Clumsily grasping his walking stick the old man tried to remember all the wonderful memories he had made with his wife. His memory was becoming as cloudy as his eyes these days. The days spent struggling in and out of trenches had chiselled away at his wizened face, filling it with careful patience. It was as crinkly as faded parchment paper.  

He sat longing to return to Scotland. To return to his home. To return somewhere where he could hear each individual rain drop launch at the window while he sat calmly in his armchair with a pipe in his mouth and a newspaper in his hand. To return somewhere with serene loch views, enchanting castles and pure Scotch whisky.  

Longing for the innocence of his little grandchildren, skipping up the front path leaping into his arms. His grandchildren filled a place in his heart that he never knew was empty. Longing for his beautiful daughter, who would phone him every night at exactly seven thirty to make sure he was alright. Longing for Mary. His wife. He sat buried deep in the trenches clutching his ring close to his chest, every single day. 

Bang! A sound brought him back to reality, reminding him that he was in the middle of a war. He clutched his head with his old, battered hand and heaved himself out of the trench putting all of his weight into his stick. Pieces of metal scattered across the battlefield, the soldiers surrounding him took off into No Man’s Land. 

Mary. He would do anything to see her again. He made his way to a ruined building and would remain there until the end. No man’s land was not an option for him.