He made it back to the tram terminus just in time for turnaround.  Grabbed a seat at the window and dozed with his head against the glass as the tram rattled back into town.  Ragged, flash-lit dreams, fragments from the war, stalking his shallow sleep. Machine gun fire, screams and pleading eyes.  A soft, Welsh accented voice.  And somewhere in there, little Ellie Furlough, falling terror-stricken into a hole filled with mud and rusted barbed wire and the rotted corpses of men still somehow ...