The artillery barrage, much closer than yesterday, hardly penetrated her tormented thoughts. The old churchyard was a favorite spot of Millie’s, as she liked wandering amongst the gravestones. Amy hurried toward it. Soldiers marched past, their pounding feet lifting the chalky dust. Horse-drawn gun carriages lumbered by, lorries laden with supplies heading for another Somme battle. Nothing mattered for now, only Millie. It took a while for Amy to find the little churchyard because it had virtually been obliterated by artillery during the night. As she picked her way through German and English bodies, strewn just where they fell, she tried not to step on anyone. Bile surged up in her throat and spilled out of her mouth at the sickening stench, and she wiped it away with trembling fingers. Oh God, Millie, where are you? If she had been caught out here… Amy forced herself to keep on searching even though her legs felt as if they were made of cotton wool, and her stomach lurched in protest against the obscenity of blood and human entrails littering the ground, like the killing room of some giant abattoir.
