The mist was slowly starting to descend as he made his way through the town. The Moon and stars offered him some light; his pocket torch supplied the rest. As he rushed silently along empty streets, the weight in his backpack felt reassuring. It reminded him of his purpose, of why he was out on such a night.

Ahead of him, in the very centre of town, was his destination: the gardens. Will Beckett increased his pace. If he was to be done before morning, he’d have to hurry.

Not that he was worried about his parents finding him missing; his family wasn’t bothered about him, and vice versa. No, he was more concerned about being caught by the authorities. At fifteen he wouldn’t go to jail, but this would make his third run-in with the law in as many months. Even so, it was worth the risk.

Will stood in front of the memorial. His light passed over its hardened surface, a stony monolith reaching up to the sky. The beam drifted down to the chiselled names at the bottom, and an inscription:

Lest We Forget. For Our Tomorrow, They Gave Their Today.

It meant nothing to him. Sure, he knew all about wars and stuff from school, but History was so boring. Now Art, there was a subject he liked. Will slung the bag off his shoulder and unzipped it. Taking one of the spray cans out, he held it in his palm. An artisan’s tool.

Who cared about a bunch of people who died long before he was born? Earning the respect of Tommy Clay and his gang, passing their initiation dare, that was the most important thing. By the time he was finished the monument would be a lot more colourful. He was probably even doing the town a favour, brightening up the place. Surely he wouldn’t get into trouble for-

A rustling noise broke his train of thought.

Will spun around and dropped to one knee, eyes darting in all directions. He killed his torch just in case.

The solitary crisp packet rolled past his trainer. Discarded earlier by some thoughtless member of the public, it was now a dancing pawn propelled by the breeze.

Will exhaled, but a sudden crunching sound made him suck the air right back in. Something was moving on the gravel path to his left. He could hear footsteps, and heavy ones at that. A turn of the head served no purpose. Will was denied his glimpse of the noisemaker. And inexplicably the footsteps were to his right, then behind, then to his left again. Maybe a rival gang had had the same idea...

Yet all he could see was the swirling haze.

It was a foolish thing to do, but fear was rapidly replacing common sense. In a weak voice, Will called out: "Who’s there?"

No reply.

He tried once more. Nothing. Not even the footfalls now.

This was too weird. Dare or no dare, Will Beckett figured it was time to leave. He grabbed his belongings and began crawling away on his hands and knees.

He’d only gone a few yards when he came upon a pair of boots. They seemed to emerge from the fog, as though stepping out from behind a curtain. Police, thought Will. But as his gaze ventured upwards and the figure came into view, he soon realised his error.

The material of the uniform was too crumpled and dirty to be Police issue, and there were far too many straps around the torso. Hanging over the shoulder was a long, dangerous-looking piece of weaponry. There was no mistaking its trigger or round barrel at the top. The figure’s face was in shadow, but there looked to be something wrong with that head. It was unusually round, jutting out a couple of inches along the brow. A helmet shaped like Saturn sliced in two.

Will attempted to back away and two strong hands reached out, hauling him to his feet. The quivering youth could say nothing to his captor; the words came out as pointless garbage. He was so shocked, he barely noticed the fog wrapping itself around him, suffocating and squeezing.

Will struggled against the iron grip of the man and the mist, fighting a losing battle on both fronts. Then suddenly the ground wasn’t so stable. He almost slipped on its soft surface. As the curtains of gloom pulled back, Will found himself looking out over a muddy landscape. Scattered here and there were bits of wood with barbed wire curling round, helmets similar to the one his abductor wore (only dented and full of holes), and pieces of metal glinting in the churned up ground.

Will heard the voices before he saw the men.

"Over! Over!" one was ordering.

"Keep low. Watch out for-"

"Try to head for that-"

"My God, Charlie-"

They all overlapped, one on top of the other. Then explosions drowned the shouting out.

Will watched open-mouthed as countless servicemen appeared from under the ground, climbing out of what could only be trenches and placing themselves at the mercy of enemy fire. Bullets flew past the lad and he looked to the Soldier for guidance. But the man who had brought him to this hellish place was with his comrades, advancing on the grey shapes at the other end of the arena. Collapsing onto the dirt, Will called after him.

