“You slept well. They prob’ly heard yer snores o’er No Man’s Land.”
“Ah needed it, mate. Ah were shattered. An’ me back’s still killin’ me.”
“Better that thun bullets though, eh?”
“Ah suppose.”
“’Ere, ‘ave some tea.”
“Ta!”
“I’m Vaughan. Vinny to me mates. Or Guardian Angel”
“Vaughan?!”
“I know. It’s a bit different, int’it?”
“Never ‘eard it afore. I’m Walter.”
“’Ow old are ye, Walter?”
“Nineteen.”
“There’s a lot your age ‘ere. I’m 35 and feel like everyone’s grandad!”
“Looks like the fog’s come in thick again.”
“Ne’er lifts down there, Walt. What with that and th’mud, and th’gunfire, and screamin’ and the rain, I bet you felt the trenches were like paradise.”
“Don’t think I’d go as far as that meself. But we ‘ave to get us rest where we can. ‘Opefully we’ll be ‘ome by Christmas, New Year at th’latest. 1917 I’ve ‘eard, is goin’ to be a good year, when this blasted war’s o’er.”
“At least you’re out of it now, Walter.”
“Eh?”
“Finish yer tea, and then I’ll walk you o’er to th’gates. There’re some folk waitin’ to tek you through.”
“Eh??”
“Don’t worry. Yer fine. It’s always confusin’ when you first cross over.”
The Mansionic Perspective 
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