to die Billy!" - the young soldier looks up at him, a mix of fear and incomprehension in his eyes. "Gas is going to get you Billy - even before all your guts fall out of that hole in your side!" He giggles, saliva drools out of his rotten mouth to land on Billy's face.

"Of course..." he whispers this, conspiratorially, "I can save you." He grins, cocks his head, raises his eyebrows. "Shall I save you Billy?"

Billy stares into those black eyes. He can feel nothing, not even the wound in his side through which his life is ebbing. "I'm Billy Barnes..." he repeats the mantra which has kept him from slipping into oblivion, "my name is Billy and I am eighteen years old..." he pauses, feels tears fill his eyes. Eighteen years old and about to die? The man with the black eyes said he could save him didn't he?

"Shall I save you?" shapes swirl in those dark eyes, distant, too distant to make out clearly.

"Yes" says Billy.

And, as the first tendrils of poison gas drift by them, the two embrace in a kiss. Billy sees the man's face loom towards him, feels the cold of lips upon his own and then slowly falls into darkness...

*

They are walking, side by side, across the battlefield. Billy watches as ghost-like figures, little more than shadows, flit from body to body lying in the mud. They crouch over the corpses, bend their heads down to them as if feeding upon them.

"We feed upon the dead," his companion explains, "we harvest their souls. With every battle, every life thrown away we grow stronger. These are the places where evil thrives, these are our temples. Man's inhumanity to man provides our succour.  This is where we grow strong..."

Billy pauses, glances down at the wound in his side - sees that it has gone. He feels no pain. "Will I grow stronger too?" He asks.

"Oh so very strong Billy! I foresee great things for you. Great things indeed! This world is ours for the taking!"

Billy breathes deeply of the poisoned air around him. There is no burning sensation in his lungs, no tingling of his skin as blisters erupt - instead a power courses through his body, innervating and energising.

He begins to smile, turns to face his dark companion. "Show me."

They do not walk but somehow they move across the landscape. As they travel, so their surroundings change around them. The mud and blasted stumps fade and are replaced by roads running between red-brick buildings and lined with tall poplar trees. In the distance, at the road's end, behind tall fences topped with barbed wire stands a brick chimney, black smoke belching from it to scatter ashes into the air. Even as they watch, the landscape changes again, trees replace the buildings, the road becomes a dirt track on which men, women and children lie dead. All are dressed in black, many are missing limbs or heads, all are beginning to bloat in the stultifying heat - flames leap from a straw hut burning in the distance. Another change, the temperature falls, snow now covers the ground. They see a soldier, blue helmet atop his head, turn as if to face them but in reality his movement is to fall to his knees and vomit onto the white ground. They travel past him, gaze down at the excavated earth behind him, see the bodies piled up in that gaping hole, see the flesh emulsifying, fluids running into each other and then the world around them changes again, this time the mutilated bodies presented to them have black skin, their blood stains dusty ground...

"Enough..?" His companion stands in front of him, black flies buzzing around his head.

Billy smiles, places a hand on the other man's shoulder. "No," he says, "there can never be enough."