The twinkling metal, half-buried in the muck, was doing its job. A young private hardly had time to shout "Mine!" before disappearing inside a fiery ball - blown from the earth and scattered on the winds. Lead hacked at forces on either side, turning strong, healthy troops into bloodstained cannon fodder. Shells rained from the heavens to punch craters in the surrounding territory.

Will scrambled through sludge, averting his eyes from the horror of it all and trying to block out the deafening cacophony of sounds. Searching for the only man who could make it stop, the mysterious stranger from the memorial. He couldn’t see him clearly, but Will instinctively knew where to go. And there, kneeling in the distance, chambering one bullet after the next into his rifle, was the Soldier.

Will made a break for it, running, stumbling across barren soil and screaming, "Help me!" as he went. He tripped over something, he didn’t know what; didn’t care. All that mattered was the German towering above him, the muzzle of his gun in Will’s face.

For a second his hard features softened and he mouthed something in his native tongue. Then he was toppling over, writhing in agony, a bayonet having crippled him. Will’s head was spinning. He wanted to help this man, wanted to help them all somehow. But he didn’t belong here in this time.

So he ran, heading for the person with all the answers. An explosion ripped up the earth at his back, flinging him forwards into a puddle of water...

Except it was too deep to be a puddle. Will tasted salt in his mouth before he was unceremoniously dragged out of the sea.

Sand replaced the mud he’d trampled, but he was still in the midst of war. The trenches were now beaches and the world had moved on almost three decades. Nevertheless, the story was still the same.

Will’s companion pulled him up to the shoreline. His uniform was different, yet there was no doubt in Will’s mind that the man inside hadn’t changed. Machine-gun fire pummelled the infantry as they jumped off landing craft and waded into the water. Once again the Unknown Soldier became lost in the masses, leaving Will to seek shelter behind sparse rocks. Mortar grenades shot from the cliffs above fell amongst the platoons, making widows of sweethearts back home. The fighting was fierce, as division upon division entered the fray. All with one purpose, one goal.

Will could take no more. Ignoring ricochets which sparked off the rocks, he chased a fresh landing squad. His clothes were saturated, but that was the least of his problems. They were coming under attack from an outcropping above and the men halted to return fire, ineffectual as it was from this distance.

Through sheer blind ignorance, Will plunged on, frantically looking for the Soldier. The beach became littered with bits of ammo crates and lengths of rope as the mist rolled in off the ocean. By the grace of God he spotted the fellow, rushing headlong towards the sea wall at the foot of the cliffs.

Young legs carried Will past the hornet’s nest of projectiles. Adrenaline goaded him on. Almost there, almost...

Only to witness the Soldier take a fatal cartridge in the chest, his firearm involuntarily cast aside. Like a demolished tower, the man dropped down onto the sands.

Will cried out in desperation and disbelief. He went to the fallen hero, whose face was still obscured by the helmet. Tears poured from Will’s eyes (the first since he was nine) as the mist caught them up, covering them like a warm blanket...

The teenager glanced up to discover he was back in the gardens. The fog was receding, and with it the spirits of those doomed souls from the trenches, the beaches. Now so much more than names carved in stone. They backed away, revealing the Soldier in their ranks, the wounds still fresh from his ordeal.

One bleached finger pointed to the monument. Will turned and read the inscription a second time, illuminated by a gradually rising sun.

"Now you remember," said a soft voice inside his head.

Will nodded. "I...I remember." All he really wanted was to get back home, to be with his family. But before the Soldier could leave, Will shouted after him: "Wait, please. I have to know. Who are you?"

And as the man came towards him, his features finally in focus, Will already knew. He’d known all along. A name on the list he’d perused earlier - the memories that accompanied it, patrilineal. He wept freely again, dripping moisture onto the base of the column.

Then as night ambled into day, Will said goodbye.

To the fog. To the men it held safe within. And finally to the ghost of his late grandfather, Capt. Harold Beckett (1901-1944)...