A swift tactical swoop. Maurice got new boots. Sid some cigs. A trio of crows a veritable feast.
And as evening fell the pilfered corpses chilled in the night air. The moon shone bright. Lunar glow blotting out blood but highlighting dead staring eyes very far from at peace on the churned up clods of the battlefield.
Sid lasted a half century more. Life ending in the Infirmary one moonlit night, pumped full of chemo. Vomiting blood. Maurice died the next day. Foot caught leaving the trenches, as if a hand was holding him back.
No one wanted his boots.